CHAPTER 1
Margaret Anderson
I leaned against the dark pulsating wall, feeling conflicted. Inside the entrance of Danceteria, as I waited for Reggy, the vibration of pounding music heightened my headache that was building. It was close to three a.m., but by the look of the crowd coming in, the party was just getting started. Reggy walked up and signaled me to follow. Near an office door he smiled down at me and asked in a low, deep voice, “How’d it go, Margarita?”
“Well, they’re all gone. Pretty good I guess.”
I quickly handed him a-hundred-and-fifty in wadded bills; he counted it and gave me back ninety dollars that I tucked away in a small leather bag slung across my shoulder.
“I knew you’d be a natural at this. Come back every few days, babe, and your life will get a little easier, you’ll see.”
The extra cash in my bag felt heavy with guilt. I didn’t feel great about what I’d just done, but I had to admit, it was comforting exiting the club with far more money than I’d arrived with. I was anxious and at odds with myself, but I also knew it had been way too easy not to try it again soon. In a cab heading back to Alex’s loft, thinking back on how my day had gone, I rationalized my urgency and need.
Earlier I’d climbed the stoop up from the sidewalk, took a few deep breaths, and trudged up three more flights. Forty-three steps. I’d counted them many times, especially on hot days. Holding my handbag in my teeth, I began the tedious hunt for my apartment keys, as I tried to balance two wine bottles and a small sack of groceries under my other arm. Left pocket, nothing, zipper pocket, no. Jangling heard at the bottom of my deep leather bag, yes! Touching hard metal, I grabbed the keys, a small victory after a trying day. As I tried to set everything down to unlock the door, one of the bottles slipped out of the bag, splattering red wine on my legs, while the remaining broken glass and wine puddled up by the door. I stared down at the mess while I opened the two deadbolts and jerked, pulled, and then turned the always uncooperative door-knob. Why did everything have to be so difficult in the city? The simplest of tasks, walking from the subway to unlocking my door, was wiping me out today.
Stepping over the broken glass, I walked into my depressing apartment, which I’d coined the cave. As small as it was, I had the displeasure of sharing it with two other women, girls really. I looked about, knowing I would not be happy. As usual, the sink was filled with dirty dishes, the fold-out orange sofa bed had been left open and unmade, and two plastic bags of pungent trash still needed to be carried to the curb. The changes and updates to the apartment I had hoped to make when I first moved here two years ago had never materialized. The walls were still pockmarked from years of changing tenants, and painted a sad mix between gray and darker gray. The battered linoleum floor pattern looked to be pre-WW2, and I had never gotten around to hanging a painting or buying better lighting.
As I swept up and mopped the mess by the front door, I had to chuckle to myself, thinking about the glamorous life my friends back in Texas assumed I was living. I was a model, pursuing the career many girls only dreamed of; but making a decent living at it was more than tough. Back in Houston, when I’d signed my contract with a top NYC agency, my mom and I assumed I’d scored the golden ticket. And, to be honest, I never let on to her that I wasn’t awash in offers for my photogenic services. I was determined to make it, eventually paying her back for all the effort and money she had initially paid out to jump-start my career in Houston.
I currently shared my five hundred square feet of precious space with two teenagers, Jeanne, eighteen; a fresh-faced blonde from Minneapolis, and Dixie, nineteen; a bronzed beauty from Memphis. Both were part of the new talent pool from my modeling agency, Georgianna International, and I had the pleasure of living with the newbies, trying to teach them I was not their mother, sent here to clean up after them. At twenty-five, I felt so much older and jaded than my newly assigned roommates. All naive comments that flowed from their endless banal conversations irritated me. I had always been the life of the party but lately I was becoming the boring grump. Starting in Houston, I was now four years into the profession, living in NYC for the past two, and still struggling. I knew nothing happened overnight, and I needed to keep working at my craft and developing connections, but today, I was tired of the struggle.
