Dirty Work
Charles glides through the lobby like he owns the place. He doesn’t, not this one. It’s four in the afternoon and his suit’s still spotless, his shirt crisp, despite the dirty sandboxes he’s been playing in all day, one way and another.
He’s only been sitting at the polished mahogany table, with its harbour view, for a few seconds when she scurries in, top end classy, a little close-cut tea dress and heels. It’s obvious, as they embrace and his hand lingers on her behind like he’s gauging a bargain, that the ring on his third finger wasn’t put there by her. Heads turn surreptitiously, breaths are drawn. The maitre d’ smirks into his collar – a whiff of well-heeled sleaze is good for the ambiance. Charles basks in the attention, the affront, in the aura of confidence he exudes that means nobody is going to challenge him. It’s a self-feeding beast.
Nobody dares to cross Charles; not here, not out there where business is done. He gazes down at his hands, the manicured, pristine white crescents of his nails. They’ve been dirty, in the past. He often misses the days when he couldn’t write a cheque to keep them clean. To cheer himself up he imagines where they’ll be shortly – digging into the escort’s delicate skin. He has a suite booked upstairs. They could be there now, but why hurry?
He orders drinks from the attentive waitress: a sparkling wine for her, brandy on ice for himself. An affectation, he knows. He indulges himself. He’s earned it, after all, much of it the hard way. He misses the hard way.
The escort makes small talk, innocuous questions, flattering responses to his answers. She’s younger than his daughter. The brandy is rich and warm on his tongue, over his throat. There’s a coarse, unfamiliar note to it that catches, momentarily, takes him by surprise. A rough grain in the smooth surface. He likes it.
The waitress looks at the escort. They are about the same age. She wonders for a moment what it would take for her to spend the afternoon in bed with a man like Charles. She has no illusions. A rent cheque due, a credit card bill, that’s all. Same reason she does what she does. Both dirty jobs. She’s not going to judge. She feels sorry for the escort, though. What should have been an easy gig is about to get ugly.
She slips off the apron as she heads through the swing doors to the kitchen. Pulls a holdall from a locker, tugs heavy trousers up under the skirt and wiggles it off. Zips up a leather jacket, slides a helmet on.
She’s gone before he starts to choke, weaving through downtown traffic by the time the ambulance parts the cars going the other way.
She doesn’t know why she was hired this afternoon, has no idea where Charles dirtied his fingers one too many times. She’d like to think it was his wife who contracted her, but a sense of moral fulfilment’s an indulgence she can’t afford just yet.
By the time Charles’s bloated, purple face has been covered by a sheet and the sobbing escort led gently away through a rear door, the girl on the motorbike has lost interest in who wanted Charles dead, and why.
Charles, choking on his tongue, had only a few seconds to wonder himself. It wasn’t long enough to narrow the field.
