Chapter 18 Chapter Eighteen

Saturday is a good day to knock because more people are usually staying home than on other days.The weather this Saturday is not suitable for going out. Continuous drizzle falls from the dark sky, and the biting cold wind blows the rain in disorder. The wind in New York can be quite eerie at times.The towering buildings seemed to split the wind, whirling like a twirling ball on a pool table, so that the wind bounced oddly, blowing in different directions in different neighborhoods.That morning and afternoon, the wind always seemed to be blowing on my face.I rounded the corner and it came round, head on, spraying rain on my face.Sometimes I am refreshed by it, and sometimes I bow my head and curse the wind and myself for going out in this weather.

The first stop was Kim's building. I took the key, nodded to the concierge, and entered.I hadn't met him before, and he probably didn't know me, but he didn't question my right to the door.I took the elevator upstairs and entered Kim's apartment. Maybe I'm trying to make sure the kitten is still gone.I have no other reason to go in.As far as I can tell, the apartment is the same as it was the last time I left, still missing the kitten and its litter tray.With this in mind, I went to check the kitchen.There were no cans or boxes of cat food in the cupboards, no litter bags for kitten waste, and no spill-proof cat feeding bowls.I couldn't smell cats in the apartment, and I began to wonder if my memory of the animal was accurate.Then I found a half-full jar of cat food in the freezer, covered with plastic wrap.

Look at this, I thought.The great detective has found a clue. Shortly thereafter, the big detective found the cat.I walked up and down the corridors, knocking on doors.Even though it was a rainy Saturday, not everyone was home.The first three families had no idea Kim had ever owned a cat, let alone its whereabouts. The fourth homeowner I knocked on was Alice Simkins.She was small, in her fifties, and spoke cautiously until I mentioned Kim's kittens. "Oh, you mean the panther," she laughed. "You're looking for the panther. You know, I thought someone was going to look for it. Come in, okay?"

She ushered me into an upholstered chair, brought me a cup of coffee, and apologized for the excessive furniture in the room.She told me that she was a widow who had moved into this small apartment from a house in the suburbs, and although she had thrown away a lot of things, she had left too much furniture. "It's like an obstacle course," she said. "I didn't just move here yesterday. I've lived here for almost two years. It's not an emergency, so I just procrastinate." She had heard of King's death from a neighbor.As she sat at her desk in the office the next morning, she thought about Kim's kitten.Who will feed it?Who will take care of it?

“I held it until lunchtime,” she says, “because I didn’t think I could run out of the office like a lunatic because the kitten was hungry for an extra hour. I fed the cat, cleaned out the litter tray, and changed the water. , went to look at it when I got home from get off work that night. Apparently no one came to take care of it. I thought about the poor little thing all night. When I went to feed it the next morning, I decided to take him in for a while. She smiled, "It seems to have adapted. Do you think it will miss her?" "I don't know." - Stick School · E Book Group -

"I don't know if it will miss me, but I will. I've never had a cat. We had a dog a few years ago, and I didn't think about getting a dog, at least not in the city, but cats don't seem to be No trouble. Panther has clipped his toenails, so there's no problem with scratching furniture. I'd like him to scratch some, though, as that would prompt me to throw away some of the furniture." She chuckled. "I think I brought all the cat food from her apartment. I can pass it all over to you. The panther is hiding somewhere, but I'm sure I'll find him."

I assured her I wasn't here for the cats and that she could keep the panthers if she wanted to.She was surprised, but clearly relieved.But if I'm not here for the cat, what am I here for? I briefly explained who I am.While she was gathering her thoughts, I asked her how she got into Kim's apartment. "Oh, I have the key. I gave her the key to my apartment a few months ago. I was going out of town and asked her to help me water the plants, and shortly after I got back, she gave me her key too. I think Sorry why. Do you want me to feed the black panther? I really can't remember. Do you mind if I change its name?"

"what?" "I just don't like its name, but I don't know if it would be appropriate to change it. I bet it doesn't recognize the name at all, it just recognizes the hum of an electric can opener announcing that it's time for dinner." She smiles , "The poet Eliot wrote that every cat has a secret name that only the cat knows. So I think it's all the same no matter what it's called." I turned the conversation to Kim and asked how well she knew him. "I don't know if we're friends," she said. "We're neighbors, good neighbors. I left the key to her apartment, but I'm not sure we're friends."

"Did you know she was a whore?" "I think I know. At first I thought she was a model, she had the money." "right." "But then I slowly figured out her real occupation. She never mentioned it. I think maybe because she has been reluctant to mention her occupation, I think elsewhere. And there is a black person who often comes to her. I don’t know. What, I think he's her pimp." "Has she a boyfriend, Mrs. Simkins?" "Except for the black person?" She thought for a while, and at this moment, a black figure suddenly jumped across the carpet, jumped onto the sofa, and then disappeared in another jump.

