Chasing Shadows 04: West End Girls/Songs of the City

The City is Listening

837 Washington St, New York, NY, 1988

As I woke up, I could hear the din of the city screeching to life outside my window - even from up here I could make out the voices of the working girls and boys who were just returning to the streets from spending a night in lockup as voices carried from the street corners. When you live in some boring housewife fantasy in Connecticut , maybe you wake up to birds chirping or the sight of deer nibbling your grass? But me, my version of chirping birds and deer is listening to the city’s underbelly shaking off the night or seeing the paddywaggon cops drinking shitty coffee an smoking cigarettes to chase away another hard night on the beat.

My morning birdsong was hearing the working girls and boys telling stories of who got locked up, what cop was the pig bastard du jour and what corner the hottest action was on last night. This was the city to me, this was America, full of possibility, promise, and a the hope of a check rolling by in a Cadillac and I loved every dirty, dingy bit of it. The Meatpacking District was like a road to a bloody Oz - paved with the blood pouring out of slaughterhouses and the blood that walked across it in towering stilettos and garish polyester.

As I blearily opened the door to my room, Liza greeted me with a cup of coffee as her suitcase stood nearby by our potted palm. “Early start?” I asked motioning towards the suitcase.

“Yeah,” Liza said with a weary voice, “Got a last minute gig, gotta get to La Guardia ASAP,” she said with a quick clip in her voice. “But don’t worry,” she assured me with a sense of dread in her voice — or maybe the dread was just in my head—“I’ll be back in time for your birthday celebration,” making it sound like a threat as opposed to a promise.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“By the way,” Liza added, “The new girl snores…bad” she said motioning to Nadia passed out dead to the world on the couch.

After Liza left, Nadia blearily awoke and practically crawled towards the coffee pot.

“Coffee,” she begged in Russian as I poured her a hearty mug.

“How’s the hand?” I asked with a tinge of an apology.

“Руки-ноги целы, значит, всё отлично!/I may be in a mess, but at least I’m still in one piece,” she responded with almost a chipper edge to her voice. It was going to be really hard to get used to this.

As we sat there over the gulf of a steaming cup of coffee, Nadia’s gaze softened for just a second. It wasn’t a look she often allowed, but something in our unspoken moment got to her—‘You’ve got this, Nadia,’ I said, and I could see on her face, Nadia had felt an unfamiliar warmth. It didn’t last long, but it made her wonder if maybe she was more than just the killer everyone thought she was, the killer I thought she was until yesterday.

Instead, I fought my instincts and my own programming and instead of killing my “enemy” I actually suggested teaming up. And this was after I jammed a dagger through her hand - who would have thought, huh? I was going to be buying Nadia Arch Burgers for life at this point to make up for this.

Doubt tugged at my mind still, I wouldn’t lie but for the first time in a long time, probably since I first found the girls, I felt like I could breathe, like I was surrounded by like minds by someone that not only knew my scars but bore some of her own. Russia may have tried to break us, so now we’d break the world, together. We were not a partnership - we were a warpath.

“So,” I said sitting with her. “Today, let’s follow Victor and build a really clear portrait of his schedule — and once we have that, let’s figure out our best insertion point and method.”

“Agreed,” Nadia muttered before asking, “And if there’s time for lunch?” She asked with a twinkle forming in her eye.

“Two Mega Arches and Two Mega Freezes,” I assured her.

“I see why people like Victor defect,” Nadia huffed in a sort of confession.

“The only thing,” Nadia added, “In the time I’ve been trailing him—one thing that troubles me,” she added as I listened intently, “is that his actions are erratic, he has very few routines—there is no rhyme or reason to what he does and where he goes,” she said alluding to the mall. “He creates too many variables,” Nadia concluded, “Even if we get the most concrete picture of his schedule - it may all be worthless.” And I had to hand it to her, Nadia was right about him.

After a day of following Victor together and eating copious amounts of Arch Burger, Nadia and I followed Victor to a sleazy dive bar before his movements changed once again without much rhyme or reason and we followed him to The Velvet Cage, a strip club just this side of disreputable, nestled between a pawn shop and a fried chicken joint, right on the edge of Chinatown and the seedy underbelly of Little Italy.

203 Canal St, New York, NY 1988

Nadia and I stalked the street corner across from The Velvet Cage standing next to a steaming manhole as the night air mingled with the scent of cigarette smoke, fried chicken bits, and despair. Not 45 minutes later, Victor exited the club with a woman who I’d say is definitely a girl who knows how to get by in a city of desires.

We watched as Victor flagged down a cab and escorted the girl in a neon green bra and panties and a white fur coat and a shock of pink hair into a taxi. Similarly we flagged down a taxi and followed as the taxi returned us to Victor’s street and we watched him and his night shift romantic ascend the steps to his brownstone. Bingo - we just established a pattern and a habit for a man who seemingly had none. This might actually be too easy. After chasing shadows, we finally had something real. He had a type. And now we had him.

837 Washington St, New York, NY, 1988

Back at the apartment after a long night following Victor and his lady friend, Nadia and I munched on delivery from Pizza Haven - one of those national pizza chains that seems to exist on every other block in America easily spotted a mile away with their trademark red-roofed buildings, faux-wood-paneled walls, and sticky vinyl booths. Their restaurants are always dimly lit, cozy-but-grimy and spiked with the scent of bubbling cheese, canned tomato sauce, and industrial-strength garlic butter as if the company bottled the scent. And? The strangest thing was, it didn’t matter if it was Manhattan or Manhattan, Kansas, they all looked the same.