Alex was the first roommate I’d shared the cave with. She’d been able to move up and out of our little hovel after her first six months in the city. She now shared a flat with her boyfriend, Mark, in SoHo, and kept another apartment in Paris, with jobs keeping her traveling throughout Europe frequently. We still touched base with each other, meeting up occasionally for coffee, evenings out, and we recently ran into each other during fashion week. She had secured the type of success I only hoped for. Although I had experienced some breakthroughs, I never seemed able to keep the momentum going. I would have several weeks of bookings and then hit a two to three-week dry spell that would cause my savings to plummet. I was always just shy of hitting it big. I still had yet to score a magazine cover, represent a major product line, or snag a national commercial. Because I worked fairly regularly, my agency had not dropped me, but that fear was always in the back of my mind as the thinner, younger, and taller competition kept coming through the door. I envied Alex and her accomplishments; she seemed to get all the breaks.
When I expressed my anxiety to Alex, she would respond back in her thick Ukrainian accent, shrugging her shoulders, telling me, “It will come, it will come, don’t worry, Margaret. Hey, we do vodka shot, yes?”
Those vodka shots hadn’t helped me yet. I had heard it all at the countless go-sees I trudged to endlessly. I wasn’t blond enough, thin enough, a bit too exotic, a little too curvy, a shade too dark. Whatever they were looking for, I wasn’t it. This business did a number on your ego. But it didn’t happen all the time. Occasionally I got the nod and I would hear, you’re great, something different, not your basic all-American girl. That would usually be enough to keep me going for another few weeks of judgement and scrutiny. My semi-success had been enough to cover my basic survival needs, and let’s face it; I was a junkie for the adulation and the spotlight, with the stylists cooing over me, recreating my look for various shows or ads. When I walked into a club or restaurant with Alex, or other girls from the agency, doors would open for us, cover charges were dropped, lines of blow were laid out, heads would turn, men would nod to their friends, and wives would scrutinize our looks. I liked the attention.
I had just returned from a go-see for a major Italian designer launching his own retail store on Madison and was hopeful I’d made the cut for the grand opening and press promotion. My audition had gone well. I started washing up dirty dishes left by my roommates, just wanting to fill the time, hoping to get a call from my booker. Dishes dried and put up, I closed up the fold-out sofa that Jeanne slept on, giving the room a hint of organization. I’d moved my sleeping quarters into the bedroom when Alex moved on. Although I shared it with Dixie, I preferred the tiny bedroom to sleeping in the front room with traffic coming and going around me. The trash was next on the to-do list. As I knotted up the plastic bags, the phone rang. I rushed over, hoping for confirmation of the job.
It was Sue, my client connection and booker for Georgiana International, always blunt and rough around the edges; she knew the business and didn’t mince words. “Hello, Margo Mambo! Good news, lady, you got the Roberto K. opening! They like your swagger and sex appeal. That’s the notes they gave me anyway, so push that when you show up and don’t fuck it up. Block your calendar. You got a pen handy?”
I kept my scheduler by the phone, always ready to add a little structure to my life. So far, the month was looking pretty unstructured. Sue reminded me, “Keep these days open, they’ll pay you standard for the two days before and bonus the day of the opening and photo shoot. You should be free after seven on the first two days, but don’t plan too many late evenings.”
Sue was always on the lookout for her little tribe of women, trying to keep us on the straight and narrow, which she knew to be an impossible job. I added up the approximate earnings in my head, realizing I would still be short on rent after this job. With a few more contracts lined up in the month, maybe the budget would look more promising. I worried over this as I took the trash out.
Later that evening, two glasses of cabernet down, I felt mellow, my edginess from the afternoon at bay. I had just finished my lettuce, tomato, and olive salad, but was feeling slightly guilty after dousing it in a special vinaigrette that my friendly corner grocer, Antonio, recommended. Calorie counting was constant in my business and the need to diet nagged at me continually. After being scolded my first day at the agency for topping the weight maximum for my height by thirteen pounds, I tried to be vigilant about what I ate, but it never came easily. I’d always been fairly curvy and could carry the weight and still appear thin. But I swear, the scrutinizing eye of our agency owner, Georgianna, could spot an extra potato chip on my hips from ten feet away, when I occasionally scurried past her office.
Oh, screw it, I thought to myself. I’ll go for a walk around the neighborhood and burn off the offensive salad dressing. Why do I ever listen to Antonio? He’d been on a two-year mission to make me fat and take me home to meet his plump Italian mother. I pulled a light cardigan on over my tank top, and put on a pair of high-top sneakers. As I headed out for my evening powerwalk, Jeanne and Dixie came bouncing into the apartment trailed by two guys, all in high spirits.
