Despite a few minor improvements to the hulking neo-gothic edifice, the Zanzibar Towers and Gardens appears uninhabited—and uninhabitable—by anything other than the long-tailed rats and mutant cockroaches that proliferate in the deep quarry of its basement. Some of the windows on the lower floors are shattered, some are missing altogether and covered in plastic sheets. Its brick façade is so blackened by soot from the nearby steel mills that it looks like it has been pieced together with lumps of charcoal. The weary Jesuits have labeled the place a "pest house" and have sought out ways to have it demolished, even pressuring building inspectors to fine the manager for failing to bring the property up to code, but the inspectors, realizing the cash-strapped city cannot afford the expense of clearing away another mountain of toxic rubble, always fall short of condemning the place outright.
The woman rents an apartment on the sixth floor, and by the time they climb the creaking staircase to the landing (there is no working elevator), both she and de Vere are breathing hard. She slides a key into the lock but before opening the door says, "Okay, let's get down to business."
"Fine with me."
"Two hundred oughtta cover it."
De Vere laughs. "I don't have that kind of cash."
"You a deadbeat or what?"
"I had to make bail this morning, remember?"
"I don't give a shit. We agreed on two hundred."
"When was this?"
"Last night."
"We never talked money, did we?"
"Fucking loser. Why don't you get lost?"
"Wait a minute." He counts the remaining cash in his wallet. "I have seventy bucks."
She snaps her fingers. "Hand it over." Shaking her head, she stuffs the money somewhere under her skirt and then opens the door. "In here. Let's go. Move it, move it."
He is unable to see anything too clearly, but eventually his eyes adjust to the gloom, and he takes in the remarkable squalor of the place, the piles of dirty clothes, the broken toys scattered on the filthy throw rugs and sticky hardwood floor—a bright blue ball, a small pink guitar, a deck of playing cards. He steps around the remains of a blonde baby doll that has undergone several hasty amputations only to be partially reassembled with tape and glue. There is something odd about the apartment, something that makes its claustrophobic rooms seem almost institutional, like a madhouse or some terrible dungeon in ancient Rome where the consumptive prisoners languished for years without trial. Then he understands the problem. All the doors have padlocks on the outside.
De Vere crosses his arms and gives a whistle. "Nice place you have here."
"Screw you."
The woman walks into the kitchen, pushes aside a stack of plates that wobbles and then crashes into a sink already overflowing with bowls of soggy cereal and sour milk. Under the shattered heap she finds two plastic cups and a bottle of cheap bourbon. She pours them both a drink.
"Bottoms up," she says.
"Cheers."
The bourbon has been diluted with water, but it seems to give the woman a second wind.
"Well," she says, "we better get on with it before the brat wakes up."
She unlocks one of the doors and leads him into a bedroom. Evidently she doesn't often sleep here. The bed is still made, the sheets not too terribly soiled. He removes his clothes and finds that the mattress is surprisingly comfortable. He buries his face in the pillows, pleased that only an occasional strand of long black hair finds its way into his mouth. As he waits for her to join him, he props himself up on one elbow and chances to see himself in the mirror above the dresser, a wrecked Adonis, the high school athlete gone to seed, his pimply shoulders glistening with sweat, a roll of flab hanging from his midsection. The woman strips and stretches out next to him, her arms limp at her sides, her legs spread wide, the soles of her feet black and blistered. The years have taken their toll on them both, but if his body is ugly and pathetic, hers is tragic, covered in welts and bruises and cryptic tattoos.
He turns away from the mirror and, without asking her permission, begins to do outrageous and terrible things to her. His hostess endures the rough treatment without complaint, even taunting him at times, telling him to stop being such a fucking pansy, to "do the job right, goddammit!" He thrashes and bucks and growls. He tests the limits of her endurance, violates her every orifice, laughs every time she whimpers with pain, and after one hour of relentless grinding, he shouts, "Shit, yes!" before finally rolling over and falling dead asleep.
It has been an exhausting twenty-four hours for them both.
