One Night in Detroit

Elizabeth Grayson pulled into a space on the second level of the Greektown parking garage. She felt lucky to find a spot so easily with the Red Wings playing at home on a Saturday night. She fished her phone from her purse and double checked Tina's text message.

8:00pm Rm 2523 John

She wondered if johns who called themselves "John" when they booked dates thought they were clever, or if they were just obtuse.

She put her phone back in her purse and got out of the car. The air was damp and it was getting colder. Her red halter dress didn't provide much warmth; the hemline was three inches above her knees, and stockings were too much hassle on a date. She never wore them, unless, of course, a client requested them. She did have her leather jacket on, though, and she zipped it up all the way.

Even though it was only one flight down to the street, she took the elevator. Four inch heels were a nuisance, particularly in the winter, but they were an occupational necessity.

Luckily, there has been very little snow lately, and when she emerged on to Monroe Street the sidewalks were clear.

She had about a half hour before "John" was expecting her, so she strolled up the street, through the throngs of dinner goers and hockey fans, to the Astoria Pastry Shop. The line was short and she had plenty of time to enjoy an espresso and a couple of almond macaroons.

She found a seat by the window, and as she ate her cookies, checked out her reflection in the glass. Her hair looked good, just the right amount of mussed. She thought her lipstick might need a little touching up, but she could do that once she got to the room.

At 7:50 she got up from the table, straightened her dress, and walked across the street to the casino.

A group that looked like conventioneers and their wives were walking in, and she slipped into their midst as she passed through the lobby. It was always best to keep a low profile, hotel security looked closely at well dressed single women.

As the conventioneers filed into the main room, she veered off and walked to the hotel elevators. One was open and she slipped in behind an elderly couple. Just as the doors were closing, a bellman stuck his arm through, held them open and pushed in a luggage cart.

"Excuse me, sorry, excuse me," he muttered. Elizabeth stepped back to give him room.

He looked at her, then let his eyes travel down her body. He gave her a nod, as if the two of them were sharing a secret.

You might think you know something, she thought, but you don't know that you know.

She only hoped that he would reach his floor before the old folks did, and she got her wish when the elevator stopped at the tenth floor.

The couple got off four floors later, and she was alone. There was a mirror above the control panel, and she checked her face. No, the lipstick was fine.

She got off at twenty five and walked down the hall in the direction of room 2523. She checked the time on her phone. It was 8:03. Perfect. She had a theory that you should always be just a few minutes late. Enough to make them eager, not enough to make them mad.

She found the room and softly knocked on the door. She heard muffled sounds from inside and the door opened.

The man standing before her was tall, slightly stoop shouldered. His hair looked uncombed and he had dark circles under his eyes.

He looked Elizabeth over, then nodded and said "Alright, good, come in."

Rather than hold the door for her, he turned and walked over to the far corner and sat down in the room's only easy chair.

Elizabeth closed the door and stepped into the room, sizing it up quickly. Typical hotel room; bathroom by the door, bed, side tables, dresser, table and chair. The curtains were drawn shut.

"Your money is right there on the dresser," the man said.

Elizabeth glanced over and noted that it looked right. She never counted money in front of the client, too many of them were annoyed by that.

She glanced over to the bed and felt a sick sensation in her stomach.

"Looks like you brought a few toys," she said, keeping her voice calm.

"Yeah, thought we'd, uh, have some fun," the man said in a low, gruff voice.

She took a step toward the bed and looked more closely. There was a set of leather cuffs, a wooden paddle and a riding crop, neatly laid out next to a small suitcase.

She didn't mind if a customer wanted to be dommed, but that was extra, and Tina had said nothing about it. She reached down and flipped open the suitcase. It held a jumbled collection of nipple clamps, clothespins and candles. There was a blindfold and a ball gag and a collar on a leash. Underneath all the other items there was a tangle of rope.

Elizabeth bent down, as if studying the contents of the suitcase, looked over at the man and winked.

She picked up one of the wrist cuffs and examined it more closely. It was small, it would not fit the client's arms. She pretended to study the other items for a moment, taking the time to steady her composure.

She put the cuff back on the bed, smiled at the client, then raised her left leg and slipped off her shoe. As she shifted to raise her other foot, she looked at him and feigned a worried expression.

