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| Stories Bingo’s Home Bingo’s Lair |
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Wren |
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| Chapter
Nine
Wren's tattooist friend was Coq, pronounced by him somewhere between coke and cake, an army vet who drank, told stories, and let her sleep in his attic. Coq preferred men but had used her ass more than a few times in partial payment for tattoos. Afterwards, when she got ready to leave for Texas, Coq told her he still preferred men but she was okay in a pinch. She took it as he meant it. The attic had one window onto the street and the ceilings were so low she couldn't stand straight. She thought the last time the room had been painted was before the Civil War. Her lamp was a candle in a Chianti bottle with a strict admonition to be damned careful or she'd set the shop on fire. Coq slept down stairs, in a room behind the room onto the street where he worked. He ate out, there was a necessary in the back yard, and washed with cold water year round. The war had taught Coq a reason to drink and to not have big plans. He expected everything to go up in a puff of smoke at any moment with all the A-bombs Russia and we had. Customers came in all day, but were infrequent, and most commonly were seen on weekends after they'd had enough courage through drink. Wren, when she wasn't reading upstairs or out with a friend, sat with Coq and they talked while he waited. It was Coq who told her about Texas. Her current friends, met through Coq, were two men who took her out into the country to a wooded swamp and did things to her. "Francois and Albert coming by today?" Coq asked. His whiskey was neat, in a tall glass. He talked while working on a sketch. "They didn't say." "Like them?" "They're okay. They're energetic which is nice." He grinned without looking up. "But are they what you're looking for?" "Kind of. The mosquitoes are something else again." "Go straight for the ass like a faggot in heat." He took a drink. "Some women prefer chains to rope. Eh?" "I hadn't thought about it. Frank and Al are rope men I guess." "Darkness to daytime, with a hint of dread." "Daytime's okay. What should I be dreading?" "That they'll leave you there. That maybe they'll kill you for some reason. That they'll rape you." "Frank and Al? Coq, if they didn't do something to me, then I'd be disappointed." "Your honor is already gone." Coq winked, blew on the drawing to dry the ink. "They showed me a picture of you. Andromeda bound with Perseus to the rescue." "From boredom?" She paused, "They have photos of me?" The drawing he showed was of two hearts, superimposed, one higher than the other, a dagger piercing both and rose leaves decorating their sides. "How much, Coq?" "It would have to be money for this. No going into the hole this time, nice as it is." "How much?" "Thirty-five dollars. For you, twenty." "I don't have twenty." "You have a twat. Peddle it." "That's sort to icky, Coq." "Giving it away free isn't?" "There's a difference. You take care of all the arrangements and I'll peddle it for you." "I'm too busy and alas most of my friends aren't interested in such merchandise." "Your customers?" "They come here for tattoos. You know that." "I'll think about it. On the street, like the other whores?" "Other?" He winked at her, reached for his drawing. "I have a new idea." "I like to pick and choose a little." "Is that what you call it?" He began sketching with a pencil. "You know what I mean." "In prison one doesn't always get to choose. One associates with someone who has power. It makes life easier." "When you're ready for lunch, let me know. I'm buying this time." "Money is the root of all evil." "Frank and Al wanted to go places and asked me how much. I told them and they laughed at me. Good-naturedly but, honestly, I'll never be able to do a decent taxi service." "Chains," Coq said. "A figure of a nude woman wrapped in chains." "Sounds beautiful, but this one will be even more expensive than the hearts." "Fifty for you." "That's a lot of taxi rides with Frank and Al." "You like them?" "They're okay." "If you're interested in chains, there's a man in Texas. He'll pay you. You could come back and get tattoos." "Texas? I'm supposed to be going to New York City. Texas is out of the way a bit." "Give me a minute or two. I have pictures." "Frank and Al didn't give me any pictures." "You need to put your foot down." "I'll ask them next time." "Men who like rope are flaccid. You need someone who prefers chains." "If you say so." "Francois and Albert are friends and they're just okay? If I had a schlong like Albert's I'd be in heaven." Wren grinned. "He's okay, hardly flaccid. At least not around me." "In heaven." "In my case it's in his stinking bitch. That's what he calls me." "The odor does take some getting used to." "Thanks!" "How do you like it? This is you." He held up the pencil sketch. A long-limbed buxom lass had a large chain circling her body, from top to bottom. More rose leaves and the name Daisy underneath. "Coq, my name isn't Daisy." "Your name would be whatever whoever binds you like this cares to give you. You'd be his. And he'd be yours. If he wants to call you Daisy, that's it. That's your name. There will be a reason he calls you that and this reason you will need to find. Nothing will be clear except how strongly he holds you." "All that for fifty dollars." "Cheap at ten times that price, Wren. Finding the one who owns you is beyond cost or price. I need to stretch." He left the room. Wren looked around. The dusty large window onto the street had sheets of drawings taped to it. The only light was from that, at night an overhead bulb and a clip-on studio lamp where Coq did his tattoos. That lamp was bright and hot, seemingly too hot for its aluminum shade and cheap fixture aimed by a wood dowel in back. Printed textiles hung on the walls beside more drawings of tattoos with prices in crude black lettering. "I took these as a trade," Coq said, putting a small cardboard box in front of her. "If someone asks I sell from the box. Not many know or care." She took the lid off. It was jammed with photos. "There's an envelope in there. From Texas with a name. These are his." Coq took the box and leafed thorugh the photos. "Here." He passed a glassine envelope to her. She quickly leafed through the photographs in the envelope, put the stack down and looked at them one at a time. "Others are nudes, some pinups, some bondage. But those are from Texas." "How do you know?" She was looking at a photo of a naked woman, her wrists in shackles, kneeling, hands over her head. She tried to put herself in the other's place but it didn't work. "They were in the envelope. Here. Write it down so you'll remember." "I'll remember." She took the envelope. "S. Jakes. -----------, Texas. No address." "In the country you don't need an address. Pick three you like." She took her time. She couldn't imagine being one of the models but the setting held her interest. Two square wood pillars, iron rings on the whitewashed stone wall, chains overhead. A room filled with frightened, bound innocence. She chose one of a naked girl sitting by the pillar, legs and wrists in shackles, a woman, hands bound high overhead, her dress partially torn from her, and the woman who was kneeling. "How much?" "Nothing, but you need to leave soon." "Are these popular?" "Not really. These are." He fanned a short stack of women stripping. "You have a camera. Take photos of me and sell them." "I could I guess." He put the photos away and closed the box. "In here or in the back yard." "That appeals to you?" "That appeals to me, Coq. Find a chain and wrap it around me and say I'm the model. Your customers will appreciate your creative license." "Don't put yourself down. You look, as you say it, okay, Wren. With your clothes off who cares. Most men don't. Their perfect woman is in their heads." "I'll leave in a week. I want to get photos from Frank and Al." "And a bit of schtupping." Coq touched the sketch. "She's worth fifty dollars, don't you think?" "She's beautiful, Coq. You're a real artist." "And it's not even noon yet. Go get our lunch." Go
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