"See?" she said. "It doesn't look like a panther at all. I don't know what it looks like, but it doesn't look like a panther at all. You asked her if she had a boyfriend?" "right." "I'm skeptical too. She must have had some secret plan, because she hinted at it the last time we talked - she said she was moving away, and her life was going to improve a lot. I just thought that was a dream." "why?" "Because I thought she meant to leave everything with her pimp and go off into the sunset and live happily ever after. But she wouldn't say it because she would never tell the truth and tell me she had a pimp I know pimps usually tell their girls that the other girls don't matter, they just need to save enough money and they can go away and buy a ranch in Australia or something."

I thought of Fran Schechter of Morton Street, who was convinced that Chance was bound to her in a past life and had an infinite future. "She's going to leave her pimp," I said. "For another man?" "That's what I'm looking for." She had never seen Kim particularly close to anyone, and she hadn't paid attention to the men who went to Kim's apartment.In any case, such visitors rarely come at night, she explained, since she herself works during the day. "I thought she bought that fur coat herself," she said, "she was very proud of it, as if someone bought it for her, but I think she was ashamed to say she paid for it herself to put it on. I bet she does have a boyfriend. The way she’s showing off that fur coat looks like it was a gift from some guy, but she doesn’t say so.” "Because their relationship cannot be made public." "Yeah. She's proud of that fur coat, and that jewelry. You said she wanted to leave her pimp. Did she get killed for it?" "I have no idea." "I try not to think about how and why she's been killed. Have you read a book called Shipwreck?" have not seen. — Stick School · E Book Group — "There's a rabbit farm in the book, half-domesticated, half-wild. The food supply is plentiful because humans leave rabbit food on a regular basis. It's kind of a rabbit paradise, but the purpose of the rabbit breeder is to set traps and eat rabbits occasionally Great meal. The surviving rabbits never speak of the trap, nor of their slain mates. It is an unwritten rule of theirs to pretend that the trap did not exist, and that neither did their dead counterparts. " She had been looking to the side as she spoke, and this time she was looking at me. "You know what? I think New Yorkers are like those rabbits. We live here for everything the city has to offer—culture, job opportunities, whatever. When the city kills our friends and neighbors, We all turn our backs. Oh, one or two days we read the news, talk about it, and forget about it. Otherwise, we'd have to do something, but we can't. Or we'd have to move , but we don't want to move. We're like those rabbits, aren't we?" I left my phone number and told her to call if I thought of anything.She said yes. I took the elevator to the lobby, but when I got there I stayed in the elevator and went back to the twelfth floor.Just because finding the black cat doesn't mean knocking on doors is a waste of time.It turned out to be a waste of time. I talked to six more people and found nothing, except that they and Jinjingshui are not in conflict with the river water.A man didn't even know that one of his neighbors had been murdered.Others have heard of it, but don't know it very well.After knocking on all the doors, I found myself back at King's door, key in hand. Why?Because of that 200ml bottle of Wild Turkey in the hall cupboard? I put the keys back in my pocket and walked out of the building.According to the conference directory, I went to the lunch meeting a few blocks from King's residence. The speaker was just wrapping up her presentation of the experience when I went in.At first glance, I thought it was Jane.When I looked closely, I realized that the two were not very similar. I grab a cup of coffee and sit down in the back.The room was cramped and smoky.The focus of the discussion seems to be on the spiritual aspect of the alcohol rehabilitation program. I don't know what that refers to, and I still don't understand after listening to it for a long time.But there was one guy who spoke brilliantly, a tall guy with a rough voice. "I came here to save my life," he said, "and then I realized I was touching my soul." If Saturday is an auspicious day to knock on the door, it is also a good day to visit a prostitute.While it's not unique to go whoring on a Saturday afternoon, it's still a minority. I ate some lunch, then took the I-T subway line north of town toward Lexington Avenue.It wasn't crowded, and across from me was a black kid in a pea green jacket and thick-soled boots, smoking a cigarette.I thought about that conversation with Durkin and wanted to tell the kid to put the cigarette out. God, I thought, better get out of your own business.let him go. I got off at Sixty-eighth Street and walked one block north and two blocks east.The apartment buildings where Ruby Lee and Mary Lou Buck lived diagonally across from each other.Ruby lives in the building on the southwest corner, and I went there first, so I went there first.After the concierge called on the intercom, I shared the elevator with a florist delivery boy.He holds a large bouquet of roses, which is full of fragrance. Ruby answered the door, smiled slightly, and led me in.The apartments are simply but tastefully furnished.Furnishings are modern and modest, but certain items lend an oriental touch to the room—a Chinese rug, a collection of Japanese paintings in black lacquer frames, a bamboo screen.Those