The stories I could tell you about one celebrity, where he liked to go, and what he liked to do once he got there: you’d be amazed. I was never going to marry any of them, I was just there for the money. I could tell as soon as I went into their house what was sellable, when the maid would be stuck upstairs all day, and how we were going to break in the back and take the lot.
Jones was different. He put his hand past me, to lean on the bar, and started quoting me long lines from Surrealist pamphlets and telling me about the freedom of the individual, every few minutes ordering himself another drink, and insisting that I join him. . I don’t know where, or how, but somewhere along the line, I ended up in his room.
Once he was asleep, dreams considerably assisted by the consumption of so many cocktails, I went through his things. I know, I know, and you can judge me all you want, but I don’t pretend to be anything more than what I am: a cheap tart with sticky fingers. I have some very pretty dresses though, and I like nice things.
As I opened his case, I saw instantly that my first assumptions had been right, and he was not the wealthy young businessmen he pretended to be. There had to have been more than five passports in there, none of them in the name of Cadillac Jones, and each giving a different nationality.
I remember staring at the pictures, watching them go fuzzy, and then I don’t remember anything until the next morning. I thought at first he had slipped me a mickey, and I reached out my hand certain that my purse would be gone. Instead, there was a note pinned to the inside:
It wasn’t any trouble to get in to see him: I think he knew deep down that this would happen, and he had gone out to find the right women, the thieves and gangs, who could help him pick that lock and walk away. I had thought our meeting a coincidence. Now I know it was as carefully planned and plotted as everything else.