Shella by Andrew Vachss Read Free Book Online Page B

tricks. I looked through the door. A fat woman was on the bed, face down, her wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts, a pillowcase over her head. Shella was whipping her. The back of the fat woman’s thighs were red against her pale-white skin.
    Shella showed me the money later. A lot of money. Why was Shella whipping that woman staying in my mind? I never remember anything for nothing. I let it run, waiting.
    I got it. When Shella worked that convention, we had another room. In a motel out on the highway. Took a cabto the convention hotel when we checked in. Like we were coming from the airport. When we checked out of the hotel, we took a cab to the airport. Then we caught another one back to the motel, where we had our car.

    When Misty got back, I told her I knew how to do it. Told her we’d go next Friday night. She ran over, gave me a big kiss like I’d done something great.

    The phone rang in the hotel room. It never rings. Nobody has the number. I pointed at Misty—she picked it up.
    “Oh! I’ll be right down. No, wait a minute. Can you send someone up with them? Okay. Thanks.” She bustled around the room, pulling on a pair of slacks.
    “What?”
    “You’ll see, baby.”
    A knock at the door. Friendly knock. Misty opened it. A bellboy in a uniform, whole mess of packages on one of those carts they use in hotels to move luggage. The bellboy put the stuff where Misty pointed, on the bed. He never looked at me. Misty gave him some bills. He sort of bowed, saying thanks. It must of been too much money.
    When he closed the door, Misty locked it, put on the chain. Danced around, flinging off her clothes.
    She opened one of the packages, opened another. Took out a little red piece of leather, held it up.
    “Isn’t it beautiful?”
    “What is it?”
    “A
dress,
baby. Wait … see, it goes with these shoes, and I have stockings for it, and …”
    “How come …?”
    She was looking at the dress—I could see it was a dress, now that she told me—holding it up. “I’ll have to use powder to get this on, but wait’ll you see …”
    She ran off into the bathroom. Closed the door. She doesn’t usually do that, close the door. I heard the shower. Turned on the TV.
    When she came out, she was in the red dress. It was so tight, she had to take little steps. The top of the dress pushed her breasts together so hard they were popping out over the red leather. Big zipper right down the front. The skirt was way up on her thighs. She had black stockings, red spike heels the same color as the dress. Her arms and her neck were bare, hair pulled up on top of her head, long earrings, little red balls at the end, dangling.
    “What do you think?”
    “It’s beautiful,” I told her. Shella had pranced around like that once, asked me how she looked. I told her “Good” and she threw an ashtray at me. So I knew not to say that again.
    “See how it shows me off, honey? With these heels, and the dark stockings …? Like I have long legs, yes?”
    “Yes.”
    “I don’t know how I’m gonna sit down in this. And I can’t wear pants under it either. But it’s worth it. I mean, I want you to be proud of me when we go out.”
    “I am proud of you. You look great, Misty.”
    “For real?”
    “I swear.”
    “Wait’ll you see the best part!” she said, rooting around in the other packages.
    I watched her bending over the bed. The skirt rode up, white flesh above the thick black bands at the top of her stockings. I could see her sex.
    “Look!” she said, holding up some black clothing.
    “What is it?”
    “It’s a
suit,
honey. For you. You don’t have clothes for a nightclub.”
    I let her fuss with the stuff. She was right—I never thought of it. A black suit. Smooth, shiny. A white shirt, like they wear with tuxedos, all ruffles in front. The shirt had little black buttons, black cufflinks. She even had black boots. Alligator, they looked like.
    “Everything fits,” I said. Surprised.
    “I measured you,