Loose lips

Will Allison give away the farm to the IRS? Should I tell all to my most valuable client?


Tracy Quan
November 4, 1999 10:00PM (UTC)

Nov. 4, 1999

Tuesday, September 14

This morning, I skipped my cardio workout -- with a twinge of
regret because I was looking forward to flirting with Randy at the
club. Instead, I met Allie at her apartment, which is still too
chaotic for entertaining customers -- what with the rubble left
behind by her sub-tenant.

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"Where did this geek come from?" I asked, tossing some tangled
cables into a bag of rubbish. "This place looks like hell!"

"Oh," she said, blushing, "It's a long story ... we went to high
school together. When I was 16, we made out at his sister's
birthday party. In the rec room." But," she added, a faraway
look in her eyes,
"it never went anywhere -- we lost touch after graduation.
Then I ran into Steve last spring -- on 10th Avenue -- and we
became friends."

I felt a strange nostalgic tug inside -- I was so restless and
impatient at that age that I missed out on the rites of passage
that girls like Allison experienced. Necking with some other kid my
own age -- at 16. I can't imagine it -- and yet, of course, I can.
I've seen enough movies, heard plenty of teen dating songs
and even
had one or two abortive romances with high school boys before I
graduated to older guys (who now seem so much like boys when I
remember them). I still wonder what it would have been like to fuck
someone my age -- though I'm also glad I didn't have to endure the
social problems of high school. Allison's suburban past is so
normal, it's exotic to me.

"Does he know?" I asked her suddenly. "Why you moved out? About
your business?"

"Of course not!" she exclaimed. "My straight friends think my
parents are still paying my bills."

We got her bedroom in shape, then attempted to tackle the living
room. Allie's the kind of girl who tidies up before the maid comes
over, so I tried to appeal to that side of her conscience as we
mulled over the problem of Tom Winters and the letter.

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"He's been asking other girls what sort of business you and I are
conducting," I warned her. "And I'm sure he's the guy who called me
up, pretending to be your client. You need to be prepared when you
talk to him -- he's a government snoop on a mission."

Allison chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip, then said, "He has no
proof of anything. Besides, I'm not a criminal -- I'm ... I'm trying
to deal with my sex addiction! It's none of the government's
business."

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"The IRS doesn't care what therapeutic spin you want to put on your
income," I told her. "He's trying to prove that Liane's a big-time
tax evader -- like Heidi Fleiss or Anabel Weston. Rumor has it
he's trying to prove some kind of link with Anabel --"

"Anabel Weston?" Allison exclaimed. She bounced up off the flowered
sofa and picked up a can of Pledge. "Liane has nothing in common
with -- with --" In a frenzy,
she began polishing the dusty leg of
her favorite rosewood chair. "That's outrageous! Anabel Weston didn't even
know her clients -- she got those guys off the Web! Liane doesn't even have a computer! I'll go in and tell Tom Winters that Liane's
very small, exclusive and private -- she has almost no business
left, and she's living on her investments. It's not fair! How dare
they? She's never even heard of someone like Anabel Weston!"

This is the same girl who goes to Prostitutes
Anonymous meetings to share her innermost hangups with
streetwalkers! The recovering hooker who
scolds me for being a judgmental snob. Allie was truly affronted
by the idea of equating Liane -- an elegant, old-school madam who
would rather operate in genteel modesty than resort to vulgar
new business methods -- with Anabel Weston. But Liane would faint
if she overheard Allison. With one such naive
friend, who needs enemies?

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"You're not talking to Tom Winters without a lawyer,"
I insisted. "Or at all, if you can avoid it. You have no idea what you're saying. Do you
want Liane to spend the last years of her life in prison?"

"I'm not going in there with a lawyer," Allie said, polishing
furiously. "It'll just make me look guilty!"

I was stunned by her crazy, amateur's logic. Is this what they
mean when they say that good girls go to heaven?

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Friday, September 16

This afternoon, Milt was early for his 4 o'clock appointment and buzzed my
apartment just moments after Arthur was out the door! I was totally
unprepared for him and felt like a terrified cook facing a collapsed
souffli. I whipped off my underwear,
wrapped a towel 'round my body and answered the door as though I were
halfway through a shower. Handing Milt a dirty magazine, I told him to
"study the pictures while I rinse off." I emerged from the shower in a
pair of strappy heels and nothing else -- a rarity, as I prefer to wear
something when I greet a client, but this gave Milt a chance to admire
my recently trimmed (and lavishly conditioned) pubic hair.

While Milt took his turn in the shower, I quickly changed my sheets.
Later, when he bent down to kiss my breasts, I was sprawled out on my
bed, looking as calm and sweet as a girl turning her first trick -- of the
day. As I swiveled around on top of Milt, with my thighs around his face,
I moaned a little (for his benefit) -- and thought about my own upcoming
appointment with Tom Winters, Treasury Snoop ... Will it scare Milt if I
tell him the extent of Winters' investigation? All about the questions Winters has
been asking Eileen about her clients? About me? I can't really afford
to lose a client right now -- especially a regular like Milt. After the
problems April caused, I'm beginning to feel like I'm walking on
eggshells. Should I ask him to help me?


Tracy Quan

Tracy Quan is the author of "Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl."

MORE FROM Tracy Quan


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