"Callahan 04 - Lady Sally's House 01 - Callahan's Lady" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Spider)

Her face became expressionless. "Maureen, there's probably no point in my telling you this-you won't believe me, and soon enough you'll find out for yourself. But I'll say it just the same. You are free to stay here for a week or two while you recuperate . . . or you may get up and leave now if you feel up to it. I do not recall offering you a position as one of my artists. And I do not plan to."
I said nothing.
"Please do not interpret this as criticism. I'm sure you are talented and skilled. But this is not an ordinary House, and you do not meet my standards. I'll send Kate up, in case our little gavotte has undone her good work." And she left before I could say a word.
I could not decide whether to be relieved, or suspicious or insulted.
I settled on suspicious. She was trying reverse psychology-and it was not going to work.

I refused my next dose of painkiller, told Kate I wouldn't be needing it anymore. Just after noon the next day a delegation consisting of Phillip and Robin (in mufti, this time) came to tell me I was well enough to get up and walk around a little, and to offer me a Grand Tour. A robe and some very comfortable slippers were found for me, and we set off at a pace suitable for a convalescent. I concentrated on mapping the place in my head. Out my door, turn right, a short stretch of hallway leads to a corridor. Look right: an elevator. Look left: a doorway marked "Exit"! Look away
"We're in the Discreet Wing," Phillip said, steering us toward the elevator. "It's just barely connected to the rest of the House, and not at all on this floor. There are doors to the Women's and Men's Lounges, but except for emergencies they stay locked during working hours."
"Separate lounges for men and women? And a 'Discreet Wing'?"
The elevator door slid shut and we rose gently. "Well, actually there are three Lounges. You see, some people who come to a bordello feel easier in their minds if they know that the only people of the opposite sex they're going to see are employees. So there are segregated Lounges. But sooner or later most people figure Out that the best party is in the Parlor. The Parlor is co-educational-in several senses. And the Discreet Wing is for those few of either gender who- must have absolute discretion and privacy. Public officials, celebrities, evangelists, and so forth. If you come on anyone wearing a mask in this section, pay no attention. And if you see anyone you recognize, try to hide it.
This place must be huge. And I'd never heard of a house that catered to as many women as men-I'd never heard of one-that catered to women at all. Lady Sally was no ordinary madam.
The elevator door slid open and we exited into another hallway, wide and well carpeted. The paintings I saw on the wall were realistic and quite explicitly erotic. Also quite beautiful. "Function rooms straight ahead," Phillip said, "women's wing to the right, men's to the left. Any of the three will lead to the coed wing."
"Let's see the function rooms," I said.
Through a doorway, down a corridor. Doors on either side, impressively far apart. Big rooms, lavish operation. Some of the doors had small red lights glowing. Phillip opened one which did not. "I don't know if you'll remember," he said, "but this is where Kate fixed you up."
It looked and smelled like a doctor's consulting room- . . except that the stirrups on an examination table do not customarily include ankle restraints. It was sparkling clean and seemed well-equipped. I opened a closet. It contained some of-those open-backed gowns for patients, some surgeon's gowns and masks, and assorted medical apparatus. Plus a collection of "marital aids"
The next function room we inspected was a Teenager's Bedroom. Football pennants and pictures of pop stars and horses on the walls, white comforter with embroidered kittens on the bed, cheap desk stacked with school books, letter-sweater draped over the chair, dresser-top piled a foot deep with makeup and perfume and stuffed animals. The closet bulged with clothes; a cheerleader's outfit hung from a hook on the door.
"There's a boy's version across the hail," Phillip said.
Next in line was an Executive's Office, suitable for a captain of industry, authentic in every detail. Phillip, grinning, activated the intercom and said, in a fake Dutch accent, "Missus-a Whiggins, hold-a alla my calls, yew got-a dat?"
I recognized Mary, even though she was using a flat, nasal joke voice. "Yes, Mr. Tudball."
