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He was my first, the one with the scarf.
I edged gently off the bed. It wasn’t light but I could see my way around. I’d never been in a hotel before. Unless you count the hotel bar. Strange being so high up. I stood for a moment gazing out the window at a building opposite, a great grid of other windows, feeling briefly one of their elevated caste. I took panties, but no more, from the stockings, skirts and stays slung over a chair back. He paid for the night. As he fell asleep he joked I’d never leave because I’d want to marry him. I said he’d still have to pay, I wasn’t tricked so easily. He told me I’d be surprised, his greatest trick was making girls disappear. I did want to disappear—before dawn could betray the face in the mirror. A handcloth lay on the edge of the sink; nearby, a shaving brush and blade on a marble ledge. I wiped away ruined makeup and drank water from a glass. The small window, open a crack, gave faint sounds of hooves and farther off, a motor’s growl. Back in the room, he sprawled like an Olympian sated by a nymph. He was handsome, which I guess was fortunate. I’d almost given up. My roommate got picked up in an automobile and she tried swinging a deal for the two of us, but no dice. When the music hall let out a block away, business improved, but not for me. I wondered what the show had been. I heard snippets—about believing him or not, how he did it, that he was a veritable master, by George. Chortles about doing what he could do with a woman, at the office or at home. The street had nearly emptied when someone emerged from a lane alongside the hall, turning east with a confident step. He neared, stopped, and studied me. I’d placed myself partly in shadow, where my heavy makeup might look natural. Where one hand, tucked in my skirt, would escape notice. If something in you doesn’t want to show your face—your real face, the only thing that is really yours in this grasping world—and all they can see is where you’ve lost fingers to a fabric cutter, then employers will tell you they prefer girls more approachable, more capable. So I got no work in sales, in offices, in restaurants. And no suitors sought my hand. But in the dark magic of the night, masked in powder and paint, it was different. “My dear thing,” he said in a suave midwestern voice, like Clark Gable. “Are you entertaining this evening?” A silk scarf hung carelessly around his neck, so I named a steep price and called him Baby. He paused and something grim showed in his pursed lips. I thought I’d blown it. But he lifted his hand to my hair, brushed my ear with his fingertips, and showed me a silver dollar. “Will this do for a deposit?” It did. He introduced himself as Marvello—as you must have guessed, a magician. He was the opening act for a big RKO flick about Houdini. But he didn’t act at all like a Houdini; he acted like a Carnegie or a Rockefeller. I don’t know what a magician makes but he must have spent most of it on that hotel room. He stirred and grunted. I regarded his open wardrobe trunk. On one side, tight rows of shelves held a dozen bottles with Latin names on them. P. Lycopoda. Ergotia. Last night he’d translated some: flash powders (explosions, smoke), hand powders (sleight of hand and palming tricks), colorants (alchemical transformations), opium (countless uses, apparently), convulsives (I didn’t ask), etc. They were his équipement de guerre. All you needed to make the world your oyster. That and champagne. He’d winked, gesturing to the ice bucket. “I didn’t know magic was so real,” I said appreciatively, after a couple of glasses. “Nothing is real, my dear. It’s all tricks.” Leaning close, he purred, “Life isn’t real. Death isn’t real. Only you are real. There’s only you.” I wasn’t sure if he meant himself, or me. He began unbuttoning my blouse and it didn’t matter. Idly now, I tugged at a tiny drawer on the other side of the trunk. Cufflinks, tie pins, buttons, a needle and thread. Another drawer with newspaper clippings. Reviews of his act. A notice of a missing woman—someone he knew perhaps. I rifled, curious. Another missing woman, a different one. Disappeared. Suddenly my heart started thudding. I closed the drawer and turned to my clothes. “Don’t get dressed,” he said. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, smiling. “It’s still night, remember? Until I give the word.” “I’m cold,” I said. “Come here, then.” “All right.” My throat was dry again. I coughed and my thoughts tumbled. “I’ll just get some water.” When I came back his eyes were open and on me–and feral. I kept my damaged hand behind my back. “You don’t have to hide it,” he said, no longer smiling. “This is when you show me everything, girl. This is the reveal.” He extended his arm as if we were on stage. I slipped slowly into the bed next to him. Immediately he twisted on top of me, hands on my shoulders, pushing down hard. One hand went to my neck. “The thing about magic,” he breathed, using his other hand to push down my panties, “is someone is always the dupe. The one who sees the girl is gone. It’s all about controlling who sees. The flash. The powder.” He smirked. “Only you know if she was ever there.” His fingers crushed my neck. I lost breath and my chest heaved. I freed the hand from my back and drew the razor right across his throat. As I said, he was the first. © 2025 Glenn Willmott About the author: Glenn Willmott is a pulp magazine lover and fiction writer who studies modernity and wonder at Queen’s University in Canada.
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It's the oldest profession, and somehow it's become the family business.
