TVA BABY and Other Stories (4 page)

“Or woman,” she said. “And peep down her dress.”

“Or her Burberry.”

“And get paid for it.”

“A modest sum,” I said. “As long as I observe the Protocols. Plus I get expenses.”

“The cigarettes.” She kicked off her shoes, or rather slippers; or rather, pulled them off by the heels with long dancer’s toes, one and then the other.

“I pay for the Camels,” I said. “The bar tab goes through my Fauxlex. I only host on weekday afternoons, one to six.”

“Free drinks,” she said. She crossed her legs. Her jeans were pulled tight, making a wide V between her thighs. “And can they hear all this?”

“They’re see-onlys,” I said. “No sound, according to Private Eye.”

“So they miss out on all the conversation?”

“They don’t seem to mind.”

“Am I suppose to be flattered?” she asked.

The apartment darkened as the afternoon light dimmed. We talked of mystery novels and Tenth Avenue bars, until she looked at her watch and sent me away.

“It’s five,” she said at the door.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I was surprised to find I hadn’t been pretending to enjoy her company.

“Protocols,” she said, and shut the door.

“You’re back,” she said the next afternoon. Friday.

“By popular demand,” I said, laying my Camels on the bar. I showed her the counter on my Fauxlex.

“Seventy. Your numbers are up. I suppose I should be flattered again.”

“I suppose. I would be.”

We bothered Lou just twice, once for wine and once for matches, before she headed upstairs and I followed, exactly at three.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” she asked, in the elevator.

“I did and then I didn’t,” I said, following her into her studio. “You know how it goes.”

“I do.” She slipped off the Burberry and hung it on the chair before sitting down on the couch, across the low table from me.

“I find this more intimate anyway,” I said. “Being a Private Eye.”

“Not so very private,” she reminded me. Instead of jeans over the slip, she wore black tights under it.

“And you don’t mind?”

“On the contrary,” she said. She stretched out one long dancer’s leg and pulled the other up under her chin. “So where’s your chip? Stick out your tongue and let me see.”

“It’s not a chip, it’s a nanocoil.” I tapped one eyebrow. “Wrapped around an optic dendrite. A painless laser insert, on a timer, like I said.”

“Cool,” she said. “And this three score and ten from one to six, do you feel them looking through your eyes?”

“I’m not supposed to, but there’s a little feedback. When they see something they like, there is a kind of glow.”

“So you can tell when they are pleased.” She spread her thighs, a little.

“Sometimes. Like right now. They can see the pale outline of your panties through your tights, like a ghost, hiding in the shadows.”

She held up two fingers and I lit a Camel for her.

“And they like ghosts,” I added.

“And you?”

“I like ghosts. And shadows, too.” I leaned across the coffee table, and she took the cigarette between her fingers, being careful not to touch mine. It was an oddly intimate move.

“I see,” she said. She stretched out her long legs and there was that ghost again. “And if those fingers had touched?”

“My coil would shut down. They would all go find another Private Eye.”

“And you would be out of a job.”

“It’s only a part-time job,” I said.

We do like ghosts. The afternoon light faded as we talked of de Kooning and Long Island wine, and cities we both knew, and some that we didn’t.

Until exactly five, when she saw me out. In the elevator, and later, on the street, I felt my clients, like a flock of birds, departing into an autumn dusk.

I felt the glow fading.

I was sorry it was Friday.

It’s only a part-time job, but I love it.

I miss it on weekends, when I’m off. Sometimes—OK, most of the time—I ramble around the Web, looking for the kind of women I look for when I’m working; the kind who like to be looked at.

Regarded with a certain intensity.

Still, I was surprised when I found her on the Web.

Eula-Cam
. Live. Updated Daily, for Members Only.

I scrolled through the Free Stills, and there she was, sitting on the couch in her black slip over black tights, ghostly, talking to a guy on the rug.

His back was to the camera but I knew who it was.

Me.

“You might have told me,” I said on Monday, laying my Camels on the bar.

“What?”

“That we’re in the same business.” I raised two fingers and Lou brought two wines, one white, one red. “You’re a jenni. A cam girl.”

“Busted,” she said. She was wearing the Burberry over the straps. But the jeans were gone, and the tights too. “You’re a smart guy. I figured you would figure it out for yourself.”

I considered that while we sipped and smoked. The bare legs were intriguing.

“I suppose I should be flattered,” I said.

“I would be. Besides, we’re not exactly in the same business, you know.”

“We’re not?”

“Your clients are looking
through
you. My clients are looking
at
me.”

“So are mine,” I said. “Which makes you the principal attraction. The main event. The feature presentation.”

“Well said,” she said. “Got a problem with that?”

I didn’t have a problem with that.

“Me neither.” She picked up my cigarettes and left. I beeped the bill strip and followed.

She slipped out of the Burberry and hung it over the chair, carefully. I was looking over my shoulder.

“Looking for the cam? It’s built into the TV,” she said.

I saw it: a little green light, like an eye. There was a number underneath it: 04436.

“Those are your numbers? I’m impressed.” I said.

“But not surprised. It’s on all the time?”

“It’s green when it’s on and it’s on when I’m here. And I have to be here except between one and three, when I’m on break.”

“MicroCam pays the rent?”

“That would be slavery,” she said. She contrived to look insulted. “Or worse. I’m just paying off a debt.”

She pointed at the computer in the corner. Even I had heard of the XLinteL99. It purred silently like an expensive cat.

“All I have to do is be myself. And, of course, observe the Protocols.”

“And what are your Protocols?”

“Quite strict. The Internet’s not free anymore, you know. I’m on a soft-user open-public band. No nipples, no pubic hair; no nudity except when I’m alone.”

“Alone with your four thousand guys,” I reminded her, nodding toward the TV.

“And no visitors, except between three and five.”

“I suppose I should be flattered,” I said. And was.

“I suppose you should.” She sat down on the couch across from me. As she crossed her legs I caught a glimpse of white panties. Not the ghost but the real thing.

“Sorry to disappoint,” she said.

“Do I look disappointed?”

She pointed at my wrist. “Your numbers are down.”

I checked my Fauxlex. Fifty-five. Then fifty-four.

“That’s them, not me. They come and go. Maybe they don’t like your Protocols.”

“I thought you said they couldn’t hear us.”

“Maybe they can read lips,” I said. Hers were deep red.

“Hope you don’t get paid by the client.”

I did but I didn’t mind. She stretched out one leg and showed me her panties again. Narrow, silk, edged with lace. “It’s more intimate, this way,” I said. “Just us forty-two. And your four thousand.”

“Five.” She pointed at the TV: 05035. “You must be good for business.” She leaned forward to set down her wine, holding the top of her slip closed with long fingers, like a card player hiding her hand. It was only barely effective.

I felt a glow. I told her so.

“Even with your numbers down?”

“It must be my own.”

We talked of movies and restaurants. We shared many favorites. It was not surprising. We were colleagues, in a way, after all.

At precisely five she saw me out. “Protocols.”

I felt my clients departing, all thirty-four of them.

She was killing my business, but I didn’t care.

I hurried home.

Eula-Cam
.

I scrolled through her Free Stills. There she was, carefully taking a cigarette from my fingers without touching them. Even though cams have no sound, I could hear her voice in my head. Low, smoky, intimate—