"You, um, you look like the kind of man who has a really big dick,' she told him, tilting her head to one side and biting her lip.

He rubbed his hand over his crotch and said, "Yeah, it's big, I guess."

"Could I see it, just, you know, so I know what to expect?"

He shrugged, stood up and unbuckled his belt. Elizabeth watched as he slowly pulled it free of its loops, and doubled it in his fist.

Oh, that's perfect, Elizabeth thought.

With his other hand, he pushed his pants and threadbare jockey shorts down to his knees.

Elizabeth opened her eyes wide, looking at his very average penis. "Oh, my god, that is a huge dick. Let me go to the bathroom and then we can have some fun, okay?"

"May I please go to the bathroom, sir," he growled.

Elizabeth dropped her head and put on a pout. "Oh. Yes. May I please go to the bathroom, sir?"

"Be quick about it, bitch."

"Yes, sir."

She turned, pushed her purse strap high on her shoulder and began walking toward the bathroom, gripping her shoes tightly in her left hand. When she reached the bathroom, she started to turn, looked back to see the client pulling his shirt over his head, then opened the room door and ran out into the hall, slamming the door behind her.

She grabbed the hem of her dress with her free hand and pulled it up to her hips as she ran down the corridor toward the elevators. She figured that if he decided to come after her, by the time he could get his pants back up, she'd have a decent head start.

All four elevators were at other floors, so she pushed open the stairwell door and vaulted down, taking the steps two at a time.

She flew down one flight, then another, intending to stop there, but adrenaline was coursing through her and she kept going until she was out of breath.

Eliabeth staggered to the stairwell door. Seventeen. Jesus, she had run down eight flights.

She leaned on the door until she had regained her composure and her breathing returned to normal. After putting her shoes on, she opened the door a crack and looked out.

The corridor was empty.

Fumbling in her purse, she found her pepper spray, took it out and gripped it in her hand, her arm at her side. She stepped over to the bank of elevators and pushed the down button. It seemed like a long wait before she heard the telltale chime. She tensed and gripped the pepper spray tighter as the door open.

The elevator was empty.

She stepped inside and pressed Lobby. The elevator stopped at the twelfth floor and once again, she gripped the pepper spray, but when the door opened, the bellman she had seen earlier got on. He looked at her with a smirk.

"Quickie?" he asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Let's just say bad date."

"So, you have some free time?"

"No, but I've got some four hundred dollar time."

The bellman frowned and turned away. Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Did he think he was going to get a twenty dollar broom closet blowjob?

They took on more passengers at eight and five before reaching the lobby.

Elizabeth stepped from the elevator and looked around, then briskly crossed to the ladies room. She did a full turn, made sure that the client was not lurking anywhere, then went inside.

A young woman was at the sink, fixing her make up in the mirror. Elizabeth passed her and went into a booth. She sat on the toilet and took out her phone. When she heard the door open and shut, she dialed Tina.

"Hey, it's Lizzie," she said when Tina answered, "Did you screen this asshole? Jesus fucking christ."

"What happened? Are you okay?" Elizabeth was gratified to hear real concern in Tina's voice.

"Yeah, I'm fine, but I bailed. I go in the room and he's got all this S and M shit laid out."

"You could have told him you charged more to top him."

"No, honey, that was for my ass. It looked like shit from a fucking Cronenberg movie or something. Besides, he gave off a whole creepy vibe."

"I'm sorry, Lizzie, I will make sure he gets blacklisted. Did you get the money?"

"Fuck, no, I just turned and lammed it out of there. I don't think he came after me, but if I had snatched his cash, he would have, for sure."

"I understand. Are you safe? I can send Vic down there."

"I'm alright. But do you have anything else I could take?"

"Not at the moment, but if something comes in, I'll give you first shot."

"I hope so. There's some kind of convention in town, so something ought to come up. I've got bills to pay. I don't want to have to hang around the bar hoping to blow some of these Shriners."

"I'll call if anything comes in."

"Thanks, babe." She put the phone away, and left the bathroom. Just walk out, she thought, stay alert, but keep moving.

She crossed the lobby and walked outside. There were still plenty of people about. She felt safe with so many eyes and ears around, but was nervous about getting to her car in the parking garage. Half a block down the street she saw the neon winged horse that hung over the door of the Pegasus Taverna. She walked briskly across the street and entered the restaurant.

