Part I -- Evening -- Very Late
She knew it; everybody did. Certain things are certain after all, and like it or love it, Zuccotti Park in New York City had turned into the most identifiable spot on earth.
To Lissette, the place was scary, and as they approached, she sought protection on Troy's arm. She wondered, why risk it? He was everything the Occupiers hated—the perfect object of scorn for zealots whose mission in life is protesting—him.
"Troy, can't we go another way?" she asked. "It's creepy here."
It was late. She was tired, her tender feet, a reminder of trudging home in sodden shoes after servicing the peeing Brazilian. Exactly as Eileen had wanted, the long day clawed at her.
"It's the park or nothing, girly girl," Troy acerbically replied. Nervously, her thoughts reverted to the angry madam's stern ultimatum: 'Vixens will not tolerate more complaints, young lady. In ten minutes, I can find ten girls to take your place.'
Troy Garrity was the last of the hellish day's triple. So far, Lissette had seen two men, thinking back to the Brazilian and the artist; she knew she had not left anything undone; there was nothing to complain about, and neither had been an easy assignment for the exhausted call girl.
A hodgepodge of trees came into view, under which she saw the small but instantly recognizable tent city of the 'Occupy' people. NYPD officers, flushed with annoyed looks, hemmed in the little area. She hesitated. "I'm afraid, Troy. Can't we..."
"...no," he replied curtly. "Where we go is the client's choice, right?" She did not answer. Having won the round, he smiled. "I'll have you here in the tent city, or we can call this off. I'll order up a different girl tomorrow."
With his Rothman suit, his neatly cut hair, and his too-perfect manners, she had hoped for a nice, warm hotel room, maybe the Tribeca Grand. Her aching body needed a bed, room service, and a soothing whirlpool bath.
Something else troubled Lissette, however. Troy Garrity did not fit into this ragged place; he did not belong. Suspicious, she wondered why he was so insistent. She was sure of one thing; here, Troy stood out in the crowd, meaning she would. But he was right about the rule; Vixens allowed the customer to decide where a girl got fucked.
Casting him a casual glance, Lissette could not help thinking Troy was a poster-child for what haters hate about Wall Street, with its evil speculators and hard-hearted bankers.
They had met an hour ago, and instantly, she could taste his greed, his yearning for more. He was patronizing, objectifying. Squeezing her a little too tightly, he pressed his lips to her forehead but instead of the welcoming kiss for which women hunger, he breathed in her skin's fragrance, then pulled away.
Stepping back, Troy ran his eyes the full length of her, observing, "So they've sent me a girly-girl."
Playing coy, Lissette, though already knowing full well, countered and asked, "And, what, pray tell, is a girly girl?"
"You know," he said indifferently, "a girl who is too pretty, too delicate, too ladylike. Anyway, it's too late to request someone else. You'll have to do." His condescension bit her, and she wanted to slap his face.
'Girly girl,' she thought to herself, 'whores aren't girly-girls—fuck you.'
"But you ordered up a Vixen, Mr. Garrity," she observed, offering a fake smile. "What did you expect?"
A few quiet steps later, he scornfully answered. "Expect?" He turned, seized her narrow shoulders, and effortlessly lifted her off the sidewalk. "Maybe—maybe, a bitch with rougher edges."
Managing a pair of lazy eyes, and despite the caustic comment, she chanced a whisper. "If it's rough edges you want, maybe Vixens isn't for you."
Smiling wryly and setting her back on her heels, he chuckled. "For the moment, I'll yield the point."
He was not bad-looking, but his icy eyes burned holes in her. Standing straight and tall, his hair was dark, his strong arms handily manipulating her modest frame. But much as she liked liking her clients, Lissette did not like Troy. Self-importance turned her off.
She reminded herself that although detesting clients was typical, showing it was not. Putting on a happy face was the rule of all rules, and Eileen punished girls for violating it, leveling stiff fines, which Lissette could ill afford.
So straining to mind the very manners her exacting boss insisted she mind, Lissette forced herself to stroll under the streetlights with a mystery man she was not sure she could handle and about whom she felt an ill wind.
A moment later, the couple stood at the entry to Zuccotti Park.
Part II - Evening Performance
Lissette surreptitiously checked the time. It was nearly one, and Mr. Wall Street was interfering with her commitment to her babysitter to be home early, not to mention a desperate need for sleep. As promised, the escort had been a good girl, providing requisite services, following orders. Now, nearing the end, she was buoyant; she knew she would make it through the maddening triple.
'Provide the client with required services,' her madam had lectured. Was dodging a creepy snake required? How about playing condom-roulette for a crazed artist or serving as a human toilet for an eccentric Brazilian? Now Lissette found herself accompanying a cold-hearted mystery man into a beehive of professional haters!
Anxiously, she scanned their surroundings. "Welcome to the new center of the universe." Troy beamed more excitedly than she expected.
Like most New Yorkers, Lissette avoided the contentious place. Now, holding his hand tightly, she followed him into the midst of the place, and its atmosphere surprised her. Except for the not-so-distant shrieks of a woman in the throes of orgasm—or labor, the famous enclave was eerily silent, with only a handful of people milling about.
Troy took her past a campfire, around which sat several men and a very pregnant woman, students, Lissette supposed. Methodically sharing a small pipe, the obviously stoned woman stood and confrontationally demanded, "Vlad! Who the fuck is she?"
Lissette's mind froze. The girl's behavior was possessive; the woman knew Troy, calling him 'Vlad!' Tugging his arm, the guarded escort asked, "Who is she talking about? Who is Vlad?"
Without answering, Troy called back to the girl. "Just an old friend, Nikki."
In her head, alarms sounded. Troy Garrity was a fake. He had slipped past Vixens' vaunted vetting service. The girls called them pseudos, men who pretended to be one person when in fact, they were someone else. To escorts, pseudos were especially dangerous because they hid things. But what? What was this one hiding? Lissette's mind stiffened with fear.
One of the fireside men chided him. "She's the second old friend this week, Teichberg, and this one's a real looker, real eye candy!"
Laughter filled the smoky air, and turning his attention to the prego, the same man added, "Hey Nikki. Isn't she hot?" His sarcastic question drew dual menacing middle fingers from the annoyed woman, and he quieted. "You missed today's rally, Teichberg. We so fucked with the cops! You should have been here."
"Yeah, Spike, I know, I know," Troy acknowledged. "But you guys don't need me for that stuff. Just do what I told you. Video everything, upload it to the internet, and fuck Wall Street, right?" Agreeable laughter followed.
The frightened Lissette tugged again. "Vlad...whoever you are, how do you know these people?" she asked. Detecting her alarm, he hurried her along the pathway. Arriving at a domed tent, he unzipped the flap and, pointing, whispered, "Inside."
Lissette's instincts told her to run, but with Eileen's ultimatum still buzzing in her brain, the escort was too afraid. Inside, she found a narrow cot, some rumpled blankets, canned soups, and a plastic storage container overflowing with twisted jeans—not the attire he had on and not the kind she expected to see.
It was clear Troy Garrity was not Troy Garrity. He was Vladimir Teichberg, Occupy Wall Street's online streaming video chief. She remembered seeing his picture. The pot-smoking girl by the fire was his wife, Nikki!
