Chapter 7
"How wazzit, Rocco?" Tony asks, poking him in the ribs.
"How was what, Tone?"
"Oh yeah, right, like we both don't know who you spent the whole fuckin' night with las' night, right?"
"Oh, you mean what's-'er-face, uh ... "
"Conchita?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
"I know that's the one, Rock!
"I'm innarested, Rock, old buddy.
"We're not talkin' merely curious here, we are talkin' innarested, unnastan' what I'm sayin' here, Rock?"
"Like you wanna know."
"Now ya got it!"
"She was ... okay."
"Rock, Rock, Rock," Tony sighs, "I got, like, a real reason fer axin', pal.
"I mean, tell ya the troot', Conchita is my kinda gal.
"Only thing, I had a lotta things ta worry about, bid'ness an' all, kep' me occupied."
Rocco looks at him, catching the hesitation.
As Tony attempts, unsuccessfully, to conceal the truth from him.
Destiny.
That's the one Tony wants.
And now Rocco knows for sure that Tony's got nothing going there, at least not yet.
It's probably true, what Tony says, the part about Conchita.
Rocco can well believe that she is in fact exactly Tony's type.
Or was, before Destiny came along and blew Tony's mind-among others.
Just as he can believe that Tony was about to go after her, about to break his own long-standing rule about dating the dancers from his own club ("Don't shit where you eat," as Tony so elegantly expressed it).
Because he has seen the women Tony dates, all Hispanic, to a woman, all looking like they could be relatives, and not too distant relatives at that, of Conchita.
Ironically enough, it took Rocco's date with Conchita to get Tony back on his own chosen path, as far as taste in women is concerned.
Because it took Rocco's date with Conchita to instil in Tony the realization-the making real-in his own mind of Conchita as an actual, available sex object.
One might even say that Rocco's action inspired Tony.
But then, that's what archetypal images are all about, inspiration.
First Conchita, then Destiny.
Great game plan, Tony, Rocco thinks. Wherever did you get the idea?
However, the finishing order of this particular race pleases Rocco, so-
"Okay, Tone, here goes: She's a hot number and I wouldn't pass it up, if I was you."
"Thanks, Rock. My on'y concern was that she might not be as hot as she looks."
"And then some, Tone," Rocco rejoins.
"Really? Thanks f' the tip, Rock."
Rocco stands there, looking down at Tony, behind his desk, expecting something more.
But Tony goes back to whatever he was doing with those papers before he snagged Rocco passing by his door.
And Rocco walks away.
And smiles to himself, thinking how much the old Rocco would have resented Tony's piggish attitude.
Rocco had a hot date with Conchita.
From which it might be inferred that this was, could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
But Tony didn't care, didn't even consider the possibility that they might now be going steady, be in love, whatever.
Tony's the boss, what the boss wants, the boss gets and fuck everybody else.
Good way to be, in certain situations, Rocco supposes.
And right now, he could care less.
Tony wants Conchita? What the fuck, let 'im have 'er.
Enough to go around, actually, since Rocco has no special plans, no plans at all, in fact, for Conchita and himself.
So good luck, Tony, and I mean that sincerely.
Or as sincerely as a dead man can mean anything.
He passes Conchita in the narrow hallway.
She smiles and shrugs, half embarrassed, like people who keep running into each other constantly over a short period of time and thus run out of appropriate salutations.
Not that they had all that much to say to each other when he drove her back to her room about noon, on his way in to the club.
Conchita lives nearby, so she simply walks to and from work.
""Ey, Conchita!" Rocco hears Tony's voice say. And, looking back, sees her stop. "C'mere a minute an', uh, close the door. "I wanna talk t'you about some-" The door closes.
Rocco shrugs and walks through the curtain which covers the exit to the hallway, to one side of the little stage.
And there she is at the bar, sipping a club soda.
Destiny, in the flesh.
And the flesh is looking really good, close up.
She nods and smiles at him, then goes back to thinking her own private thoughts, staring at her own reflection in the mirror behind the bottles and cash register, forming the background of the array of decanters and glassware running the length of the bar.
She wears white clamdiggers and a black tube top, bountiful bazooms bulging from it, her decolletage long and deep, shoulders full and smoothly rounded, spinal cleavage at the back deep.