In her syrup-sweet Southern drawl Dixie said, “Oh, hi, Margaret, we thought you might be out, being Friday night and all…Meet my boyfriend, Clint, and this is James, his brother.”
“Hi, guys, nice to meet you. I was just heading out for a little walk.” I seemed to remember Dixie mentioning something to me about a boyfriend the other morning as I was trying to recuperate from a hangover.
Dixie kept talking as Jeanne and James flopped on the couch. “They both just arrived from Memphis today and we have been having the best time showing them around. Have you ever been to the top of the Empire State Building? It is so cool, and then we took the ferry over to the Statue of Liberty. You’ve just got to see it, Margo!”
“Yeah, I have…a few times. Glad y’all are having fun today. Where are you boys staying? What hotel?”
Clint stared back at Dixie and said, “We thought we were staying here, right Dixie?”
In her cloying tone she said, “Yes, you don’t mind, do you, Margo? Jeanne is OK with it. It’s just for a few days. Hotels are so expensive. Maybe you could stay with your friend, Alex, if you don’t want to hang out with us.”
Talk about being the odd girl out. It was one thing having the occasional boyfriend stay over, but two guys for two to three days with the two blond Barbies…I couldn’t take it. And where was I supposed to sleep? I just stared at her, not smiling, and said, “Let me think about it.” I grabbed my keys, slammed the door, and headed downstairs. I’m sure I was now the evil old witch that was putting a damper on their weekend party. I was pissed off as I bounded down the stairs two at a time, thinking how I hated my apartment and my roommate situation for the second time today.
I headed to the corner, walking briskly, not paying attention, voicing all my complaints to the demons in my head. I sprinted across the intersection with the pedestrian sign blinking yellow and literally bumped into Antonio as he was locking up his family’s market for the night, pulling down the rolling metal shutters.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, Tex.”
“Oh, sorry, Antonio, I was so preoccupied, I didn’t even see you.”
“You OK, bella?”
“Oh, so-so.”
“How was your salad tonight? Good stuff, right?”
“Actually, that’s why I’m out walking, damn you. Trying to burn off those extra calories, but you were right. The Italian dressing was great. I’m hooked.”
“Good. OK if I walk with you as far as the station?”
“Sure.”
“So, what’s got ’cha thinking so hard tonight?”
“Oh, nothing interesting, just roommate issues. A few of Dixie’s hometown boyfriends showed up and they all want to party their little eighteen-year-old asses off and I wanted to enjoy a quiet evening at home. And now I have to figure out where I’m going to stay for the next few nights while my bedroom is being usurped.”
“Well, you know I would love to offer you some personal hospitality but, unfortunately, I live with Mama and I’d have to sneak you in through the basement.”
“No worries, I’ll give Alex a call when we get to the station and see if I can hang with her.”
Antonio was the first person I met in Manhattan, during my initial scouting of the neighborhood; I found him and his corner market a great resource. Besides being a handy place to shop, Antonio always had cooking and culinary advice on the ready, and kept me caught up on neighborhood gossip. A good-looking guy, dark, slicked-back hair, proud of his face and biceps, Antonio seemed to know and flirted with every female customer who wandered in.
I didn’t know why this roommate issue was bothering me so much. When I had shared apartments with friends at college, back in Austin, people came and went constantly. Friends from out of town dropped in with little notice, and I was cool with people sleeping on couches, sleeping bags, floors, what-ever. But times had changed or I had changed. I craved my own space, that I could share with people of my own choosing, an apartment that would represent me as a person and reflect my taste.
Antonio and I parted at the subway station. He asked me to say hi to Alex and tell her he missed her beautiful starving little face. I laughed and waved him away, dropping a coin in the pay phone. I dialed Alex’s number, doubting I would actually catch her at home. Checking my watch, I was relieved to see it was only nine p.m., so if she was in town, she would not have gone out yet. Alex and I both loved the dance clubs but rarely managed to get out before midnight. A few rings in, I relaxed when I heard her familiar low voice.
“This is Alex.”
