Bitter Bronx by Jerome Charyn

Miami?”
    He smiled, and all her gruffness went away.
    â€œMiss Marla, I couldn’t even tell you what Miami looks like.”
    â€œFather says you were in charge of the copy machine.”
    He was no longer smiling. “Yeah, I was his copying machine.”
    â€œDon’t be so damn cryptic,” she spat at him. She was donning her very own mask. If Marla didn’t get away from Raoul and the St. Regis, she would be ruined.
    â€œI looked after his mistresses,” he said.
    â€œWhat mistresses?”
    â€œWhy do you think I got that cozy with the St. Regis? Mr. Mortimer kept his own suite.”
    â€œI don’t believe it,” Marla said. But she did believe it. That’s the kind of secret Daddy would have.
    â€œSome were call girls,” Raoul said. “I’d entertain them until Mr. Mortimer arrived. Some were fashion designers and models who needed an extra buck. Your father wasn’t interested in romance. I did most of his courting.”
    â€œStop it,” Marla said. “You were Mortimer’s pimp.”
    â€œNo,” Raoul said. “I never chose his mistresses. I amused them.”
    â€œAnd took them up to my father’s room.”
    She raged with jealousy as she imagined the tight little bodies of the models and the Rubenesque proportions of the prostitutes—their ample arms, breasts that could smother Raoul.
    â€œThat’s why I got canned. He said I made him look small, that he couldn’t tantalize these women after they had been with me.”
    â€œAnd what happened when I walked into the King Cole that first time?”
    â€œI was confused. The barmen told me you had your own room. And I figured that Mr. Mortimer had sent you, and that you were looking for a scout.”
    She glared at him. “Why would I need the services of a scout?”
    â€œTo help you fish for men.”
    She wanted to pluck out his eyes. But Marla played the diplomat.
    â€œHow delicate you are! But I don’t need barmen or scouts. I need you.”
    Ah, if she could only have another glass of wine. She didn’t know what to do with Raoul. Should she shower money at him, like she did with those shadow men who couldn’t even scare him off? Should Marla keep him like a poodle? But she was the poodle, despite her bank account.
    â€œI’ll give you a thousand dollars if you spend the night with me—that’s what I pay for my shoes.”
    He tightened his tie around her windpipe, but even that violence in him was gentle. Marla was lost. He whispered in her ear.
    â€œIf you mention money one more time, I will set you on fire.”
    She started to cry, but it was the noiseless whimper of a little girl. She could have phoned the nighttime nurse who looked after Lollie and Mortimer, or even Twittered her two girls. They could survive without a mother, at least for one night. She’d never bothered to bring pajamas to the St. Regis. Marla’s room had the same soft glow as the King Cole Bar. She could see the outline of Raoul. His eyes seemed to burn in the dark—she loved that dancing, electric dark of the King Cole. She hummed to herself as Raoul wiped her tears with a finger that had the miraculous touch of velvet fur. Lord , as Lollie would say, I have myself a man. What did she care if Daddy’s detectives came for her tomorrow? Daddy didn’t have detectives. He had to negotiate each step to the toilet.
    Let him tumble. She wouldn’t run home to him. Marla was spending the night with Raoul.

LITTLE SISTER
    W hatever Marla did, Marla did so well. The golden spoon she’d been born with had never failed her, but her little sister had gagged on the same spoon. Little Sister wasn’t so little. She was a twelve-pound baby who inherited most of Marla’s toys. When she couldn’t solve their intricate engines, Marla would have to be called in. Little Sister had a name, but no one seemed to recollect it.