Her brunette hair is softly waved, of middle length, looking as though it is at about the third wash after a perm and set, that is, natural and perfect at the same time.
Her regular features add to the impression that she is modelling something.
Or perhaps appearing in a commercial for a product yet to be defined.
Only her size-slightly larger than life--prevents this from being a page layout for soda, pedalpushers, whatever.
Rocco seats himself beside her.
And they watch each other watching each other in the mirror.
"You uh, you gettin' all settled in, gettin' t'know yer way around okay?" Rocco asks.
"Oh yeah.
"I haven't been anywhere much, not yet.
"My car made it down okay from Jersey, so it's not a problem getting around."
"Gotcher Florida license and registration yet?"
"Registration yes, license no.
"I've got an appointment next week, though."
And Rocco thinks, the old Rocco would have wanted her bad.
The present Rocco simply wants her.
"So I guess the only excitement you seen around here so far is what choo generate, huh?"
She smiles into her glass at that one.
"That what I generate?"
"I think you know it is." She shrugs.
"Hard to tell, really, from the stage," she says.
"Not that hard, I don't imagine."
She reaches over the bar, grabbing the seltzer squirter on its flexible hose and refills her glass before replying, "Not generally, no."
And she looks directly at him for the first time.
"Not generally," he echoes, "but specifically, you're not so sure, huh?"
She shrugs.
"Some people find big girls ... intimidating." Rocco grins at this. "Well, I didn't mean you, certainly. "I mean, I doubt you even find big men intimidating."
"If I do, I'm definitely in the wrong line of work," Rocco says.
"No," she replies, "I think you're definitely in the right line of work."
"And uh, just what line of work d'you think that is?
"You're not just a bouncer," she says, a statement, not a question. "I mean, you're definitely a person who does more than just ... bounce."
He laughs and, after a slight delay, so does she.
"How'd you uh, how'd joo happen t'find this place?" Rocco asks.
"It found me. Ad.
"I graduated from high school and came down here.
"I needed a job and they needed dancers. "Or a dancer.
"Dancer-hostesses, they needed, yes."
"I'm under drinking age, so Tony said I could just dance.
"He said the others could make 'em spend once they were here, but that I could do okay if I could bring 'em in."
"And have you? Brought them in, that is?"
"Of c-I mean, yes."
Rocco smiles slightly, turning away from her, gazing once again at their reflections. There it was.
Of course, she almost said. As in of course he picks up women on the beach. "Why Destiny?"
"To, to ... protect myself."
"I thought that's part of what I was here for," Rocco says.
"Not that kind of protection," she responds. "Then what?"
"Oh, I guess you might say ... advances, propositions, like that.
"I mean, give yourself a stage name and all that happens is they start calling you by that name instead of your own.
"This way, nobody is about to call out to me or try to send me notes or whatever."
"You figure that out all by yourself?"
"Yeah, I kinda did, running it through my mind an' all.
"I mean, I know what I've got to offer, but I also know what I don't wanna offer.
"Not uh, not to the customers, anyway."
"No no, you wouldn't wanna do that."
She looks at him sharply, to see if he is being sarcastic.
But he seems sincere.
"Still," he says, "you can't just be here and in your, your-"
"Efficiency apartment," she supplies.
"-your apartment," he continues, "like a hamster on a treadmill.
"Sooner or later, you've got to have, uh, some kind of a life."
"I know."
"That's real good, that you know. "And?"
She turns away from him, looking down into her glass, and does not reply. So-
"You open to suggestions?"
"Why not?" she shrugs.
"Tonight. My place, when we get off."
""Kay, I guess."
"That's a good guess. See ya after."
And he moves off, to see-
"Phil from Philly!"
They shake hands, but Rocco frowns at the sight of the bag in Phil's hand.
"If that's what I think it is, Phil, what the fuck are you-"
"What the fuck is fuckin' Tony doin' in his office that's so fuckin' important I gotta wait for, Rocco?
"It ain't like I'm one of the fuckin' hired help, no offense.
"This shit's gotta be processed an'-"
"Phil, Phil, Phil! Calm down a second, okay.