My mother was a dancer. The kind of dancer that men like my father, a trucker from Santa Cruz, paid good money to spend time with. He had fun, she got her $50 and eighteen years with me. When she left forever, I cried. What will happen to you? I asked. She shrugged. There are some things you don't need to know. I pulled my hair up in a tight ponytail and lined my lips in matte pink lipstick. I had a variety of shades lined up on my mahogany vanity. Gloss? No, that would be too forward. You get by on your looks and you'll never really work a day in your life, my mother always said. It was all she ever said, before making a few bucks on her back. I never wanted to be like her. All I had when I dropped out of school was my looks. My golden hair, my blue eyes, my curves. Men looked at me. Men wanted me. The cell on my vanity rang. Unknown number. This happened a lot; men who wanted to stay anonymous. “Hello, Lavender speaking.” Silence. I pulled the phone back. It was still connected. I put it to my ear. “Hello?” A click, and the call dropped. The job started innocuously enough. A few dates with rich men. A few sugar daddies. Eventually it became a lucrative business. And, like Mom said, I was getting by on my looks. That is, until I met James. James McGuffin. Art critic. He'd get me into his shows to hang on his arm, making his coworkers jealous. The phone rang again. Unknown number. “This is Lavender.” Silence again. My lip upturned into a smirk. Men could be so funny, my mother always told me so. “There's no need to be shy, dear.” The call disconnected. I slipped the phone into my handbag. Work functions like James’s required a suit, shorter heels, and straight hair with only the hint of a curl at the edge of the ponytail. I knew this role. I air-kissed towards the mirror. I looked just on the edge of tart, but still professional. A rap hit my front door. Must have been my pizza. With one last wink to the mirror, I snatched cash off my side table as I grabbed the handle. A homely older woman in a floral dress stood on the stoop. Her mousey-brown hair fell limp at her shoulders and her round spectacles took up the majority of her narrow face. A traditional, stiff housewife. “Are you Lizzie?” she asked in the tiniest squeak of a voice. Lizzie. That was a name I hadn't used since I was back with Mom. Lavender had seemed more seductive, something that rolled off the tongue better. It was a hooker’s name. My Mom liked it. “Yeah,” I said, leaning my hip against the doorframe. “That's me. Who are you?” She tossed back her shoulders and lifted her chin. I suppose that's when I should have realized something was wrong. Meek ladies like that don't stand up to women like me. We're in different leagues, different calibers. Different aisles of the lingerie section. But this lady? She firmed up her stance like she was about to take a punch. “I'm James McGuffin’s wife,” she announced. Well, shit. That was always a bummer. Definitely not the first time I had to explain my services to someone, and probably wouldn't be the last. I opened my mouth to speak when the thought struck me: How did she know my name? She pulled a gun from seemingly nowhere. The lights from the hallway glimmered in her dark pupils. Murder, Mom would have said. She had murder in her eyes. She took a step forward and I took one back. She shut the door behind me. “Jesus,” she sneered. “You two even wear the same shade of lipstick. Guess hookers are all the same.” My back hit the vanity, and my hands curled around my purse. My phone. I could feel it between the layers of Coach leather. “Yeah, no, I don't think so, Lizzie, hand it over,” she flexed an outstretched palm. “No police.” I swallowed, and my heart sank as I fished the device out. I looked down for a second at the table. My lipstick. My hairbrush. My still-hot curling iron. “You don't know why I'm here, do you?” she mused. I didn't. She knew my name, she knew my address, and I knew nothing about her except who her husband was. I was in deep shit. “I guess you're here to tell me to stay away from your man,” I replied, turning around. “I've heard it before.” Mom always told me to be cool with the wives. Never let them see you break. Wives got mad in this job. Especially the floral-wearing, God-fearing, traditionalist types. They'd never pulled a gun before. This was new. Mom never told me how to handle this. The woman’s lip quivered up in a sneer. “Your mother already messed with my man. In a truck stop in Santa Cruz twenty years ago.” The Santa Cruz trucker. Oh, God. Nausea rushed up my throat. “No,” I breathed. “No, he's not.” “Yes,” she hissed, taking a step forward. “He's my husband. And you're going to stay away from my family.” I met him at an art show. He said he heard about me. He wanted to get to know me better. I bought champagne, and we discussed prices. He ran his hands along my thighs. James McGuffin. My father. I swung the curling iron forward, the hot barrel slamming into the side of the woman's cheek. It sizzled, she screamed, and the gun fell with a clatter onto the carpet. I dove for it, and curled my lacquered fingertips around the trigger. There are some things you don't need to know, my mother said. She was right. © 2025 MJ Huntsgood About the author: MJ Huntsgood is a speculative thriller and horror author who enjoys exploring the use of perspective and deep POV in her work to find the nightmare not just in a situation, but within ourselves. She lives in Washington DC with her 5 plants, 2 cats and trophy husband. |
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