"How many in your party?" the hostess asked from behind her stand.

"Oh, just me and my husband. He's parking the car."

"Would you like to wait for him at the bar?"

"No thanks, I'll watch for him here, if that's alright."

The hostess shrugged indifferently.

Elizabeth stood near the door, as if she was looking out. She had waited only a few minutes when a couple passed by her on their way out of the restaurant. They stepped outside and Elizabeth was ready to follow them, but they crossed the street toward the casino.

There was a whooshing noise and she turned to see a waiter lighting a plate of saganaki at the nearest table. The flame leaped high in the air as the diners clapped and shouted "Opa!"

The flaming cheese smelled delicious. She considered staying and getting something to eat, but just then a pair of couples squeezed past her, out of the restaurant, and turned left, toward the garage.

She followed them out and kept pace, just a few feet behind them. They entered the garage and signaled for the elevator. The door opened a moment later and she stepped in with them. One of the men pushed the button for Level Four. She had hoped they would be on her level, but at least she didn't have to ride the elevator alone. She pressed Two. A few seconds later, the door opened.

There was no one in sight. She quickly found her car, got in and locked the doors.

Now that she was alone and felt safe, she began to tremble. She felt foolish, fearing she had over reacted. But her instincts had told her that "John" had been interested in much more than some harmless kinky sex.

After a few deep breaths she felt calmer. She started the car and drove out of the garage. She really needed a drink.

It had grown colder, but the ice rink at Campus Martius was still crowded with skaters. She turned up Woodward and drove through clouds of steam that plumed out of the sewer grates. A cop car pulled up next to her while she waited for the light at Grand River, but it paid her no mind and continued up Woodward when she turned at the next side street.

There was a parking space open just past her destination. She pulled in and looked around. The street looked deserted.

She got out of the car, took another glance up and down the block, then crossed the street toward a recessed wooden door, adorned with a painting of an arch backed Halloween cat and jagged red letters reading "Alley Cat Saloon". Next to the door, yellow light glowed from a steamy window, where another cat, this one of purple neon, flashed on and off at random intervals.

As she reached the door, she saw someone coming down the street. It was a short black man, carrying an arm full of flowers.

"Hello, Willie," she said as he approached.

Willie Roses, as he was called, was a Detroit icon. He made the rounds of the downtown bars every weekend, selling imperfect flowers that he had dumpster dived from the wholesalers at Eastern Market. He was renowned for his sales pitch, designed to convince single men entering the bar that the key to success with the ladies inside was to buy a flower to present to them.

"Miss Elizabeth," he smiled, "Now I know I will sell a few blooms tonight."

Elizabeth laughed. "Good luck, Willie."

She opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit saloon. It was a long, narrow room, with the bar along one wall and a scattering of high round tables and stools along the other.

Between the tables stood a CD jukebox stocked with rock, jazz, blues and a little bit of country. Miles Davis was playing "So What?"

At the back of the room, past the pool table, were two small bathrooms.

Elizabeth had first come here on a civilian date, after attending a Coldplay concert at Cobo Arena. She had hated Coldplay, was indifferent to the guy, but fell in love with the Alley Cat.

There was only a light crowd this early in the evening; the Cat was a late night place.

The regular crowd was anything but regular. It was at once a hangout for artists and musicians, and the preferred after hours watering hole for the neighborhood working people. On any given evening the person next to you at the bar might be a stripper, a sculptor, a parking lot attendant or the first trombone in the Detroit Symphony.

Elizabeth felt right at home.

The corpulent man on the corner stool was a familiar figure. Owen Garcia was a locally prominent poet. The corner seat was his usual perch; Elizabeth couldn't remember a night when she had come in and he had not been there. She took the seat next to him, and he doffed his porkpie hat to her.

"Why, darling Lizzie, we don't usually see you here so early in the evening."

She shrugged, "Had a date go sideways."

"Well, my dear," he commiserated, "allow me to buy you a drink. Glenfiddich, am I right?"

Butch, the bar's owner and usual tender, came over and greeted Elizabeth. He was gaunt and wiry. His gray ponytail reached the small of his back. In an earlier life, he had been a music promoter. On occasion, some of his former clients, aging jazz cats and Motown session men, would drop by for drinks.