“Oh, thank God you’re home. It’s Margo. Alex, I hate to impose, but is there any way I could hang at your place tonight and Saturday? The new roommates brought home boyfriends from out of town and I think I’ll go crazy if I have to spend the weekend with the four of them.”
“Yeah, yeah, come over. I fly out tomorrow morning, but I let Mark know you staying here. You sleep on little bed in his office. Come over now. We go out, and don’t worry…I pay.”
“Fantastic, you sure Mark won’t mind?”
“No, no. He busy all the time now. You come.”
I could circle back to the apartment and get some overnight necessities and take a cab, or catch a quick subway ride over to SoHo from here and just borrow a few things from Alex. I decided to do the latter, knowing I could wear some of the gorgeous freebies she occasionally got from jobs, instead of full pay. She had two inches on me, but we had been borrowing each other’s clothes since we met. I made a quick call to Dixie telling her I would be out for the night, but said it in a tone of voice that let her know I wasn’t happy about it.
Alex was here via a green card, by way of Ukraine and then London. Georgianna had recruited her when they were intrigued with her innocent, blonde, waifish look and pouty mouth, featured on the cover of London Vogue. She was just shy of six feet and reed thin. I was a tad more buxom, with long dark hair, Mediterranean coloring, and light blue eyes. Living together, we’d throw on our heels, our little sparkling mini dresses and stop traffic, staying out until the wee hours of the morning. We usually met men; I preferred the financial district suits, while she tended to go for the more bohemian look.
I took the number two to Houston Street, got off and walked a few blocks south. Mark and Alex rented a sparsely decorated, but lovely loft space, in an old multi-level stone building that featured intricate cast-iron architectural elements on its exterior. I would kill to live in this building with its airy, well-lit space. Mark, a playwright and actor on the rise, had combined incomes with Alex, and together, they turned the space into their perfect home. Alex buzzed me in and I took the heavy freight elevator up.
She greeted me holding up a bottle of white. “I open good bottle of wine just for you, beautiful girl. How are you? You don’t sound so good on the phone.”
I gave Alex a brief hug. She was always slightly rigid when I did this. The girl was not terribly affectionate. “Great, let’s sit down. I feel like I’m on the run from my under-age roommates. Two years in this city and I’m still stuck in that horrible apartment. Do you know of anything affordable around here?” I sighed as I looked around at the simple, cozy, overstuffed armchair and ottoman, the-L-shaped chocolate leather sofa, and large dominant abstract painting on the bricked wall. “This is where I want to live. I admit it, Alex. I’m jealous.”
As she poured me a generous glass of Chablis, she said, “Nothing ever perfect Margaret. Yes, I like living here, but Mark is handful, always storming about, yelling about this and that, and my schedule…so tiring. I hate the flights.”
“Trust me; I’d trade my life for yours in a minute. So where are you heading tomorrow?”
“Back to Paris, YSL has new launch. I go for fittings and rehearsal.” She said this in a tone much like I would remark on doing my laundry and going grocery shopping. The Saint Laurent line was the hottest thing in haute couture and Alex was right there in the mix and didn’t even seem to care. Maybe that was part of her charm and perhaps it helped keep her nerves in check. She was always underwhelmed and never in awe of anybody. “Mark’s working tonight. He got good part in off-off Broadway play. Wednesday through Sunday he’s out at night working. So tonight…we go out.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’m glad I called.”
“What about that lawyer guy you like, Denny?” Where is he?”
“I think that’s done. He seems so excited to be going out with his illusion of a model, but never shows much interest in me as a person. I feel like arm candy, and when he introduces me to his friends, he always adds, “Margaret’s a model.” After about three months of dinner, drinks and screwing around, it’s just sort of fizzled for me. I think it’s been about six or seven days since I’ve talked to him. I’m just not interested in returning his calls.”
“Well, good. He was stiff ass I think.”
I snorted up the Chablis I had just ingested, laughing at Alex. “You mean a tight-ass? I think you’re right, a real tight-ass. So…what’s on the agenda for tonight? What dangers are you going to drag me into, young lady?”
“First I fix you up. Very glamorous. I show you how they doing the hair in Paris now. All pushed up on the sides and puffed way up on top, very big, with lots of dark eye makeup. Exotic, like cat. You will love this!”
