Sport's presence on ninety second street is unwritten and taken for granted. People talk about him like he's the fucking president, managing expectations up and down the island. Freddy listens carefully, trying to work out how high up the ladder Sport technically sits. He can't be the king pin, too hands on, but he might just be a top lieutenant.
Late April and the sun starts to kick into overdrive, a strike from the waste disposal union plastering itself to the front of every newspaper now clogging up the sidewalks. Sport pays for a couple of guys to come by each weekend and move the refuse on ninety second street someplace else but that hardly means you can escape the stink. Everyone starts wearing progressively more cologne, like they might be able to mask it all if they find a collective mixture abhorrent enough.
Freddy watches out of the corner of his eye as a skinny, cop looking guy peals away from whatever conversation he was having with Iris and starts up with Sport. He's too far off to hear what they're saying but he's sure Sport is giving him the run around, trying to work out if he's serious.
Beyond brief stops to pick up the money he's owed, Freddy's barely seen Sport since he moved to ninety second street. At first that had been a good thing, but after the guy spent all that effort trying to bring him in in the first place it feels kinda like hes been tossed aside. It leaves him nervous, worried that the particular position he's managed to get himself into might be more precarious than he let himself believe going in.
He's been into Gemima's room, and the room of a girl called Bee who he doesn't really talk to but she's nice enough to share her weed. Neither place had been half as nice as the rooms he and Iris get. If the girls on the lower floors weren't allowed to walk the streets they'd fucking starve.
Freddy has still not been sent across town on any errands. He hasn't even been allowed out to any parties, which crop up most weekends and require a random delegation of girls. Nice Guy has been to see him a couple of times since he first cropped up and he's even asked directly, but when Freddy passed him on to Sport he was turned down.
"Soon." Iris tells him, like he's supposed to believe her.
Soon, he tells himself, like he wants any of that shit. You best believe Sport made sure to have him outside, scanning the area for potential customers, when one of the older girls got brought back having been seen in the company of some guy who was apparently planning on skipping town. To listen to her wail she'd had no intention of going with him, but you could tell she was lying, Freddy's got a real sixth sense for that. She protested too much or not enough, the light in her eyes was too freshly snuffed out, smoke still rising as she fumbled her way through excuses.
Anyway, Sport had dealt with her and she ain't pretty enough to work on ninety second street no more.
He just wants something more to do with himself than fucking work. In the swing of things, the job is just another job and no amount of cold rationalisation that it's dehumanising and vile can talk him out of that any more. To think he once thought an easy fuck in a shitty hotel room was a raw deal. The only thing that had really sucked about Shaundra was how bad she stiffed him.
There haven't been any women by since Freddy started. To hear the others talk about it, the women in need of this sort of service don't tend to come by this end of town for it. There are brothels, real fancy places, downtown where women can get what they need. Apparently it doesn't matter whether you're working for him or not, Sport is enough of a deterrent to keep all women inside the lines he's drawn for them.
No one ever talks about whether or not they've fucked him, no one except Iris who is so brilliantly frank despite the fact that she never names her profession out loud. It doesn't feel so bad knowing that he's done it with Iris.
It doesn't feel so fucking bad, she's just a kid, what fucking difference does it make.
The guy talking to Sport has dark hair and dark glasses. As he gets closer, Freddy watches his features fall into line, shaping something familiar and unexpected. He looks gaunt, like he ain't been eating properly since Freddy caught him gawping at the Palantine headquarters. But it's Travis.
Travis, following Iris up into the building, not sparing a second glance for the other girls milling around and certainly not having shit to say to Freddy. If he sees him at all.
Freddy doesn't bother ducking down, trying to hide his identity. Let Travis see him if he wants. But Travis doesn't want, there can be little fucking doubt what Travis wants.
"He was kinda cute." Gemima remarks. "Iris is lucky, she gets all the less skanky guys."
Never having thought about it before, Freddy tries to imagine if he could ever be attracted to Travis. The question changes shape when he tries to imagine if he could ever do some work on Travis, if he could see Travis handing over a wad of bills and telling him to get on the bed. His skin itches for the full half hour, till Travis comes skipping down the steps, happy as anything, and wanders back to wherever he's parked up without noticing Freddy at all.