"Man's in love, cut 'im some slack, okay?"
"Yeah, right.
"Try to fuckin' imagine how little I fuckin' care, okay?
"I got a fuckin' plane t'catch, arright?"
"Lemme uh check, see what's goin' on an' like that, Phil."
"You do dat."
Rocco goes back down the hall, wondering what Tony is doing in there so long with Conchita.
"Mmm. Mmm. Mmmhmm," he hears through the door.
Then, "Haahhh," like air being let out of a tire.
And, moments later, Conchita opens the door, brushing past Rocco without a word, not looking at him.
"What's uh, what's-"
"Yeah, yeah, c'mon in.
"Just hadda get a fuckin' blowjob ta tide me over 'til tanite, is all. Plus, nuthin' like gettin' things started off on the right foot, right?"
What a fucking pig you are, Tony! Rocco thinks.
But it is more realization than condemnation.
Aloud, "Phil from Philly's here."
"Yeah, I know. Geez, lousy timing, huh?"
"His or yours?"
"Just wunna them things, Rock. No big deal, arright? "Fuck is 'e, anyways?"
Peering over Rocco's shoulder, then leaning into the hallway, looking up and down.
"He's in the bar. I'll go get 'im."
"Come back here widdim. I want choo should make the bank this aft'noon yet."
Rocco brings Phil in.
"Sorry about the delay, Phil," Tony says, extending his hand.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, can we jus' dodis, or what?"
Rocco closes the office door and locks it.
Phil opens the briefcase, saying, as he clumps the bundles onto Tony's desk, "Fifty uckin' bundlesa fifties, twenny fifties the bundle, I make it a halfa mil.
"D'you see what I see?"
"Yeah, okay."
"Then signa fuckin' receipt an' I'll be on my fuckin' way."
Tony signs the slip, handing it back to Phil.
"The bracchiole that just come outta here, she one of your dancers, Tone?"
"Yeah, Phil, she is. What's it to ya?"
"Nuthin'. She din't look too happy, is all."
"What can I say?
"Ya pay 'em a decent wage, ya feed 'em," grinning and winking at Rocco at this last, "an' still they ain't satisfied."
"Unhappy people inna workplace, Tone, gotta watch 'em.
"Nex' thing y'know, they're sayin' all the wrong things ta all the wrong people, capish?"
"Like I need a fuckin' personnel relations lecture from you, Phil.
"You got a plane ta catch or sumthin'? Have a safe trip.
"Now, where the fuck did I put them fuckin' deposit slips?"
Tony fumbles in his desk drawers as Rocco and Phil shrug at each other and Phil leaves.
The gym.
An hour a day is all Rocco needs, he knows, but he has a hard time squeezing even that in, some-times.
But now, the workout over, worked in following his trip to six banks, he stands under the shower, wondering what will be the outcome of his invitation to Destiny.
Who, in the event, proved to be quite approachable.
She is, after all, merely a generously endowed high school graduate with little or no practical experience of the world.
She's more than that, he corrects himself.
But then again, maybe not.
It could be that, with singular na vet, she figured out a rudimentary idea.
Men would pay to see what she has to show.
Meaning a simple transfer of funds, in this case, from the club's bank account to hers.
But she is wrong.
Simple transfer is what Rocco does, what he did today.
The money comes, in this case, from gambling, probably.
But it could as well come from prostitution or dope.
When it reaches him, or rather Tony, it makes no difference.
Cash, income, comes from here and goes to there, where it can be used to transfer to other accounts in conjunction with purchases from outside interests with goods to sell, be they various controlled substances about to go out of control, or arms or actual armaments, major pieces designed to inflict major damage.
But to Tony, to Rocco, it's simply cash.
Not so, however the transfer from the club to Destiny.
That is value received for services rendered.
Meaning that she has no such detatchment, no such distance between herself and the revenue source.
She is the fucking revenue source. And she has had to show her goodies to hundreds of men.
And they have had to look at them. Had to.
Meaning been compelled by their libidos, given no choice in a situation which Destiny herself has created.
So that there is power involved here.
The power of whoever that is behind the invisible mask of Destiny.
And there is weakness here.