“I’m putty in your hands, cat-a-comb me!”
“Cat-a-what?”
“Never mind, just fix me up.”
There was no separate bedroom in the loft, just a partial screen set up at an angle breaking up the large room, which obscured a queen-size bed, two rolling racks of clothing, and a tall, floor-length mirror leaning against the wall. There was a small desk chair seated directly in front of the mirror with a large spotlight attached to the side and a tool box full of cosmetics sitting on the floor. Alex flipped on the bright light and angled it directly on me.
“God, I feel like I’m being interrogated instead of getting a makeover. There’s no hiding here. All flaws will be revealed.” About twenty minutes later, dark eye makeup was in place, bold lipstick and bronzed blush were liberally applied—subtlety was not the object tonight.
Hunting through her wardrobe racks, I found a pair of shiny black spandex pants, a black sequined halter top, and turned in my high-tops for peep-toe pumps. Alex showcased her long legs in a fitted stretch dress, topped off with a white jacket with enormous shoulder pads.
Getting dressed, Alex said, “Tonight, I think we go to Danceteria. It opened a while ago and I hear good things.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right. My friend, Colleen, mentioned that club. Let’s check it out. She said they had great DJs.”
“And best part, Margaret, we know door man. It’s Reggy, remember Reggy from 54? He let us in, no problem. Remember, also, I have flight in morning, so don’t let me stay out too late. If I miss flight, it’s all your fault.”
As we headed into the elevator I asked, “How do I get blamed for you missing your flight?”
“It’s better to explain to Mark that way. But tonight… 3:00 a.m. maximum we go home. I turn into pumpkin after 3:00.”
“That’s not quite the way the story goes, but OK, I get your drift. Let’s grab a cab.”
“What is drift?”
“I’ll explain on the way.”
The taxi took us to 37th Street and we gawked at the thick line snaking the block from the door at Danceteria. It was one of the longest I’d seen in a while. The buzz was definitely out. This was the spot. “Reggy had better be at the door or we may not get in. This line will take hours.”
“Margaret, believe. We always get in.” The driver pulled up to the main entrance. Alex tipped the cabbie, pulled her trademark long legs out of the cab, and we strutted up together, arms linked, heads high, smiling as if we owned the joint.
Reggy was an infamous gatekeeper of the night-club circuit. He was the power broker of the golden ropes. He decided who got in, who didn’t and how long you had to wait. He controlled the mix and type of people the club owners wanted represented as patrons. If you had the right blend of freaks, gays, models, and business types, the club could attract the A-list celebrities. The greater number of celebs that showed up, the more other people wanted to come in, plunking down a hefty cover charge and paying premium prices for drinks to dance with the beautiful people.
Unfortunately, our burly, bearded friend, key to the door, was not at the ropes. I went on the offensive, walking up to the current gatekeeper, no one we knew. “Hi, I’m Margaret and this is Alex. Reggy asked us to swing by before midnight. He said there’s some new music we must hear tonight.” I handed him my card, Margo Anderson, Georgianna Models International, as if I was handing over a massive door bribe. Do you know where we can find him?”
The guy glanced at the card and unhooked the ropes, saying, “He’s in there somewhere, check the VIP lounge on third. Have fun, ladies.” As we walked through, the people near the front of the line started complaining and shouting obscenities at the bouncer. We hustled into the darkened entryway quickly before he changed his mind.
Danceteria was three floors of throbbing, flashing, pulsating energy. The music was an eclectic blend of disco, old-school Motown, and funk. I shouted in Alex’s ear, “Let’s try to find a friendly bartender.”
“Yes, we go to third floor I think. Check out VIP area.” We both knew several bar tenders from the scene. They tended to float from one location to another, wherever the next hot-spot appeared, wanting to keep clientele and steady tips coming in. We took the slow climb to the third floor, chatting up people and acquaintances as we weaved through the place. Finally arriving on the third level, we spotted Reggy, overseeing a slightly mellower lounge spot away from the bar. We waved and wandered over to him.
He gave us a smile and nodded his head for us to approach. Reggy was tall, barrel chested and intimidating. Although he was always friendly to us, his eyes were usually focused and moving, always on the hunt, with a slightly menacing gaze. “Hey, it’s Miss Margarita and Princess Alex. Welcome ladies, I was wondering when you two were going to show up on our humble door-step.”
