Skin Trade by Reggie Nadelson Read Free Book Online Page A

Clubs. Restaurants. Vuitton. Most of the rich Russians are in Biarritz or the South of France.”
    â€œHow come?”
    â€œWhat do I know? Maybe they don’t like the cold. Maybe they don’t like the Parisians.”
    â€œWho’s running the show?”
    â€œYou think I know? If I knew who ran it, I’d dosomething. I wouldn’t sit here, would I? I’d do something.” She was furious. “No one knows. No one talks. The girls are my job. Sometimes I get a look at the smalltime pimps. They come in to pick up their girls. That’s it. Nobody gives a shit so long as they stay out of the center of town, you know? They just shuffle them around. Get them out of the way of the tourists.”
    â€œThe tourists don’t go for hookers?”
    â€œDepends which tourists. Sex shows in Pigalle, maybe. The more expensive tarts around the rue de Rivoli. There’s this myth about Paris, the fancy brothels, what was it, Mme Claude’s? We ain’t talking Catherine Deneuve in Belle de Jour here, it’s just girls getting raped for money in some crappy underpass at the edge of the city. What the fuck, it’s a living, hon, and I’m a jaded old feminist cunt.” She looked at her watch. “I have to get going.”
    â€œYou work at the shelter all the time?”
    â€œI teach English during the day.”
    â€œYou like it here?”
    â€œSure,” she said. “Paris is great.”
    â€œHow come?”
    â€œYou trying to soften me up, honey?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œParis is great because we’re all expats here. All us foreigners. Unless you’re French, you’re never at home. I like it. I like the feeling of skimming the surface.” She paused, then said, “I have to go.”
    â€œYou work at your shelter every night?”
    â€œMost nights.”
    â€œShow me.”
    Martha pulled her bag off the floor and got up. I followed her out of the restaurant and we stood on the sidewalk.
    â€œWhy?” she asked.
    â€œLily wanted to see your shelter. You said that.”
    â€œI said I’d take her right then, that night, Tuesday, but she said no, she had a date to meet someone at the Ritz bar, she’d come the next day. She never showed. I’ll call you, OK, hon? I’m really late.”
    Martha held out her hand, shook mine quickly, walked to the curb, plucked a parking ticket from under the wiper of a beat-up yellow Renault, tossed it in the gutter and climbed in. I ran. I banged on the hood of the car, but she only looked up, waved, and turned the ignition.
    I yelled, “Who was she meeting at the Ritz?”
    Through the window of her car I could see Martha’s mouth make the words, “I’ll call you later.”
    I tried running, but Martha Burnham pulled into traffic and lost me.
    At the bar of the Ritz I drank a Coke and talked to the manager. Who did Lily meet at the Ritz for a drink after she left Martha Burnham? I didn’t believe it was the thug who attacked her, you didn’t meet guys like that for drinks at the Ritz Hotel. It was someone else, someone who set her up, maybe, who got her to go to the empty apartment.
    The manager was friendly enough, and he introduced me to the bartender who was on duty Tuesday night. I showed him the good picture of Lily. He remembered her.
    â€œWho was she with?”
    â€œI don’t really look at the men.” He laughed.
    â€œBut you remember her?”
    â€œYes. I remember the hair. I love redheads.”
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œIt was fantastic. Very red, very beautiful.”
    â€œLong?”
    â€œYes. To her shoulders. It was long.”
    I stared at the picture Gourad gave me. In the picture it was definitely short. When she left London it was down to her shoulders. At the train station she’d pulled it off her neck like she always does when she’s edgy. At the Ritz it was still long. Martha Burnham had