back down the hall, popped on the penlight and dove into Denise Waterston’s most personal thoughts.
I thought the last entry would give me what I wanted, but it was just a bunch of sloppy drivel about her boyfriend. His name was Nick and, according to Denise, he had a penis roughly the size and shape of a fire hydrant. I flipped back through the date headings to a week earlier, when Rick had started to tail them. More blather about love.
I checked the very first entry, dated March 11, almost two months earlier. Nick was already very much in the picture. She was having problems with her dad, getting him to understand that she was a “90’s woman.” The end of that entry mentioned Daddy’s latest acquisition: an art import warehouse that explained the bizarre pieces in the study and hallway. It seemed that he’d originally bought it as a starting business for her (and, no doubt, a tax write-off for him), but he had suddenly changed his mind. It was in her name, but he wouldn’t let her hold the reins. From the acidic writing, I could only assume Denise wasn’t pleased at this development.
The problems of this poor little rich girl were beginning to bore me and my jaw was cramping up from holding the light when I caught the entry dated April 19.
It seemed Nick had gotten a new job. He was a cook in a galley onboard a boat called the Azure Mosaic . She actually called it a “boat.” Apparently he was getting paid very well—bought her a pearl necklace and the new Hyundai that now sat stolen in the parking lot of Big-O Tires.
The next two entries—she wrote every day—brought two interesting bits of news. The first was that she was doing a little art brokering behind her daddy’s back, and was selling some pieces to Cynthia’s interior decorator through the business she felt her father had stolen from her. Nick needed a job, and she mentioned it to the decorator, who got Nick the galley position.
The second thing bothered me a little. As far as I could tell, she was totally clueless as to what went on when Cynthia Ming threw the party. Either Nick didn’t know, or wasn’t filling her in—it wouldn’t be unusual for the Mistress of Ceremonies to keep her staff in the dark. But the staff of anyplace was usually the first to get wind of something. And eventually Denise started to catch on.
By the end of April, she’d been on the boat twice, and was well-received by all perverts on board. There was a very cheery attitude toward child-prostitution on the Azure Mosaic —men in tuxedoes, beautiful girls smiling everywhere—and Denise seemed to be worried about the competition. She didn’t want Nick’s fire hydrant to be uncapped by anybody but her. She knew what went on, and referred to the working girls as “the others” or simply “them.” She never referred to any one of them by name, so I assumed she never made it off of “A” Deck. The entry dated May 1 described how the interior decorator had “fucked up” Nick’s cabin.
All told, Denise knew what was going on, but only went on board for love. The kind that doesn’t have an hourly rate.
I had been bent over the diary for only ten minutes, but my neck was stiff with tension, and I stretched it as I pulled out a piece of tracing paper and unfolded it over the diary. Denise’s writing was loopy and juvenile and easy to copy. I went over a couple of critical paragraphs and folded the paper back into my pocket. Rick was going to love this. I stuffed the diary back between the mattresses, making sure to go up to my shoulder, and was struck with the smell of her again, clinging to the bed. She was no prostitute, not smelling like that. I smiled, glad my work was done, and stood up and turned around.
And cracked my nose on the barrel of Bob Waterston’s shotgun.
“Hello, son.”
I didn’t return the greeting. My right nostril was nicked and slowly dripped blood onto my lips. I licked a coppery drop into my mouth and let it mix with the
I thought the last entry would give me what I wanted, but it was just a bunch of sloppy drivel about her boyfriend. His name was Nick and, according to Denise, he had a penis roughly the size and shape of a fire hydrant. I flipped back through the date headings to a week earlier, when Rick had started to tail them. More blather about love.
I checked the very first entry, dated March 11, almost two months earlier. Nick was already very much in the picture. She was having problems with her dad, getting him to understand that she was a “90’s woman.” The end of that entry mentioned Daddy’s latest acquisition: an art import warehouse that explained the bizarre pieces in the study and hallway. It seemed that he’d originally bought it as a starting business for her (and, no doubt, a tax write-off for him), but he had suddenly changed his mind. It was in her name, but he wouldn’t let her hold the reins. From the acidic writing, I could only assume Denise wasn’t pleased at this development.
The problems of this poor little rich girl were beginning to bore me and my jaw was cramping up from holding the light when I caught the entry dated April 19.
It seemed Nick had gotten a new job. He was a cook in a galley onboard a boat called the Azure Mosaic . She actually called it a “boat.” Apparently he was getting paid very well—bought her a pearl necklace and the new Hyundai that now sat stolen in the parking lot of Big-O Tires.
The next two entries—she wrote every day—brought two interesting bits of news. The first was that she was doing a little art brokering behind her daddy’s back, and was selling some pieces to Cynthia’s interior decorator through the business she felt her father had stolen from her. Nick needed a job, and she mentioned it to the decorator, who got Nick the galley position.
The second thing bothered me a little. As far as I could tell, she was totally clueless as to what went on when Cynthia Ming threw the party. Either Nick didn’t know, or wasn’t filling her in—it wouldn’t be unusual for the Mistress of Ceremonies to keep her staff in the dark. But the staff of anyplace was usually the first to get wind of something. And eventually Denise started to catch on.
By the end of April, she’d been on the boat twice, and was well-received by all perverts on board. There was a very cheery attitude toward child-prostitution on the Azure Mosaic —men in tuxedoes, beautiful girls smiling everywhere—and Denise seemed to be worried about the competition. She didn’t want Nick’s fire hydrant to be uncapped by anybody but her. She knew what went on, and referred to the working girls as “the others” or simply “them.” She never referred to any one of them by name, so I assumed she never made it off of “A” Deck. The entry dated May 1 described how the interior decorator had “fucked up” Nick’s cabin.
All told, Denise knew what was going on, but only went on board for love. The kind that doesn’t have an hourly rate.
I had been bent over the diary for only ten minutes, but my neck was stiff with tension, and I stretched it as I pulled out a piece of tracing paper and unfolded it over the diary. Denise’s writing was loopy and juvenile and easy to copy. I went over a couple of critical paragraphs and folded the paper back into my pocket. Rick was going to love this. I stuffed the diary back between the mattresses, making sure to go up to my shoulder, and was struck with the smell of her again, clinging to the bed. She was no prostitute, not smelling like that. I smiled, glad my work was done, and stood up and turned around.
And cracked my nose on the barrel of Bob Waterston’s shotgun.
“Hello, son.”
I didn’t return the greeting. My right nostril was nicked and slowly dripped blood onto my lips. I licked a coppery drop into my mouth and let it mix with the
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