I gave him a quick hug and said, “Hope you don’t mind, we used your name at the door. That line out there is crazy. What are you doing on third? Someone important must be on this level.”
“I like this place, Reggy. Good move for you?” Alex asked.
“Yeah, this is the place, cool atmosphere, all about the dancing. Each floor has different DJs, different vibes. I’m up here to make sure everything is running smoothly for a particular international guest that’s settled in. Nobody you two would know. But how have you been?”
“Good, good. I need drink.” Alex wandered over to the bar dismissively.
“How about you, Margarita?” As he asked this, Reggy’s eyes were darting around, scanning the crowd, checking people entering the third-floor entrance, glancing at the lounge area, and trying to give me some personal attention too.
“Not bad. I just got a job doing the Roberto K special event. They’re opening their own storefront uptown. But I’m desperate to get out of my east village apartment. I hate my assigned roommates. I would love to move to SoHo. Alex has a loft there—it’s perfect. But it’s always money issues with me.” I realized Reggy was getting an earful and had probably hoped I would say “not bad”, and then move along, so he could focus on his guard duty.
As I finished my complaint, he looked right at me, leaned over and said into my ear, “I know, I get it. It’s a tough city to live in. Hey, do me a favor. I’m busy here right now.” He looked at his watch. “Meet me near the basement DJ booth around one o’clock. I may be able to help you out. We’ll talk later.” He turned and walked closer to the chair and sofas that were squeezed into a corner.
I wandered over to the bar and Alex turned toward me with two vodka shots in hand. “Cheers to you, Margarita.” We clinked, smiled, and tossed back. “OK, I think music on second the best. What you think?”
“I agree, let’s go down again, Princess.”
The dance floor on second was the most crowded. The DJ was blending a new Michael Jackson song with something from Diana Ross and the crowd loved it. I ventured into the bathroom which was packed with clientele smoking or snorting. Sex behind a cubicle door seemed to be an option too. But back on the dance floor, it was all about moving to the beat. The DJ kept the energy flowing, blending, building, and then taking it down a notch to keep customers coming back to the bar. Alex spotted a few photographers she knew and dragged me over. It was helpful getting on the good side of some of the better photographers, because if they were hired for a job and liked working with a particular model, they would often recommend or request her. But you had to be careful. Countless times, I’d heard the line, “Hey, baby, let’s make some beautiful pictures together,” from some wanna-be guy with a camera.
Walking over to them, Alex warned me, “Be nice, but don’t go home with good-looking one, he’s into the S and M. One with glasses, he’s great guy and good contact. He shot me in Milan last month.”
“OK, I’ve been warned, smile at the glasses, stay away from the one I want to jump all over.” The two were David, Mr. S&M, and Giorgio, the sharp photographer with connections. Names were exchanged, drinks were bought, and war stories about modeling mishaps were told. I was apparently David’s type as he kept draping his arm over my shoulder and complimenting body parts. I kept trying to nudge my way over to Giorgio and engage him in conversation, but he was angling Alex into a corner of the bar and she wasn’t interested in either of them. When David left for a trip to the restroom, I shouted over to Giorgio that I loved the song that had just started playing, and asked both he and Alex to dance with me. Right on cue, Alex pushed Giorgio out to me, saying, “You both go. I need to rest my feet.”
As we moved around the floor to “Disco Inferno,” Giorgio apparently noticed me for the first time, shouting out, “I like the way you move, Margaret. Great rhythm, nice hair. Good energy. I can tell…you’re probably a fantastic model.”
“I try. Thanks. Alex says your photos are special. We should work together sometime.”
Between the music and the thronging dance crowd, there wasn’t much chance for detailed conversation, but hopefully I’d said enough. I would give him my card when we got back to the bar. We eventually pushed our way back, and David was waving Giorgio off to follow him. As he said good-bye, I pulled a business card out of my bag. As I handed it to him, I called out, “Hey, call me sometime; love to work with you.” God, that sounded desperate and so obvious. Why couldn’t I be cool and aloof like Alex? I glanced around and didn’t see her. I didn’t want to spend any of my own money on a drink and thought about Reggy and his one o’clock request. Maybe I could squeeze a free drink out of him. Checking my watch, I headed for the basement bar.
