EVA: BLOODY INDIANS

Tags: bloody Indians, Neil The Squeel, Galaxy, Avenue of the Creep, Eva, callgirl, sex worker, hooker, Culver City, factotum, gypsy cab, jarvis, marquisdejolie, Hollywood, Hollywoodland

Bloody Indians And Neil The Squeel

“Bloody Indian. Pakistani,” Eva reported to me when I picked her up after the call, "They want the ‘ole bloody world for 5 rupies. They should go back to their country, they should. Don’t need to be livin’ ‘ere on the cheap. Whatdya expect from the bloody ‘oliday Inn, eh?”

Eva went on and on about how the bloody Indians were the worst and about how they killed their female children at birth because females were considered a liability in India, drinking two airline bottles of gin she fished out of her purse on the way to our next call: Neil on Galaxy.

Suddenly it dawned on me what Jennifer had considered telling me: Eva is a serious drinker, a pub girl, maybe even an alcoholic.

She stumbled out of my car at Neil’s condo complex, still railing against Indian men. Not only were they cheap and misogynist, they had tiny little dicks, she said. I wanted to warn her about Neil, about how Chloie had come running out like her butt was on fire, but Eva wasn’t parsing out any conversation time to me. She was cursing Indians all the way up the sidewalk to Neil’s buzzer.

Fifteen minutes after Eva had gone into Neil’s building, she came running out screaming at me to start the car.

“That’s a right sick wanker in there,” she told me as I wheeled the big Buick onto Avenue of the Stars.

“What happened?” I asked.

“First ‘e shows me all these pictures he’s taken of some ‘o the other girls. James, ‘e’s got ‘undreds o’ ‘em, scrapbooks full of poloroids and ‘ome pics o’ girls doing girls and sick . . .”

“Books? Jeeze, so he wanted to take your . . .”

“Bloody ‘ell. ‘e ‘ad toys and things ‘e wanted me ta strap on. Sick shit. I told ‘em to wank off so ‘e rings Jennifer and says ‘This girl says she doesn't give ‘ead’.”

“James, ‘e was all cokebuggered-up and ‘e throws $20 at me to let ‘im cum on me mouth. Not in it, mind you, like a normal bloke, but on it, so’s he can rub it on me face an’ call me a ‘ore.”

“Bugger that’ I says and I run out ‘ere without gettin’ the (cancellation) fee. I’m sorry, James, but I couldn’t stomach that bullox a second longer . . .”

“Salright,” I said. “What’s this guy look like?” I was curious what a poloroid-taking mouth coming, name calling, toy strapping pervert looked like, in case I ran into one at the bank or in my landlord’s leasing office.

“Average dark-haired bloke, dressed like some sort of queer Chinese warlord. ‘ope I never see his queer bloody arse again.”

Nope, didn’t sound like my bank clerk or my apartment manager, I thought. My apartment manager doesn’t dress that well.