At some point she discovered long-hidden organizational skills and began mustering a small army of hookers: girls with great bodies and fresh faces and the ability to operate a credit-card machine. None was older than twenty-five, some had been Peabody School acquaintances, others she spotted on Sunset or the Colony. Many had never sold sex before. All were terrific at faking innocence.
The nerve center of the operation was Gretchen’s free digs behind the parental swimming pool. She called her employees “agents” and put them to work in the lounges and bars of hotels with “Beverly” in their names. Clients paid for the room and the flesh, the girls divvied up for clothing and cosmetics and birth control, and Gretchen financedquarterly medical checkups. Other than doctor bills, phone and credit company charges, her overhead was nil. By the time she was twenty-five, Gretchen was pulling in seven figures a year and lopping off a zero when she filed with the IRS.
What tripped her up was never made clear. The rumor mill spat out the names of famous clients: movie stars, assorted film industry lampreys, politicians, developers. Supposedly Gretchen had run afoul of the LAPD. But no John list ever materialized, and Gretchen sat mute during her indictment.
Her trial was slated to be the Next Big Media Event. Then Gretchen’s lawyer pled her to a single evasion charge and a money-laundering misdemeanor, and bargained her sentence to thirty-two months in federal lockup, plus restitution and penalties. Gretchen served solid but truncated time: no interviews, no wheedling, seven months lopped off for good behavior.
Now she was selling used clothes in a high-rent closet that reeked of weed and hiring ex-employees to stroke the customers.
It suggested an inability to learn from experience, but maybe Gretchen had learned something other than crime doesn’t pay.
Blaming her parents was easy but, like most pat solutions, that was just an excuse not to puzzle. Gretchen’s older brother had achieved honors as a flight surgeon for the Navy, and a younger sister ran a music school in Harlem. Following Gretchen’s arrest someone had suggested middle-child syndrome. They might as well have indicted the lunar cycle. Mil-drew and Andrea Stengel were high-powered lawyers but by all accounts attentive parents. The week after Gretchen’s conviction they resigned their partnerships and moved to Galisteo, New Mexico, purportedly to live “the simple life.”
Milo and I walked up to the table. Gretchen had to have seen us, but she ignored us and tweaked the tail of the crayfish. Edging the creature toward her mouth, she changed her mind, drew back her arm, flicked the crustacean’s tail as if daring it to resuscitate. Then back to her lips. Licking but not biting. Some weight-loss behavior-mod trick? Play with your calories but never ingest them?
Nearby diners had begun to stare. Gretchen didn’t react. Her companion lacked Gretchen’s composure and started fidgeting with her salad. Scallops on something saw-toothed and weedlike. She was young like Gretchen, with cropped hair, felonious cheekbones, and slanted eyes, wore a sleeveless yellow sundress, pink coral necklace and earrings, long, curving nails painted a lighter shade of coral. All that color achingly dramatic against flawless black skin.
Gretchen’s cuticles were a wreck. She had on a shapeless black sweatshirt and black leggings. Her hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a week. The black lenses did their trick, putting her somewhere else.
Milo moved so he could smile down at the black woman. “Nice dress. Does it have a past?”
Painful smile in response.
“Have a bug,” said Gretchen, waving the crayfish. “That’s what they are. Bugs.” Her voice was nasal and scratchy. The black woman grimaced.
Milo said, “Thanks for the biology lesson, Ms. Stengel.”
Gretchen said, “Actually, they’re more like spiders.” To the black woman: “Think spiders taste any good?” Her lips barely moved when she spoke. The black woman put her fork down and picked up her napkin.
“What about flies and caterpillars?” said Gretchen. “Or slugs.”
Milo said, “Lauren Teague.”
The black woman wiped her mouth. Gretchen Stengel didn’t budge.
Milo said, “Lauren—”
“It’s a name,” said Gretchen.
The black woman said, “If you’ll excuse me, please,” and started to rise.