combinations weren't enough to make this apartment exotic, but Ruby himself more than made up for it. She was tall—although not as tall as gold, but slim and curvaceous, wearing a tight black jacket with slits at the hem, showing a faint section of thigh when she walked. She seated me and asked me what I would like to drink.I heard myself asking for tea.She smiled and returned with two cups of tea. I noticed that it was Lipton black tea.God knows what more I wished for good tea. Her father is of mixed French and Senegalese descent, and her mother is Chinese.She was born in Hong Kong, lived in Macau for a while, and then came to the United States via France and London.She didn't tell me my age, and I didn't ask, and I couldn't guess, whether it was twenty, or forty-five, or something in between. She met Kim once, not very well, and in fact she didn't know the other girls well either.She had worked for Chance for a while and found it a pleasure to work with. She didn't know if Kim had a boyfriend.Why, she asked, would a woman want two men?Then doesn't she have to give the two of them money? I said Kim might have had a different relationship with her boyfriend and he might have given her a present. Ruby seemed to find this incomprehensible. Is this person I'm talking about a prostitute?I said it is possible. But the client is not the boyfriend, she said.A client is just one of a bunch of men.Who would have feelings for a prostitute? Across the street, Mary Lou Buck poured me a Coke and set out a plate of cheese and crackers. "Then you've seen the Dragon Lady," she said, "very special, isn't it?" "Special is not the word enough to describe her." "Three races fused into one stunning beauty. But the shock is still to come. You open the door and find no one inside. Come here." I stood by the window with her and watched where her fingers were. "That's her window," she said, "I can see her apartment from here. You'd think we were good friends, wouldn't you? Dropping in to borrow some sugar, or complaining about period anxiety. Could be, wouldn't it?" ?” "Is there any result?" "She's always polite, but absent-minded. That woman's not a thing to get along with. I know a lot of johns who've been there, and I've introduced some to her. Like a guy who said he had fantasies about oriental women. Or It's just me saying to someone, I know a woman he might like. You know? It's a surefire thing to do. They're all grateful because she's beautiful, exotic, and I guess she's good in bed, but they hardly ever Been there again. They went once, glad they did, but no more. They pass her number on to friends, but they don't call again. I bet she has a good business, but I bet she doesn't know what it is A regular client, I bet she doesn't have a regular client at all." She was slender, dark-haired, tall, with fine features, small, well-aligned teeth, a bun in the back of her head, and pair of aviator glasses with pale amber lenses.Her hair and glasses combined to give her a serious look, an effect she was absolutely aware of. "After I took off my glasses and let down my hair," she mentioned at one point, "it seemed much gentler and less threatening. Of course, some clients like women who look a little dangerous." About Kim she said: "I don't know her well. I don't know any of them. They have their own characteristics. Sunny likes to have fun, and she thinks being a prostitute greatly raises her status. Ruby is self-righteous." The grown-ups at the center are unreal. I daresay she is saving money to go back to Macau or Hong Kong one day to open an opium den. Chance probably knows what she's up to and has wisely decided to leave her alone. " She put a slice of cheese on a biscuit and handed it to me, took some herself, and sipped the wine in her hand. "Fran is a charming freak, I call her a Greenwich Village idiot. She has elevated 'self-deception' to an art form. She must have smoked a ton of weed to continue believing what she made up That nonsense. More Coke?" "no thanks." "Surely you don't want a glass of wine? Or stronger?" I shake my head. The radio was playing soft background music, some classical music channel. Mary Lou took off her glasses, blew on them, and wiped them off with a tissue. "And Donna," she said, "is the poet of Whoreland. Poetry is to her, I'm thinking, what marijuana was to Fran. You know, she writes good poetry." I took Donna's poems with me and showed them to Mary Lou.Vertical lines appeared on her forehead as she browsed through the poem. "It's not finished yet," I said. "She's still polishing it." "Don't know how poets know when they're done. And painters. How do they know when they're done? I'm having trouble understanding. Is this poem about gold?" "Yes." - Stick School · E Book Group - "I don't understand what it means, but there is something, she wants to express something." She thought for a moment, raised her head like a bird, and said, "I think I think of Kim as the quintessential whore. A white blonde from the upper Midwest, born to walk in the arms of black pimps." The woman of her life. Tell you, I'm not at all surprised she was murdered." "why?" "I'm not sure either. I was terrified, but not surprised. I think I saw that she was not going to end well. Accidental death. Not necessarily killed, but a victim of the business. Suicide, for example. ...or drugs and alcohol with a tragic end. Actually, as far as I know, she doesn't use alcohol or drugs. I guess I thought she would kill herself, but murder is not out of the question, right? Let her Get out of it. Because I can't imagine her doing it for the rest of her life. She can't take that Midwestern