make spot checks on establishments which seemed to be slipping. Duffy said he’d get in touch if ever he needed a job.
After Jack had left, Duffy tidied up, changed the sheets for when Carol came (and for if Carol stayed, which weren’t at all the same thing) and went off to track down Renée. She’d always operated from a little flat in an alley off Wardour Street; it was a two-girl gaff, partly for mutual protection and partly in case clients wanted a sandwich job or an exhibition. She’d always worked for the same pimp, called Ronnie, who owned the flat, gave her what protection she needed, and took the usual cut. Renée was a lot smarter than Ronnie, though, and after she hit thirty she persuaded him to adopt a system whereby each year – as she got older and the competition got tougher and her earning potential got a bit less – she would pay him a slightly smaller percentage of what she earned. She pointed out what a good name this would get Ronnie among the other whores, and how this would make it easier for him to get new girls.
Ronnie had bought the scheme, perhaps imagining that Renée would give up at thirty-three or so. But she’d soldiered on, and, as she had planned, the scheme had worked to her advantage. Ronnie had moaned a bit, but kept to his promise after Renée had threatened to bad-mouth him all the way from Soho Square to Piccadilly Circus. That had brought him to heel; and then, to keep him sweet, Renée had upped the rent of the girls she shared the flat with.
As Duffy turned into Wardour Street, he remembered his visits to Renée. Money had occasionally changed hands, though strictly for information received. She had from time to time offered him a Christmas box (she’d smiled as she pronounced the phrase), but he’d thought it best to refuse. Still, he carried on calling on her, often just for chats; and he always followed the cardinal rule of scarpering when a client arrived.
Duffy saw the two lighted bell-pushes labelled RENÉE and SUZIE , pressed the top one, and walked up. He remembered the landing: one door straight ahead, with a card on the outside saying SUZIE ; the other, to the right, saying RENÉE . It looked as if the gaff was two separate flats, but in fact they connected up and had an alarm system from one to the other. You knocked on the door and either it opened or you got a shout of ‘Five minutes, love’, like an A.S.M. giving an actor his call.
Duffy knocked on the door on the right. It opened, and there was Renée in a long dressing gown, her dark hair half piled up on top of her head and half tumbling down one side in long curls to make an elaborately confected coiffure. She looked a bit older, a bit plumper, as she briefly cast an eye over him in the way that whores do, to see if he was either copper or someone from the whores’ blacklist; it was a dispassionate gaze, like that of a shop manager checking a credit card.
‘Come in, love,’ she said, and backed into the room. As she did so she let the dressing gown fall back so that he could see a black garter belt and stockings and a black bra.
‘Nothing dirty,’ she announced, before he had time to close the door. ‘I don’t do nothing dirty. I don’t do it up the bum and I keep me mouth to meself. It’s ten if you want it straight, eight for the hands, an extra two if you want to see me tits; and there’re a few other things I might do but you’ve gotta ask for them.’
‘Renée,’ he said, ‘I’m Duffy.’
‘Sorry, love, never remember a face in my business.’
‘No, I’m Duffy, I’m not a client…’
Renée looked up, very cross.
‘What d’yer mean, you’re not a fucking client? Whatcher doing here if yer not a client?’ She looked at him again, then suddenly she recognised him.
‘Duffy. Of course. Duffy.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘Why didn’t you stop me in the sales spiel, you bastard?’
‘Didn’t have time. You never let a fellow get in edgeways, Renée, did
After Jack had left, Duffy tidied up, changed the sheets for when Carol came (and for if Carol stayed, which weren’t at all the same thing) and went off to track down Renée. She’d always operated from a little flat in an alley off Wardour Street; it was a two-girl gaff, partly for mutual protection and partly in case clients wanted a sandwich job or an exhibition. She’d always worked for the same pimp, called Ronnie, who owned the flat, gave her what protection she needed, and took the usual cut. Renée was a lot smarter than Ronnie, though, and after she hit thirty she persuaded him to adopt a system whereby each year – as she got older and the competition got tougher and her earning potential got a bit less – she would pay him a slightly smaller percentage of what she earned. She pointed out what a good name this would get Ronnie among the other whores, and how this would make it easier for him to get new girls.
Ronnie had bought the scheme, perhaps imagining that Renée would give up at thirty-three or so. But she’d soldiered on, and, as she had planned, the scheme had worked to her advantage. Ronnie had moaned a bit, but kept to his promise after Renée had threatened to bad-mouth him all the way from Soho Square to Piccadilly Circus. That had brought him to heel; and then, to keep him sweet, Renée had upped the rent of the girls she shared the flat with.
As Duffy turned into Wardour Street, he remembered his visits to Renée. Money had occasionally changed hands, though strictly for information received. She had from time to time offered him a Christmas box (she’d smiled as she pronounced the phrase), but he’d thought it best to refuse. Still, he carried on calling on her, often just for chats; and he always followed the cardinal rule of scarpering when a client arrived.
Duffy saw the two lighted bell-pushes labelled RENÉE and SUZIE , pressed the top one, and walked up. He remembered the landing: one door straight ahead, with a card on the outside saying SUZIE ; the other, to the right, saying RENÉE . It looked as if the gaff was two separate flats, but in fact they connected up and had an alarm system from one to the other. You knocked on the door and either it opened or you got a shout of ‘Five minutes, love’, like an A.S.M. giving an actor his call.
Duffy knocked on the door on the right. It opened, and there was Renée in a long dressing gown, her dark hair half piled up on top of her head and half tumbling down one side in long curls to make an elaborately confected coiffure. She looked a bit older, a bit plumper, as she briefly cast an eye over him in the way that whores do, to see if he was either copper or someone from the whores’ blacklist; it was a dispassionate gaze, like that of a shop manager checking a credit card.
‘Come in, love,’ she said, and backed into the room. As she did so she let the dressing gown fall back so that he could see a black garter belt and stockings and a black bra.
‘Nothing dirty,’ she announced, before he had time to close the door. ‘I don’t do nothing dirty. I don’t do it up the bum and I keep me mouth to meself. It’s ten if you want it straight, eight for the hands, an extra two if you want to see me tits; and there’re a few other things I might do but you’ve gotta ask for them.’
‘Renée,’ he said, ‘I’m Duffy.’
‘Sorry, love, never remember a face in my business.’
‘No, I’m Duffy, I’m not a client…’
Renée looked up, very cross.
‘What d’yer mean, you’re not a fucking client? Whatcher doing here if yer not a client?’ She looked at him again, then suddenly she recognised him.
‘Duffy. Of course. Duffy.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘Why didn’t you stop me in the sales spiel, you bastard?’
‘Didn’t have time. You never let a fellow get in edgeways, Renée, did
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