cheongsams, slit provocatively up to the thigh. They were white, around twenty, and made up like extras in a David Lynch version of the Peking Opera – high black hair, pasty white faces, red bows. They seemed to be in constant motion, designating the opium girls to customers, dispatching the twosomes to their private rooms with even, quiet authority. Above them, from cheap speakers buried somewhere in the thickness of the carpeting, a pan flute played.
Beverly talked to the prettier of the two hostesses, the one with a small butterfly tattoo by her right eye, and found out rather easily which den was occupied by Rat Boy. Nicky hoped there would not be any repercussions. Within moments, he and Beverly found themselves being led through the elaborate web of rooms, rooms closed off from the narrow paneled hallways by thick velvet drapes. The girl who led them was Chinese, about twelve years old, dressed in the traditional samfoo, the black pajamalike clothing of north China. She took them nearly a full city block into the basement, carrying with her a long bamboo pipe and a small leather pouch. Along the way, Nicky could hear the sounds of the trade, the wet and raspy coughing, the incoherent babbling, low and hypnotic.
Despite a half dozen years in rock and roll, despite five years in college and an association with some of the more bohemian types in the city throughout his life, this was an extreme end of the drug lifestyle that Nicky knew absolutely nothing about. More than once he had to remind himself that he was in Cleveland, it was the middle of the week, and that it was still twenty minutes until the start of the Today show.
When the girl got to Rat Boy’s cubicle she stopped and cast her eyes to the ground.
Nicky peeked through the curtains and saw Choi, supine on a jute mat, his huge belly and wattled thighs mercifully covered by a white towel, a young girl refilling his pipe. Rat Boy’s pipe was a showpiece, very ornate, with an ivory mouthpiece and delicate carvings along the shaft. The deep metal bowl was etched with Chinese characters.
Rat Boy’s eyes were closed, but in the candlelight Nicky could see that his face bore the vacuous half smile that came from years of indulging in the brown, sticky paste; the stone-set features of the opium habitué. Nicky relaxed a little, realizing Rat Boy’s reflexes were probably slowed to the point of rigor mortis.
Beverly stepped inside and spoke softly to Rat Boy’s girl. The girl finally understood, reluctantly handed Beverly the pipe, and retreated to a corner of the small room, where she sat, cross-legged, on the floor, waiting for something to go wrong. Within moments, Choi slitted his eyes, sensing another presence in the room. He smiled when he saw Beverly standing over him, offering up a thick row of uneven yellow and silver teeth. Rat Boy pulled off his towel. He pointed to his lips, then gently tapped his shriveled penis.
When Beverly straddled Rat Boy, placing the pipe once again to his mouth, touching a long wooden match to the candle’s flame, Nicky retreated to an empty room. His opium girl stood in the doorway, pipe in hand, a little nervous about not being able to fulfill her duty, a little confused as to what Nicky wanted her to do. He walked her inside and gestured for her to sit on the edge of the mat. He offered her a cigarette. She refused, blushed, looked at the floor.
Nicky put his ear to the thin paneled wall.
He smoked.
And waited.
Twenty minutes later, Beverly stuck her head into Nicky’s den and beckoned him with one long, enameled fingernail, the color of ripe strawberries. Within moments they made their way hurriedly through the narrow corridors, across the lounge, up the stairwell, and out onto East Thirtieth Street.
After the dank claustrophobia of Elegant Linda’s den, Nicky welcomed the now-teeming workaday crowd, the diesel fumes, the noise.
As they walked toward Euclid Avenue, Beverly told him the bad news. Ronnie Choi
Beverly talked to the prettier of the two hostesses, the one with a small butterfly tattoo by her right eye, and found out rather easily which den was occupied by Rat Boy. Nicky hoped there would not be any repercussions. Within moments, he and Beverly found themselves being led through the elaborate web of rooms, rooms closed off from the narrow paneled hallways by thick velvet drapes. The girl who led them was Chinese, about twelve years old, dressed in the traditional samfoo, the black pajamalike clothing of north China. She took them nearly a full city block into the basement, carrying with her a long bamboo pipe and a small leather pouch. Along the way, Nicky could hear the sounds of the trade, the wet and raspy coughing, the incoherent babbling, low and hypnotic.
Despite a half dozen years in rock and roll, despite five years in college and an association with some of the more bohemian types in the city throughout his life, this was an extreme end of the drug lifestyle that Nicky knew absolutely nothing about. More than once he had to remind himself that he was in Cleveland, it was the middle of the week, and that it was still twenty minutes until the start of the Today show.
When the girl got to Rat Boy’s cubicle she stopped and cast her eyes to the ground.
Nicky peeked through the curtains and saw Choi, supine on a jute mat, his huge belly and wattled thighs mercifully covered by a white towel, a young girl refilling his pipe. Rat Boy’s pipe was a showpiece, very ornate, with an ivory mouthpiece and delicate carvings along the shaft. The deep metal bowl was etched with Chinese characters.
Rat Boy’s eyes were closed, but in the candlelight Nicky could see that his face bore the vacuous half smile that came from years of indulging in the brown, sticky paste; the stone-set features of the opium habitué. Nicky relaxed a little, realizing Rat Boy’s reflexes were probably slowed to the point of rigor mortis.
Beverly stepped inside and spoke softly to Rat Boy’s girl. The girl finally understood, reluctantly handed Beverly the pipe, and retreated to a corner of the small room, where she sat, cross-legged, on the floor, waiting for something to go wrong. Within moments, Choi slitted his eyes, sensing another presence in the room. He smiled when he saw Beverly standing over him, offering up a thick row of uneven yellow and silver teeth. Rat Boy pulled off his towel. He pointed to his lips, then gently tapped his shriveled penis.
When Beverly straddled Rat Boy, placing the pipe once again to his mouth, touching a long wooden match to the candle’s flame, Nicky retreated to an empty room. His opium girl stood in the doorway, pipe in hand, a little nervous about not being able to fulfill her duty, a little confused as to what Nicky wanted her to do. He walked her inside and gestured for her to sit on the edge of the mat. He offered her a cigarette. She refused, blushed, looked at the floor.
Nicky put his ear to the thin paneled wall.
He smoked.
And waited.
Twenty minutes later, Beverly stuck her head into Nicky’s den and beckoned him with one long, enameled fingernail, the color of ripe strawberries. Within moments they made their way hurriedly through the narrow corridors, across the lounge, up the stairwell, and out onto East Thirtieth Street.
After the dank claustrophobia of Elegant Linda’s den, Nicky welcomed the now-teeming workaday crowd, the diesel fumes, the noise.
As they walked toward Euclid Avenue, Beverly told him the bad news. Ronnie Choi
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