which would explain everything. He was referring to Jay’s simple note explaining that he’d read about Ed Hooper in the New York Times, and wanted an honest appraisal of his first novel. He could be contacted at the Cedar State Penitentiary. The story, a harrowing account of a hitman’s revenge on the Mafia godfather who had destroyed his family, had captured Ed from page one. He would never forget the churning in his gut after the first chapter, or his mounting excitement when he’d thought the narrative couldn’t get any better, and it had. He’d put all his other work on hold, finishing the book in one sitting. The knowledge that in Jay Kaminsky, alias Will Hope, he’d discovered a great talent, and the fact that he had a hot property to sell, had kept him awake for several nights.
‘Come on, Jay, say something. I just called you another Hemingway! What more do you want?’
He was talking to Jay’s back, clothed this morning in new jacket and slacks, and a button-down cotton polo shirt that hung loosely on its wearer’s narrow frame. Jay felt uncomfortable in the designer clothes. Yesterday he’d allowed Ed to lead him into the strange and terrifying world of Madison Avenue. They had started in Ralph Lauren. To begin with, the sight of so much merchandise had been daunting; later Jay had felt like a kid again, let loose in a toy shop, unable to make up his mind what to have first. Oh, the joy of touching the huge array of suits and shirts – wool so fine it caressed the fingertips; crisp cotton, cool to the touch; the smell of polished wood, mingled with a spicy fragrance which Ed informed him was Polo aftershave. The young sales assistants, both male and female, dressed in de rigueur designer gear, impressed Jay even more than the customers who graced the sensual emporium. Heads held high; flawless skin; perfect teeth and supremely confident smiles. Short skirts; panty-hosed legs so shiny they looked gloss-painted, breasts and pecs straining against well-cut fabric. All selling sex, selling the Lauren lifestyle, the dream. Wear a Polo shirt, or a Ralph suit, and you’ll be considered upwardly mobile, recognized as tasteful, sexy, desirable. Jay had been reluctant to try on the clothes Ed picked out for him, and had agreed only after much encouragement from a very attractive girl called Jodie. He’d fumbled with zips and buttons, overcome with embarrassment when Jodie had pinned his trouser hem, and he’d felt his cock get hard.
Meanwhile Ed had been surveying the back of Jay’s head. His hair, cropped to an inch long all over, revealed the end of a narrow scar that ran from the side of his left earlobe to the back of his neck. When Ed asked how he’d got it, Jay had dismissed the question curtly, muttering something about a fall in the prison yard. Ed had seen knife wounds before and knew Jay was lying, but also knew better than to pursue the subject. No point in arguing with convicted killers. He didn’t want to take any chances, even though Jay had professed his innocence, and Ed believed him. There was something profoundly honest about Jay Kaminsky; he exuded a quiet sort of dignity that Ed had encountered only rarely in his life. Photographs of Jay at twenty-one, during his trial, had shown a fresh-faced type, ripe for handsome manhood. A regular sort of guy, the one every mom wanted for her daughter’s prom date and every pop wanted for a son-in-law. Jay had looked exactly how Ed Hooper himself had always longed to look if only his gene pool had been a little more discriminating.
Now, though, Jay was no longer handsome in the conventional way of his youth. Bitterness had eaten into the angular face dominated by high cheekbones, giving it a taut and slightly menacing edge that could have been described as mean but for his generous mouth and wide eyes. Those eyes had lost their sparkle, yet none of their warm amber glow. And prison regime had kept Jay in good shape; he was lean and supple with the body of a man half his age.
‘This is the best work you’ve ever done, Jay.’
Jay could hear Ed’s voice, but he wasn’t listening. Hemingway, for Christ’s sake! A few months before it had been Capote. He’d heard it all before; it was literary agent bullshit-speak. Tell the boy he’s great; make him feel good. Feed his ego; take a bigger slice of the pie. Sighing, Jay stared into an office across the street, the room clearly visible through one large sheet of plate glass. There was only one occupant, a woman in a red dress, blood red. It was short and had gold buttons running from the scooped neck to the knee. She was wearing black hose and black shoes as she moved slowly towards a computer screen, leaning forward so he couldn’t see her face. Jay willed her to look up, wanted her to be beautiful, and longed for her to smile in his direction. She had very long hair, it was black, shiny and scraped back from her face. Her head dropped slightly to one side, a long glossy tail of hair falling over one shoulder. As her fingers began to move rapidly across the keys, she chewed the end of a pencil. Computers, information age, techno babble, digital TV, communication satellites, fax: a whole new language, a confusing technological world beyond anything he could have imagined. Yes, sure he’d read everything he could lay his hands on in prison, but seeing it, being part of it, was awesome. Shit, I’ve missed so much, Jay thought as he continued to watch the woman, feeling himself get hard as he imagined undoing the buttons of that dress, exposing her breasts. He envisaged them as milk-white, and big, like melons, plump and soft, spilling out of his grasp as he pushed her face down on the desk – taking her there and then, with the screen displaying its information as he spread her smooth thighs, rounded and soft in his imagination. First he would probe into her fleshly warmth and moistness, and then the moment of exquisite bliss, when he thrust himself deep, then deeper inside. In that instant, as if on cue, the woman looked up; not at Jay, but towards a man who had entered the room.
‘Schnieder and Smith are going to –’ Ed paused. ‘Jay, could I have your attention for one minute? I’m trying to tell you something important here, we’re talking big money.’
Jay spun round. ‘Ed, I need to get laid; like soon, like right now …’
This sort of distraction Ed could understand. He puffed on his cigar a couple of times, coughed to clear his throat, then pointing the cigar in Jay’s direction he fixed him with a new-moon grin. ‘I know just the gal for you.’
‘How long has it been, honey?’
Jay couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth. ‘A long time,’ he muttered. ‘A very long time.’
It had been over twenty-six years since he’d made love to a woman. How could he tell this to a stranger when he had no voice for such an admission, no words to describe his loss. Yes he’d had sex, if you could call it that. However hard he tried, he’d been unable to erase from his memory the face of the man who’d raped him on his second week in prison. He knew with absolute certainty he would carry that face with him to his grave. ‘Taurus’ was the prisoner’s nickname, the bull. Jay never found out his real name; he never spoke to him at all except to beg him to stop. But the more Jay had screamed, the more Taurus had enjoyed it. And it wasn’t until Luther Ross gave him something to relax his anal muscles that the excruciating pain ceased. Luther had even cleaned him up, gently stuffing him with cotton wool to staunch the flow of blood.
After four months Taurus was transferred to another prison, and Jay healed on the outside anyway. Even now the thought sickened him, not of the act itself – that was disgusting enough – but of how he’d got used to it, become immune.
Jay raised his eyes to the ceiling, then back to Cheri who was staring at him in an odd way.
There was something in his expression she’d seen in her own face many times. This guy’s had a tough time, but it hasn’t hardened him, not totally, and he certainly doesn’t sound or act like a criminal. She felt a sudden and unexpected empathy for the man lying between her thighs. The emotion surprised her; it was a long time since she’d felt anything but distaste, at best, for a client. No time for sympathy, she reminded herself. You turned tricks, got paid, got out; no mileage in feeling sorry.
Yet even as she listened to the reasoning in her own head, she found herself saying, ‘Listen, honey, Ed’s told me where you’ve been since nineteen seventy-three. He says you’re a good boy and to
