Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 2, May 2013 by et al. Mike Resnick Page B
Authors: et al. Mike Resnick
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Normal—had done that to me? I felt my face redden all over again, then muttered a goodbye and ducked back out into the hallway.
***
The thumb drive turned out to contain all of Elvira’s business calendar—every appointment going back to when she’d gotten out of the hospital, post-Specialization. The header on the calendar simply read FLAMINGO. Having met the Madam a few times I got the sense that she didn’t bring on anyone new unless it was done on the Madam’s terms, so Elvira was just filling the role assigned to her.
And while names were present, salient data beyond that was tough to come by. All financial transaction information had been stripped, as well as whether or not clients had been locals, celebrities, or even the rare tourist. If the schedule had ever contained details on what precisely Elvira had provided, in terms of customer care and needs—beyond what I already knew to be the case—that too was missing.
And Josefina had been right. Elvira was blacked out the day of her death. In fact, she was blacked out most of that week.
I mulled this over at my desk, back at the Aerie. If the Madam discovered I had this information—we guards were never ever allowed access to the scheduling software, for confidentiality purposes—it would cost me a lot more than my job. I quickly dumped the calendar to text, then erased the calendar, keeping only names and time blocks in ASCII format on the same thumb drive Josefina had given me. She was off for the rest of the week, a considerable concession from the Madam, given the circumstances, so I went about my usual work, only occasionally poking my head into the women’s private rooms to ask a discrete question or two.
So far as anyone knew, Elvira had had no quarrels with the other Specials. In fact, the lot of them seemed heartbroken over the girl’s death, and mournful in the extreme for her older sister. A community pot was being passed—I dropped in my share—and they were planning to have a silent moment in Elvira’s memory when Josefina came back to work. Otherwise, business at the Aerie continued as usual. Clients came and went, their communications hushed and monosyllabic at the palatial registration desk—often from behind hoods or sunglasses or anything else that might obscure their faces from prying eyes, the Special fetish still being a somewhat controversial fetish, even in a city which had long ago abandoned any pretense of sexual propriety.
As I watched the clientele come and go from behind my own set of sunglasses, I realized that I didn’t have much of a clue about what went on when the clients and the Specials met behind the closed doors of the suites. Oh, sure, I had plenty of educated assumptions. The Aerie had two-thirds female Specials and one-third male Specials, and if ever they “talked shop” it was done strictly between them, away from the ears of a Normal like me.
In many ways, I and the three other guards were like wallpaper or store window mannequins: unless our presence was called for—which was seldom—we kept our distance. The Specials did the same, and the clients ghosted to and fro with as low a profile as possible.
I examined the names I’d gotten from Josefina. I didn’t know any of them, though I couldn’t be sure any of them were actual names either. Fake names were as likely as anything, which was probably why the cops hadn’t wanted the list in the first place. What good was a list of bogus identities?
Josefina came back to work. We never acknowledged that I’d been to her home.
I kept looking at the list of names throughout the next week, until I noticed one name that was down for numerous appointments in predictable succession, then abruptly stopped showing up.
I texted Josefina about this, and asked her if she knew the name. Or if Elvira had ever talked about this particular person. I got a text re-inviting me to Josefina’s apartment, this time in the dinner hour.
***
“What her real name
***
The thumb drive turned out to contain all of Elvira’s business calendar—every appointment going back to when she’d gotten out of the hospital, post-Specialization. The header on the calendar simply read FLAMINGO. Having met the Madam a few times I got the sense that she didn’t bring on anyone new unless it was done on the Madam’s terms, so Elvira was just filling the role assigned to her.
And while names were present, salient data beyond that was tough to come by. All financial transaction information had been stripped, as well as whether or not clients had been locals, celebrities, or even the rare tourist. If the schedule had ever contained details on what precisely Elvira had provided, in terms of customer care and needs—beyond what I already knew to be the case—that too was missing.
And Josefina had been right. Elvira was blacked out the day of her death. In fact, she was blacked out most of that week.
I mulled this over at my desk, back at the Aerie. If the Madam discovered I had this information—we guards were never ever allowed access to the scheduling software, for confidentiality purposes—it would cost me a lot more than my job. I quickly dumped the calendar to text, then erased the calendar, keeping only names and time blocks in ASCII format on the same thumb drive Josefina had given me. She was off for the rest of the week, a considerable concession from the Madam, given the circumstances, so I went about my usual work, only occasionally poking my head into the women’s private rooms to ask a discrete question or two.
So far as anyone knew, Elvira had had no quarrels with the other Specials. In fact, the lot of them seemed heartbroken over the girl’s death, and mournful in the extreme for her older sister. A community pot was being passed—I dropped in my share—and they were planning to have a silent moment in Elvira’s memory when Josefina came back to work. Otherwise, business at the Aerie continued as usual. Clients came and went, their communications hushed and monosyllabic at the palatial registration desk—often from behind hoods or sunglasses or anything else that might obscure their faces from prying eyes, the Special fetish still being a somewhat controversial fetish, even in a city which had long ago abandoned any pretense of sexual propriety.
As I watched the clientele come and go from behind my own set of sunglasses, I realized that I didn’t have much of a clue about what went on when the clients and the Specials met behind the closed doors of the suites. Oh, sure, I had plenty of educated assumptions. The Aerie had two-thirds female Specials and one-third male Specials, and if ever they “talked shop” it was done strictly between them, away from the ears of a Normal like me.
In many ways, I and the three other guards were like wallpaper or store window mannequins: unless our presence was called for—which was seldom—we kept our distance. The Specials did the same, and the clients ghosted to and fro with as low a profile as possible.
I examined the names I’d gotten from Josefina. I didn’t know any of them, though I couldn’t be sure any of them were actual names either. Fake names were as likely as anything, which was probably why the cops hadn’t wanted the list in the first place. What good was a list of bogus identities?
Josefina came back to work. We never acknowledged that I’d been to her home.
I kept looking at the list of names throughout the next week, until I noticed one name that was down for numerous appointments in predictable succession, then abruptly stopped showing up.
I texted Josefina about this, and asked her if she knew the name. Or if Elvira had ever talked about this particular person. I got a text re-inviting me to Josefina’s apartment, this time in the dinner hour.
***
“What her real name
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