“You and she must’ve met some real sweethearts,” said Milo. “Back when you were working.”
“You forget ’em,” said Michelle. “Faces and dicks—one big picture that you rip up and throw out. I saw enough fat asses and melon bellies to last me halfway through hell.”
“What was working for Gretchen like?”
“Gretchen.” Her face hardened. “Gretchen’s got no heart. She fired me—I’m not going to have anything good to say about her.”
“What about dangerous types, Michelle? Customers you wouldn’t see a second time?”
“Anyone’s dangerous, given the right situation.”
“Did you and Lauren ever have any close calls?”
“Us? Nah. It was boring: bring your knee pads and fake out that you love to swallow, same old same old. Guys thinking they’re in charge— meanwhile we knew they were pathetic.”
“Why’d Gretchen fire you?” said Milo.
“She claimed I wasn’t reliable. So I was late a few times, so what— we’re not talking brain surgery. What does it matter if you show up five minutes late?”
“What about Lauren? How’d she and Gretchen get along?”
She inhaled and smiled around a cloud of smoke. “Lauren handled Gretchen—kissed up to her and did her job and was reliable. Then she quit on Gretchen. That was a switch.”
“When’d she quit?”
“Must’ve been . . . three, four years ago.”
“How’d Gretchen react to that?”
“I never heard one way or the other.”
“That the kind of thing make Gretchen mad?”
“Nah, Gretchen never got mad—never showed any feeling. Like I said, no heart. Cut her up and you’ll find one of those computer thingies— slickon chip, whatever.”
“Lauren ever have any steady clients? Someone who really liked her and was willing to pay for it? Someone she was seeing recently?”
“Nope. Lauren hated every one of them. Basically, I think she hated men.”
“Did she like women?”
Michelle laughed. “As in, Eat-me, girlfriend? Nah. We did doubles, playacted all the time, but basically Lauren wasn’t into it. Switched off— what you said: detached.”
“Why’d she quit Gretchen?” said Milo.
“She told me she saved up enough money, and I believed her. When she came by to tell me, she looked great, was carrying this little computer—”
“Laptop?”
“Yeah, she said it was for school. And she had real great clothes on— better than usual. I mean, Lauren was always into clothes. Gretchen made us buy our own shit, and Lauren always knew where to get the good stuff cheap—she used to do some modeling down at the Fashion Mart, knew all the bargains. But this time she was wearing the real thing— Thierry Mugler pantsuit, black, like poured over her. And a pair of Jimmy Choo pumps. Back then I was living in a real dump, over in Highland Park, told her, Girl, you are taking your life in your hands coming around like that, dressed like that. She said she could handle herself, showed me . . .”
She trailed off, smoked some more.
“Showed you what?” said Milo.
“Protection.”
“She was carrying?” said Milo.
“Yeah, this little shooter—silver thing, kind of pretty, that fit in her purse along with the spray. I said, Whoa, what’s that—school supplies? She said, A girl can’t be too careful.”
“Did she seem afraid of anything?”
“Nah, she was real casual about it. Not that that means much. Lauren was never much of a talker—you just didn’t push it with her.”
“So she came by to tell you she’d quit.”
“That and she gave me some money. That was the first time she brought me money—”
“Seven hundred?”
“Something like that—maybe five. It was usually between five and seven.”
“How often did she help you out?”
“Every few months. Sometimes she’d just slip it under the door and I’d find it when I woke up. She never made me feel like scum for taking it. She had a way of— She had class, should’ve been born rich.”
“Did Lauren ever say anything else that could help us find her killer?” said Milo. “Anyone who might’ve had it in for her?”
“Nah, it was all school with her. School this, school that. She was jazzed because she was meeting a different class of people, professors, whatever.” Two eye blinks. “She was real high on that—intellectuals, professors. Really got off on hanging around with smart people.”