The easy way out, fast money requiring neither skill nor effort.
And this power of hers has compelled her as well.
Her strength has compelled her weakness, has chosen to exploit it.
So that she is both perpetrator and victim, manipulator and manipulated. How victim?
She never gave herself a chance, is how.
She took that great big, beautiful body of hers and put it to work avoiding work, avoiding learning how to work.
And-it worked.
Because she will never have to know what real work is, if she learns to take care of herself, if she doesn't become as lazy in small ways as she is in the big one.
As Rocco, when younger, could not abide the thought of working in his father's bakery, but was always careful to keep himself in shape by working out at the gym.
But these are subordinate, are minor matters.
For now, he must do only one thing.
Which is to get her into the sack.
The rest can wait.
Because the image does not concern itself uduly with the lives of othets, the futures of others, except insofar as such concern may impact what happens now.
"Wha' de fock deed joo do, Rocco, geev Tony a blow by blow?"
"No, Conchita, I didn't. But you told ev'ry fuckin' body that we were gonna do the deed last night, remember?"
And it is clear from his cool, distant tone that he really doesn't care what she thinks or if she remembers.
"Yeah, okay, all rl', I soospose."
"You uh, you goin' out with him tonight?"
"Stayin' een, mos' likely, bu' jes."
"Well, that's good."
She looks at him, curious, but his expression is inscrutable and he makes no further comment.
Because what did she think, anyway, that they could have some kind of a life together?
How can he have a life together with anyone, when he has no life, when there is nothing left of him but an image?
He is like a great, empty house.
Beautiful to behold, but there's nobody home.
As, he suspects, is the case with Destiny.
With Destiny, whom he will be with tonight.
With Destiny who, unlike Conchita, has said nothing to the others.
Because, he reminds himself, we ideal images don't believe in small talk.
Just as well that Tony is preoccupied with Conchita, too, he thinks.
Who would have suspected that the guy is such a fucking pig?
Or that he would have so little concern about appearances that he would do as he did, knowing that a courier was coming from up north.
A courier who will, no doubt, report all that he has seen and heard in his brief, if involuntarily extended, sojourn at the club.
He kept Phil from Philly waiting, and did not have the courtesy to offer to share.
Because Rocco is certain that Phil would have been more than happy to catch a later plane, if necessary, in order to avail himself of Tony's hospitality.
But then, that is not Tony's style.
C'Fuck these horny fuckin' jamokes. Fuck they think, anyway, we're runnin' a fuckin' whorehouse down here?")
Not that Rocco really cares.
Not about Tony, not about the club, not about up north.
Funny, he reflects, how being dead will do that to you, make you so indifferent to everything.
Except, of course, to the one thing for which he gave his life.
Because he wants Destiny now, wants her to the exclusion of all other nookie.
What he wants, he will get, of course; there was never a doubt in his mind concerning that, not for a moment, not since he realized the deal he had made with himself.
Almost childish it is, viewed in a somewhat melodramatic light.
He has traded himself his own soul for all the ass he can handle.
That's what it comes down to, after all.
And Destiny is so important to him because he sees in her a kindred spirit.
Because it isn't just the money, not even if that is what she is trying to tell herself right now.
Rather, it's the power, the sheer physical compulsion she exercises over men, which she foresaw and which came to pass-that is her turn-on.
So that the girl within her is in danger of being eclipsed by her fascination with her own power.
What a dangerous thing is our reflection! Rocco reflects. One minute, we are human beings, merely trying to gain some peace and comfort in this hard and heartless world.
And the next, we find ourselves harder, more heartless than the world itself.
Rocco used to feel sorry for others and for himself.
Now he has no pity, not even self-pity.
He has made his pact with darkness and now he will have to live with it, which, in his case, is merely an expression because he is already dead inside.
He is a hall of mirrors, each showing his own reflection, his image, his image and thereby, the manifestation of his power, gained at what he would once have thought of as a great price.
But no longer.
He has no regrets, is actually better off this way.
It is better to be strong than weak, to have some power than none at all.
And caring less is certainly an improvement over letting things get to him.
And he will be with Destiny tonight.
Which could very well make it all worth while, what he has given up, what he has gained.