Butch poured Elizabeth's scotch and a tequila for Owen. They clinked their glasses and drank.

"Well, I'm sorry that you are having a bad night, dear girl."

"Some nights are like that."

"Men are shits, honey, you and I both know that from experience."

There was a television behind the bar, on the top shelf, above the gleaming mirrored rows of bottles. Butch kept it tuned to one of the classic movie channels, but he never turned up the volume. Elizabeth leaned on her elbow and watched for a few minutes.

"Is that Elizabeth Taylor?" she asked Owen.

He squinted up at the screen.

"Oh, yes, your namesake." He watched for a minute, then laughed. "Oh this is precious. It's Butterfield Eight."

"What's the joke?" she asked him with a grin.

"Well," he said, leaning close to her and speaking in a stage whisper, "She's not exactly a hooker, but close enough, if you know what I mean."

She wasn't sure she did, but nodded.

"That's Laurence Harvey," he continued, pointing at the TV, "They have an affair, but, of course, in real life, he was a member of my tribe, if you catch my meaning."

"By which you don't mean Puerto Rican."

"By which I don't. Anyway, it's a message, my darling, a sign to you and I. We shall elope to San Juan, and spend our days on the beach, drinking rum punch and ogling cabana boys."

"I might take you up on that some day," Elizabeth said with a laugh.

A steady flow of customers began to fill the bar.

After finishing her scotch, Elizabeth switched to ginger ale. She wanted a clear head in case Tina called with a replacement date.

Some of Owen's friends had arrived and commanded his attention, but she was happy to just relax, sip her drink and make a little small talk with some of the other regulars as they came up to the bar to place their orders.

And there was always the jukebox. She loved that you never knew what you would hear next, Ella Fitzgerald or the Pixies, Buck Owens or Elvis Costello or Thelonius Monk.

Dean Martin was singing "Ain't That a Kick in the Head"when she felt a hand on her back. She looked over her shoulder. A tall, handsome man was standing there, grinning at her. He handed her a rose. Its long stem was bent at an angle.

'Hello, Ray," she said.

Raymond Hartley was a modestly successful painter. He had a number of large abstracts hanging in hotel lobbies and corporate boardrooms, but his real passion was for painting elegant female nudes.

"Liz, when are you going to pose for me?" he asked as she spun her stool to face him.

He made no effort to hide his interest as she crossed her legs and the hem of her dress rode halfway up her thighs.

"Where's what's her name... Carla? Marla? Don't you have a fiancee?"

Ray shrugged. "I've had several. But I didn't mention marrying you, just painting you."

"Oh," she said, sipping her ginger ale, "Just that."

Raymond was notorious for fucking his models. Elizabeth didn't care about that, she was in no position to make moral judgments about anyone else's sexual behavior. But he was renowned for being good at it, and she thought he was very attractive. There was a single shock of hair that fell across his forehead. She thought it endearing, and every time she saw him, she wanted to brush it back with her fingertips.

He signaled over Elizabeth's shoulder for Butch's attention. "What are you having?" he asked her. Butch came to their end of the bar and he ordered another ginger ale for Elizabeth and a Bell's Oberon Ale for himself.

Owen leaned over from his stool and wedged himself between Elizabeth and Ray. "Sweetheart," he asked her, "Is this ne'er do well troubling you?"

She took her drink from Butch and shook her head. "I can handle him."

Ray reached for his beer, snatched Owen's hat from his head and planted a big kiss on the crown of the poet's head. Elizabeth laughed and took a sip of ginger ale as Ray dropped the hat back in place at a cockeyed angle.

Owen mocked outrage and said "Well, if my chivalry is not appreciated here, I shall exercise it elsewhere." He stood, winked at Elizabeth and gestured for Ray to take his seat.

Elizabeth turned back to the bar as Ray sat down. She leaned close to him, her shoulder pressing against his.

"You know, he wrote a poem about me."

"Did he? I'll have to read it."

"Yes, he did, and I kept my panties on."

Ray laughed. "It's terrible having such a reputation."

"Ha! Look who you are talking to."

"I would love to paint you," he said, staring deeply into her eyes, "I'm serious about that."