Nov. 4, 1999

Tuesday, September 14

This morning, I skipped my cardio workout -- with a twinge of regret because I was looking forward to flirting with Randy at the club. Instead, I met Allie at her apartment, which is still too chaotic for entertaining customers -- what with the rubble left behind by her sub-tenant.

"Where did this geek come from?" I asked, tossing some tangled cables into a bag of rubbish. "This place looks like hell!"

"Oh," she said, blushing, "It's a long story ... we went to high school together. When I was 16, we made out at his sister's birthday party. In the rec room." But," she added, a faraway look in her eyes, "it never went anywhere -- we lost touch after graduation. Then I ran into Steve last spring -- on 10th Avenue -- and we became friends."

I felt a strange nostalgic tug inside -- I was so restless and impatient at that age that I missed out on the rites of passage that girls like Allison experienced. Necking with some other kid my own age -- at 16. I can't imagine it -- and yet, of course, I can. I've seen enough movies, heard plenty of teen dating songs and even had one or two abortive romances with high school boys before I graduated to older guys (who now seem so much like boys when I remember them). I still wonder what it would have been like to fuck someone my age -- though I'm also glad I didn't have to endure the social problems of high school. Allison's suburban past is so normal, it's exotic to me.

"Does he know?" I asked her suddenly. "Why you moved out? About your business?"

"Of course not!" she exclaimed. "My straight friends think my parents are still paying my bills."

We got her bedroom in shape, then attempted to tackle the living room. Allie's the kind of girl who tidies up before the maid comes over, so I tried to appeal to that side of her conscience as we mulled over the problem of Tom Winters and the letter.

"He's been asking other girls what sort of business you and I are conducting," I warned her. "And I'm sure he's the guy who called me up, pretending to be your client. You need to be prepared when you talk to him -- he's a government snoop on a mission."

Allison chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip, then said, "He has no proof of anything. Besides, I'm not a criminal -- I'm ... I'm trying to deal with my sex addiction! It's none of the government's business."

"The IRS doesn't care what therapeutic spin you want to put on your income," I told her. "He's trying to prove that Liane's a big-time tax evader -- like Heidi Fleiss or Anabel Weston. Rumor has it he's trying to prove some kind of link with Anabel --"

"Anabel Weston?" Allison exclaimed. She bounced up off the flowered sofa and picked up a can of Pledge. "Liane has nothing in common with -- with --" In a frenzy, she began polishing the dusty leg of her favorite rosewood chair. "That's outrageous! Anabel Weston didn't even know her clients -- she got those guys off the Web! Liane doesn't even have a computer! I'll go in and tell Tom Winters that Liane's very small, exclusive and private -- she has almost no business left, and she's living on her investments. It's not fair! How dare they? She's never even heard of someone like Anabel Weston!"

This is the same girl who goes to Prostitutes Anonymous meetings to share her innermost hangups with streetwalkers! The recovering hooker who scolds me for being a judgmental snob. Allie was truly affronted by the idea of equating Liane -- an elegant, old-school madam who would rather operate in genteel modesty than resort to vulgar new business methods -- with Anabel Weston. But Liane would faint if she overheard Allison. With one such naive friend, who needs enemies?

"You're not talking to Tom Winters without a lawyer," I insisted. "Or at all, if you can avoid it. You have no idea what you're saying. Do you want Liane to spend the last years of her life in prison?"

"I'm not going in there with a lawyer," Allie said, polishing furiously. "It'll just make me look guilty!"

I was stunned by her crazy, amateur's logic. Is this what they mean when they say that good girls go to heaven?

Friday, September 16

This afternoon, Milt was early for his 4 o'clock appointment and buzzed my apartment just moments after Arthur was out the door! I was totally unprepared for him and felt like a terrified cook facing a collapsed souffli. I whipped off my underwear, wrapped a towel 'round my body and answered the door as though I were halfway through a shower. Handing Milt a dirty magazine, I told him to "study the pictures while I rinse off." I emerged from the shower in a pair of strappy heels and nothing else -- a rarity, as I prefer to wear something when I greet a client, but this gave Milt a chance to admire my recently trimmed (and lavishly conditioned) pubic hair.

While Milt took his turn in the shower, I quickly changed my sheets. Later, when he bent down to kiss my breasts, I was sprawled out on my bed, looking as calm and sweet as a girl turning her first trick -- of the day. As I swiveled around on top of Milt, with my thighs around his face, I moaned a little (for his benefit) -- and thought about my own upcoming appointment with Tom Winters, Treasury Snoop ... Will it scare Milt if I tell him the extent of Winters' investigation? All about the questions Winters has been asking Eileen about her clients? About me? I can't really afford to lose a client right now -- especially a regular like Milt. After the problems April caused, I'm beginning to feel like I'm walking on eggshells. Should I ask him to help me?