I noted that there was a great deal of room in the well under the desk; that everything on the desk could be swept off onto the floor hastily without breaking or damaging the carpet; that the carpet was extremely soft and washable; and that the couch across the room was designed as a multipurpose utensil.
"Your function rooms are very...functional," I said. Privately I was astonished at their quality. My mental estimate of the sheer financial scope of this operation rose sharply with every passing minute. I was no longer surprised that women patronized this brothel. There was nothing remotely sleazy about it. I had fallen into something truly extraordinary. This had to be where the very very rich came.
The prospect of working here began, for the first time, to seem a little less like a fate worse than death.
Suppose you only got to keep . . . say, ten percent of what you made. That could still amount to a tidy sum. And the kind of people you'd meet...
But what did the very very rich want?
Straight hooking was such a simple, trivial skill: any fool could learn to do it. Hell, it had taken Big Travis about a day and a half to teach me the ropes, back when I got started. Whenever I'd heard or read of those fivehundred-dollar-a-night girls, I always used to wonder what could possibly make it worth that much. I didn't know, and my guesses unnerved me.
"You're looking very pale, Miss Maureen, I'm sorry but you are, are you sure you're up to this?" Robin asked solicitously. I had not been able to get him to call me "Maureen," but I drew the line at "Mistress Maureen."
"I'm fine, Robin. Let's go on.
As we approached the next room, the discreet ruby light beside its door went off. I hesitated, curious to see one of the fabulously wealthy johns that frequented this place. This wasn't the Discreet Wing; it should be all right. I wished I had fixed my face before starting this tour. At least my hair was brushed.
The door opened, and a short slender man emerged. He had a face like a hundred-year-old monkey which had been shaved the previous week. He wore a cabbie's cap, a disreputable denim jacket, black corduroys, and the kind of high-heeled pointy-toed boots which in New York are called P.F.C.'s. Big Travis wore the same kind.
He paused in the doorway, through which I could see that this room was a Victorian Boudoir. "Hi dere," he said to us. Then he turned and called back to the room's occupant, 'So long Rachel-yer de greatest!"
"So are you, Eddie," a soft voice replied. "How you got your nickname I'll never know. Say hello to the gang for me."
He grinned, an astonishing sight. "Sure ting." He closed the door, nodded pleasantly to me, said, "Miss. Gents," and walked off down the hall.
"Uh ..." I said to Philip.
"Is there anything wrong?" he asked.
"I guess I don't understand the . . . uh fee structure around here."
"Neither do we. Fortunately it's not our concern."
"Huh?"
"That's Lady Sally's worry. All we have to do is concentrate on our performance. An artist really needs a manager, don't you think?"
Performance? Artist?
"Phillip . . - do you work here? I mean, work here?"
He smiled. "I have that honor"
He was certainly the most mature and pleasant male hooker I had ever met. "And you don't collect the money yourself? How do you know Sally's honest on the split?"
He smiled again. "Even assuming I didn't know her, the issue doesn't arise. We're all on straight salary.- Plus tips . . .which, to anticipate your next question, we keep."
I blinked. "Do you mind if I ask..."
"Not at all," He named a figure. "That's after withholding. And mom and board and medical care are thrown in."
I managed to unpop my eyes. "You can't be serious." As a colonel in the Army, my father had made less than half as much. "She must whack the johns for a fortune."
"Each time somebody new comes here, Lady Sally sees him or her in private first. She looks them over, talks with them a little, and then quotes them two prices: one for by-the-evening, and the other for full-time membership. Logic tells me that she must peg the prices to what the individual can afford-you saw the fellow who just left; he's an old regular. But we don't ask, and clients don't talk about it among themselves. All I know is, you don't hav.e to be rich to come here-but if you are, no one will hold it against you."
"How many johns do you have to see a day? Or is it 'janes'?" My subtle way of learning his sexual orientation. And his professional prowess-
No dice. "There's no quota. It varies."
"Huh? You're telling me Lady Sally's whores have no quota?"