*****
I heard the knock on my hotel door at around 9:30 pm. I yelled “One minute!” then picked up the phone and dialed the room across the hall from mine. The phone rang about three times then was picked up.
“Got her?” I asked.
“Yeah, got her.”
I hung up, went to my room door and opened it.
She had cut her hair since she left college. It was now a short, spiky-gelled power cut. It was blue-black in color, and it emphasized her slender, white, flawless neck.
She was dressed in a woman’s business suit. The only things that hinted that she was a working girl was her blouse was open enough to show just a hint of her cleavage and the three-inch spike heels she wore. Her makeup was picture perfect, and the whole ensemble projected an aura of subdued sexuality.
I smiled at her and said, “You must be Steffi. I’m Gary. Please come in.”
“Thank you, Gary.” She smiled extended her hand, and I took it, half shaking it, half leading her into my room.
She quickly looked around the room and then said, “If you don’t mind, I need to make a quick call. It’s local. May, I?” She pointed at the phone.
“By all means, take your time.” I went to the table where I had a pitcher of ice water and a cold carafe of white wine. I poured myself a water and filled a wine glass half full. I listened to her as she quickly checked in with her agency. She was all business on the phone. She said she was at her appointment at the Mayflower Hotel, room 315. She listened for a second or two then hung up the phone. She turned to me and I picked up the wine glass to offer it to her. She smiled, nodded thanks and took it. She took a sip.
She started to speak, and I just smiled and raised my hand. “I know, I know. Business first.”
I reached into my slacks front pocket and took out a money clip. I counted out twelve one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Here’s your fee plus a little extra. If things work out, there’s another three hundred in it for you.”
I saw a look of relief in her eyes. She was a pro and appreciated a customer who knew that and didn’t try to pretend otherwise. I found out a long time ago that if you treat a hooker as a professional, things go a lot more smoothly.
“Thank you—Gary.” She took the money, slipped it into her pocketbook. She walked to the table with the water and wine on it, set down her glass.
“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I use your bathroom. Turn down the lights if you want. I won’t be long.”
I smiled, bowed slightly and waved her towards the bathroom. She walked by me, went into the bathroom and shut the door. She left the scent of strawberries hanging in the air.
I heard the water in the sink come on. I removed my tie, unbuttoned the top button of my shirt and took off my shoes. I turned off all the lights except for a small lamp in the room corner. I then went to the table, splashed a bit more water in my glass and took a long pull of it. I looked outside the room window and watched the light traffic on Connecticut Avenue. After ten minutes, I heard water being turned off in the bathroom. About thirty seconds later I watched the bathroom door open.
She stood in the bathroom doorway for a few seconds, framed by the light. She was in her heels, wearing only a garter, suspenders, nylons and a half bra. She wasn’t fat, but was softly rounded. Her breasts were perfect for her size. I smiled, thinking if only she knew that her old man was paying me to screw her.
She walked towards me, took the glass out of my hand and sat it down. She started to finish unbuttoning my shirt. I knew the best way to enjoy this was to let her run the show.
She was good. She knew where and how to touch a man. She didn’t hurry me, but she was coolly efficient in getting my clothes off and getting both us into the bed. I just let her entertain me.
Within twenty minutes, I was on top of her, banging my heart out as she moaned and talked to me, coaxing me to come. Near the end, I opened my eyes looked into hers. From experience, I had expected to see professional boredom there. Instead, I was shocked to see her looking straight though me, eyes glazed, lifeless. She was talking and moaning as I came, but her eyes were lost in some other, dead place. I finished and quickly rolled off her. I warily looked at her as she slowly got off the bed, murmuring she would be right back as she went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Still a bit shaken up, I picked up the phone and dialed the pager number I had earlier memorized. It was a heads-up signal for the retired D.C. cop that Ernie had arranged to be in the room across the hall from mine. He was now downstairs waiting to tail her as she, hopefully, went straight home. I hung up after the page was sent, got up, put on my boxers and grabbed my pants. I took out the money clip, peeled off another three hundred and waited by the window, sipping on my water.
In a few minutes, she came out of the bathroom, fully dressed. She smiled at me a fake smile and asked if I had a good time. I returned the fake smile and handed her the three hundred bucks and said, “Thank you, Steffi. Don’t be surprised if we meet again.”
She smiled, took the money, quickly slipped it into her purse, and before I could move, made for the door, opened it and left.
It was 10:12 pm. Like I said, she was a pro.
I took a shower and then packed up my clothes. I called the operator and left a five o’clock wake-up call. If all went according to plan, when I woke up, there would be slipped under my room door a short hand-written report and a map spelling out where the Myra Kincaid now made her home. If the ex-cop lost her, he was to call me as soon as he could get to a phone. Then it would mean I would have to try this all over again next week.
I drank some more water, poured out the wine and went to bed.