simplicity once it's gone from her. And I don't see how she can find a way out." "She was quitting. She told Chance she wanted to quit." "Are you sure that's true?" "right." "Then how did he react?" "He said it was up to her to decide." "Is it that simple?" "Obviously." "Then she was murdered. Is there a connection?" "I think there must be. I think she has a boyfriend, and this boyfriend is the key. I guess he is the reason she left Chance, and why she was killed." "But you don't know who he is." "right." "Anyone have a clue?" "Not so far." "Well, there's nothing I can do about it. I don't remember the last time I saw her, or the gleam of love in her eyes. It makes sense, though. A man who pulls her into this business probably needs another The man took her out." Then she told me how she got into the business.I didn't mean to ask, but I listened anyway. Chance was pointed out to her once at the opening of a West Broadway gallery in SoHo.He was with Donna, and the man who pointed him out told Mary Lou that he was a pimp.Drinking an extra glass or two of cheap wine, she walked up to him, introduced herself, and said she wanted to write a story about him. She is not really a writer.She was living with a man on West Ninety-fourth Street who worked in some sort of arcane job on Wall Street.The man is divorced, but still disconnected from his ex-wife, his naughty children come over every weekend, and their relationship has not been going well. Mary Lou was a freelance editor, had a part-time proofreading job, and had two articles for a monthly feminist magazine. Chance went on a date with her, took her out to dinner, and completely changed the purpose of the interview.Over a cocktail she realizes that she wants to sleep with him.The urge stems less from sexual desire than from curiosity.Before dinner was over, he suggested that she stop being superficial and write something real, seeing the real life of whores from their point of view.She was clearly interested.He said to her, why not make good use of this interest?Why not follow its lead, why not try the whole life of a prostitute for two months and see how it turns out.She took the proposal as a joke.He walked her home after dinner without any advances, and played deaf to her sexual intimations. For a week after that, she couldn't put his advice behind her.Her own life seemed to be going nowhere.Her relationship has dried up, and she sometimes thinks she's still living with her lover because she doesn't want to pay for another apartment.Her career was stagnant, not improving, and she was not making enough money to make ends meet. "And books," she said, "books are suddenly very important. Maupassant tastes human flesh from the morgue in order to describe it exactly. Can't I spend a month experiencing the life of a whore, easy to write A good book on the subject?" After she accepted Chance's proposal, everything was arranged. Chance helped her move out of the apartment on West Ninety-fourth Street and put her in her current residence.He takes her out, shows her, and sleeps with her.In bed, he showed her what to do, and she also found it refreshing.The men she'd experienced were reticent about it, expecting her to understand their intentions. Even clients don't say what they want directly, she said. For the past few weeks she still thought she was just gathering information for her book.After each client left, she took some notes and wrote down her feelings.She also keeps a diary, separating herself from what she does, and the objectivity of being a journalist is as much to her as Donna's poetry is to Fran's marijuana.When she gradually realizes that prostitution is an end rather than a means, she almost has a nervous breakdown. She had never contemplated suicide before, but for a week she was teetering on the edge.Finally she pulled through.Being a prostitute didn't mean she had to label herself a prostitute.It was but a short phase of her life.Although the book was just an excuse for her to enter this industry, maybe one day she will really write a book.So it's okay, she's having a good time every day, and it's just disturbing to think about living this life forever.But that won't happen.When the time comes, she'll get out of it as easily as she did when she got into the business. "That's why I'm so calm, Matthew. I'm not a whore, I'm just playing the part for a while. You know, the last two years could have been worse." "I suppose so." "A lot of free time, and a lot of animal gratification. I read a lot, go to the movies, go to museums, and Chance likes to take me to concerts. You know the story about the blind man touching the elephant? Someone caught the tail and thought it was an elephant Like a snake, the other touched the elephant's body and thought it was like a wall." "how?" "I think Chance is the elephant and the girls who follow him are blind. We each see only one side of him." "And you have some African carvings in your room." Her statue is about thirty inches high, a small figure holding a handful of sticks in one hand.His face and hands are strung with red and blue beads, while the rest of his body is studded with shells. "My housekeeper," she said, "is a Batumi ancestral statue from Cameroon. It's made of agate shells. Primitive societies all over the world use agate shells as currency, the Swiss franc of the tribal world. Look at it What does it look like?" I looked closely. "Like female genitalia," she said, "so men naturally use it as a medium of exchange. Do you want some more cheese?" "No, thanks." "Another Coke?" "No need to." "Well," she said, "if there's anything else you want to know, just let me know."