At the bottom level, there was a funkier jazz vibe going on, with a less frenzied pace. I walked over to a young, well-muscled bar-tender in tight shorts. He slid a cocktail napkin in front of me. “Hi, doll, what’s your pleasure.”
“Actually, I’m looking for Reggy. Is he down here? He asked me to meet him.”
“Uh, I did just see him. Hold on, I’ll check for you, babe. What’s your name?”
“Tell him Margarita is waiting for him.”
He quickly stepped behind a partition and came back in few minutes. Reggy was behind him. He nodded his head, asked me to follow him, and we walked over to a darker corner of the basement. I was thinking, enough with the cloak and dagger here, what’s going on?
“Hey Margo, thanks for coming down. You mentioned earlier you were in a tight spot. Needing some extra funds to get a new place?”
“Yeah, Reggy, do you know any decent apartments available?”
“That’s not really my area of expertise, but I know how you could earn some extra money really easy. Are you interested?”
Taken back a little, I said, “Maybe…I’m not desperate. I do OK with Georgianna.”
He shrugged his shoulders, saying “Your choice. I just need you to move a little product for me. You could easily earn a hundred or more a night—easy money, real quick. You could make rent with this alone. And it wouldn’t interfere with your regular work.” He took my elbow and gently turned me into the corner of the room so he was talking to me facing the wall, out of earshot of the other basement clientele, not that anyone was paying attention to us. “I need someone like you who can move in and out of the crowd, knows a lot of people…who can attract the attention of the dudes. Easy money babe.”
“Yeah, that’s what you keep saying. What are we talking about? What product?”
“Ludes mainly. Ten bucks a pop. Nothing dangerous. Give it a try tonight. See what happens. I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you fifteen pills. You bring me back $150, and I’ll give you $75. Time yourself, I bet you get rid of them in less than an hour.”
“I don’t know… I’m taking all the risk.”
“What risk? It’s so chill in this place.”
“Give me sixty percent and I’ll do it.”
“OK, but sixty percent tonight only, after that fifty-fifty.”
“We’ll see. Probably won’t be a second time but I’ll give it a shot.” Despite what I said to Reggy, I was desperate for that new apartment. I’d never done anything like this, but I told myself, it shouldn’t be a big deal, just asking a few people if they wanted to get high. Simple enough. It might not be so bad. I was mentally building up my confidence. I could do this.
Reggy passed me a small plastic baggie, which I dropped into my purse. Concerned, I asked him, “This is good stuff, right? A loopy, smooth high, no fall-down-on-your-face stuff, right?”
“Guaranteed. A nice deep high. Everybody smiling. I’ll be at the door till four o’clock. Find me when you’re done.”
Armed with my new source of income, I started looking at each person I passed as a potential customer rather than a possible dance partner, romance or drink source. I guess it really wasn’t much different. I thought my best shot would be in the restroom and lounge areas. Two suits were standing in line chatting about a business merger. As I passed by, I caught the eye of one and gave him a camera-ready smile and walked by.
He called out to me, “Hey, wait. What’s your name…I think we’ve met.”
I turned around, knowing we had not. “I don’t remember, maybe? Hey,” I said softly, “Either of you guys interested in a nice mellow high? Ten bucks each, brand new product. You’re gonna love it.” I moved in close, revealing the Quaaludes in my bag. “Lemons, just below three hundred milligrams.”
They looked at each other, shrugged shoulders, and the one that thought he knew me said, “Why not? What do you think, Hank? Let’s do a lude with the gorgeous lady. You’re going to join us, right?”
“Hmm. Tempting. Maybe in a little while. What’s your name?”
“Tim,” he answered, handing me a twenty.
“Well, all right, Tim and Hank. I’ll be looking for you later. Enjoy.”
My knees were shaking as I casually walked away. I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I continued into the restroom. Reggy was right. I had sold some product with very little effort, and there were literally hundreds of people here who were easy marks.
At three a.m., I was walking out of Danceteria with ninety bucks more than I’d come in with and I could almost smell the fresh paint in my new SoHo apartment.
