CHLOIE: SHOWDOWN

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Showdown At The Western Union Kiosk

Jennifer had also said to collect an extra $40 from Chloie for the Western Union charges and keep whatever was left over for my efforts. That’s where the trouble began.

I would find out later that hookers expect to be paid up front for merchandise sight unseen, for favors largely unspecified. They expect to be paid in a timely and ungrudging manner. But when it comes time to collect from them, all hell breaks loose. They never pay without a scrap, an excuse or some psychosexual emotional blackmail bullshit.

“Jennifer told me to collect $340 from you,” I said as we sped up Wilshire toward the Savon.

“No.”

“No? What no? It’s not for me. Jennifer wants it. Something about not getting it last week. You know what she’s talking about?”

“Zis is impossible, Shames,” Chloie scolded. “ I do not owing zat woman zee $340! I do not pay you!”

I yanked the steering wheel hard to the left, screeching an illegal U-turn on Wilshire. Chloie was thrown against the passenger door. I hit the brakes hard in front of the Shereton Mirimar parking lot payphone.

“See for yourself.” I pointed at the payphone. Chloie looked straight ahead into the crack in the windshield, arms folded in defiance, waiting.

I turned on the radio. A taxicab passed, followed closely by a Santa Monica police patrol. A Shereton Mirimar employee was standing at the entrance, enjoying a smoke break. Chloie remained motionless.

“So make zee call,” Chloie finally said in agitation. Suddenly I understood. She hadn’t been waiting to make up her mind to call or not. She hadn’t been waiting for me to give up and confess I was lying about the money. She had been waiting for me to spend my quarter on the call.

“You go ahead,” I said softly, “I’ve already talked to her.” Chloie glowered at me, livid with anger over the quarter. Suddenly her facial expression changed.

“Do you having zee quarter for zee phone?” she asked girlishly, holding her hand out, blinking her big store bought blue surprised eyes at me.

“I’m sorry,” I lied softly, “I spent my last dollar on that Holiday Inn security guard. . .”

“Nevermind,” she interrupted angrily, “I wheel do it myself.” Chloie stormed out of my car, slamming the door behind her as if I had just insulted her mother.

After a few moments of heated phone conversation, Chloie got back in the car and pulled a wad of cash big enough to choke a horse out of her purse. I slammed the car back into gear and headed for the Savon, mistakenly thinking our little money problem was solved.

“I do not owing zat woman zis money, Shames,” she whined, “but she will not let us work until you send it. She is a thief. Zere!” Chloie handed me a wad of bills like I was the thief. I assumed it was $340.

When I got to the Western Union kiosk, I found that Chloie had given me only $300 before she disappeared somewhere. I found her over in the cosmetics section shoplifting.

“You only gave me $300,” I told her.

“Yes,” she said matter of factly, “Zat is what Jennifer said I owing.”

“It costs about $30 to send it, though.”

“Zee sending money is not mine, Shames,” Chloie scolded, “‘urry zee sending so we can make some more of zee money tonight,” she ordered. “You want to making zee more money, don’t you?”

I felt a vein pop in my left eye. Suddenly I felt empathy for every lowlife, womanizing misogynist street pimp in L.A. I wanted to shake this hooker by the neck until all the stolen makeup fell clattering to the floor. It was time for a faceoff.

“No problem. I’ll send $260 and YOU explain to Jennifer why it’s short,” I said. Chloie grabbed my arm as I was turning and slapped a twenty in my palm.

“I will loan you twenty more,” she groused, “and deducting it from zee driving money, but you must send $300. . .”

I threw the whole $320 at Chloie’s feet and said, “You do it. I’m just a driver. I don’t know nothin’ about high finance.”

Chloie scooped up the 16 twenty dollar bills off the floor like they were diamonds, added another twenty and handed me the wad. I counted it. $340. I counted it again to emphasize my total lack of trust. Still $340. I had her now. It had been a battle of the wills and she had blinked last.

“Where’s my $40?”

“Shames . . .”

“Look, you give me the security guard tip and the cancellation fee right now or take a cab home. It’s up to you.”

“Shames . . .”

I turned and walked towards the Western Union kiosk, then walked right past it out the door with the money still rolled up in my fist.

It felt so good to take charge for a change. It was a strange new feeling. I had been raised in the south to put women up on pedestals. This new feeling felt like . . .empowerment. Chloie came running up behind me.

“What about my money?” she yelled.

“What about mine?” I growled at her, feeling like some sort of eyepatched, swashbuckling pirate. I repressed the urge to add, “Arrr, arrr arrr, ya scurvy wench.”

Chloie gave me a cold stare as she fished another $40 out of her stuffed purse. There was at least $400 worth of twenties crumpled up in that purse. Ten minutes later, I called Jennifer with the verification number.

“What take you so long?” the Dragon Lady demanded.

“Chloie couldn’t get her purse open,” I said, “I had to pry it loose.”

Jennifer seemed to understand.