Re: Sport/Orange - shady skeevey stuff - 24/?
Late April and the sun starts to kick into overdrive, a strike from the waste disposal union plastering itself to the front of every newspaper now clogging up the sidewalks. Sport pays for a couple of guys to come by each weekend and move the refuse on ninety second street someplace else but that hardly means you can escape the stink. Everyone starts wearing progressively more cologne, like they might be able to mask it all if they find a collective mixture abhorrent enough.
Freddy watches out of the corner of his eye as a skinny, cop looking guy peals away from whatever conversation he was having with Iris and starts up with Sport. He's too far off to hear what they're saying but he's sure Sport is giving him the run around, trying to work out if he's serious.
Beyond brief stops to pick up the money he's owed, Freddy's barely seen Sport since he moved to ninety second street. At first that had been a good thing, but after the guy spent all that effort trying to bring him in in the first place it feels kinda like hes been tossed aside. It leaves him nervous, worried that the particular position he's managed to get himself into might be more precarious than he let himself believe going in.
He's been into Gemima's room, and the room of a girl called Bee who he doesn't really talk to but she's nice enough to share her weed. Neither place had been half as nice as the rooms he and Iris get. If the girls on the lower floors weren't allowed to walk the streets they'd fucking starve.
Freddy has still not been sent across town on any errands. He hasn't even been allowed out to any parties, which crop up most weekends and require a random delegation of girls. Nice Guy has been to see him a couple of times since he first cropped up and he's even asked directly, but when Freddy passed him on to Sport he was turned down.
"Soon." Iris tells him, like he's supposed to believe her.
Soon, he tells himself, like he wants any of that shit. You best believe Sport made sure to have him outside, scanning the area for potential customers, when one of the older girls got brought back having been seen in the company of some guy who was apparently planning on skipping town. To listen to her wail she'd had no intention of going with him, but you could tell she was lying, Freddy's got a real sixth sense for that. She protested too much or not enough, the light in her eyes was too freshly snuffed out, smoke still rising as she fumbled her way through excuses.
Anyway, Sport had dealt with her and she ain't pretty enough to work on ninety second street no more.
He just wants something more to do with himself than fucking work. In the swing of things, the job is just another job and no amount of cold rationalisation that it's dehumanising and vile can talk him out of that any more. To think he once thought an easy fuck in a shitty hotel room was a raw deal. The only thing that had really sucked about Shaundra was how bad she stiffed him.
There haven't been any women by since Freddy started. To hear the others talk about it, the women in need of this sort of service don't tend to come by this end of town for it. There are brothels, real fancy places, downtown where women can get what they need. Apparently it doesn't matter whether you're working for him or not, Sport is enough of a deterrent to keep all women inside the lines he's drawn for them.
No one ever talks about whether or not they've fucked him, no one except Iris who is so brilliantly frank despite the fact that she never names her profession out loud. It doesn't feel so bad knowing that he's done it with Iris.
It doesn't feel so fucking bad, she's just a kid, what fucking difference does it make.
The guy talking to Sport has dark hair and dark glasses. As he gets closer, Freddy watches his features fall into line, shaping something familiar and unexpected. He looks gaunt, like he ain't been eating properly since Freddy caught him gawping at the Palantine headquarters. But it's Travis.
Travis, following Iris up into the building, not sparing a second glance for the other girls milling around and certainly not having shit to say to Freddy. If he sees him at all.
Freddy doesn't bother ducking down, trying to hide his identity. Let Travis see him if he wants. But Travis doesn't want, there can be little fucking doubt what Travis wants.
"He was kinda cute." Gemima remarks. "Iris is lucky, she gets all the less skanky guys."
Never having thought about it before, Freddy tries to imagine if he could ever be attracted to Travis. The question changes shape when he tries to imagine if he could ever do some work on Travis, if he could see Travis handing over a wad of bills and telling him to get on the bed. His skin itches for the full half hour, till Travis comes skipping down the steps, happy as anything, and wanders back to wherever he's parked up without noticing Freddy at all.