“What’s this?” Nadia asked brimming with curiosity as I opened the steaming box, “One Haven Deluxe,” I proudly declared showing off A supreme pizza loaded with pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms, onions, and green peppers, served on their signature thick, buttery crust.

“Another American delicacy?” Nadia intoned as I winked.

“Gotta know your target, right?” I mused as Nadia happily took a paper plate and loaded it beyond its capacity with slices of pizza and Pizza Haven’s Cheesy Dippers – Breadsticks drowned in garlic butter, served with a side of questionably tangy marinara sauce.

And it was in that moment, that inspiration struck me like lightning. The pieces had been there all along, but suddenly, they snapped into place. Victor had no habits, no schedule, nothing predictable—except this. Except her.

“Okay,” I said thinking out loud in front of the the pizza devouring Nadia. “The girl, she’s our key.” I said mapping it out.

“We know Victor is erratic, we know he has no patterns so what does that leave us with? What we know he does like and does,” I said.

“проститутка/The prostitute,” Nadia whispered as if it was all clicking.

“How do you feel about getting in a good old fashioned American shopping trip?” I asked as Nadia cracked something that almost looked like a smile. Almost. But underneath it, I could see the gears turning, the same fire sparking in her mind that was igniting in mine.

111 Delancey St, Lower East Side, NYC, 1988

As Nadia and I walked down Delancey street towards Velvet Vice, the brassy horns and stabbing beats of The Beastie Boys’ “Hold it Now, Hit It” turned Delancey Street into something throbbing, pulsing and alive.

Pushing open the doors to Velvet Vice, the sounds of the Beastie Boys faded into the din of Delancey behind us. Before us laid a neon-lit, smoke-scented den of bad decisions and even worse taste, Velvet Vice is where you go when you need to look like trouble and lucky enough, we were in the market for just such fashion.

Wedged between a pawn shop and a bodega with a flickering “24 HOURS” sign, the store’s front window was lined with mannequins in neon spandex bodysuits, sequin mini dresses, and leather jackets that reek of stale cigarette smoke even before they leave the rack.

Inside, Vice is dimly lit, half of the bulbs burned out, the other half buzzing like they’re about to die any second. The air is thick with the scent of synthetic fabrics, knockoff perfume, and the faint metallic tang of cheap jewelry. If Bergdorf Goodman was for rich bitches with their fancy shoes, this was the shopping destination for girls who actually know what work means—not just prim housewives who spread their legs for a quick throw with their husbands or their tennis instructors.

Don’t let my seeming condescension fool you, though, I’m not shaming a working American woman for doing what she has to in order to survive - I mean, look at me? And I’m not calling out a fellow woman for their callous cheating, I’m merely mocking the cloying American excess these women have turned into an art form.

This is where real girls went to find racks stuffed with fishnet tops, ripped denim, fur-trimmed club jackets, and skintight vinyl skirts—the kind of clothes that scream danger, desire, and a little bit of desperation and would never be caught dead strutting the streets above W. 54th Street.

A neon “Back Room – Members Only” sign flickered in the rear, but everyone knows it’s just an excuse for the owner, Tony “Two-Tone” Santoro, to keep his favorite customers entertained with complimentary smokes and a glass of bottom-shelf whiskey.

The cashier, Ronnie, was a gum-popping, eyeliner-smeared punk girl who couldn’t give less of a fuck and barel ever looks up from her tabloid magazine as she rings people up. She doesn’t care what you buy—so long as you pay in cash and don’t ask too many questions.

It’s the perfect place to find the kind of outfit that makes a man like Victor lose his head… and his wallet. And if we had our way, hopefully both.

I held up a hideous outfit in front of Nadia who pulled it around her chest and mid section as her eyes traced the way the fabric hugged her perfect lines and curves

“уличный проституток/Streetwalker,” Nadia said which in Nadia or any language meant “Perfect.”

“That’s what we’re aiming for, sweetheart,” I told her.

And then I noticed her perfect poise in this getup, almost like she’d done this before. Almost like she knew exactly what she was doing

After Nadia and I picked up a few outfits, we stopped by the hair and makeup shelves which looked like one of those little stands in the mall and picked up some perfect accessories for our outfits.

As we paid and walked out, I grabbed a copy of City Heat, one of those free rag newspapers that always seemed to be in places like this - the paper’s motto screamed “If it’s happening, it’s in the Heat” — the real secret about the Heat was what was happening in the back pages: Outcall services under “Personal Massage & Companionship,” private dancers, classified ads for “discreet encounters,” and even the occasional “International Escorts” section—coded language for the most exclusive services. For someone like me? Absolute gold — these ads could sometimes serve as entry points to even the most elusive of clients and in the case of Victor Sullivan - Nadia and I had the idea of using Victor’s distinctive “tastes” against him.

837 Washington St, New York, NY, 1988

At the apartment, I had on the roiling guitar sounds and pounding drums of Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” on as Nadia and I played an assassin’s game of “dress up” like the kind I always imagined little girls who grew up in normal houses did. Nadia danced around bopping her head to the music in her streetwalker getup with a neon green stripe of hair, the fearsome assassin in combat boots suddenly converted into a good old fashioned Meatpacking District streetwalker. I looked through the City Heat pages until I found a picture that matched Nadia’s perfectly chiseled cossack features right down to her pouty lips and breasts.

“Okay,” I announced, “Let’s get started,” as I moved in with a tube of lipstick I “borrowed” from Nancy’s stash of hideous neon colors. “Pucker up,” I said making the motion with my lips. Nadia did as I asked and I applied Nancy’s hideously Pepto-pink lipstick.

“Now kiss,” I said holding up a torn out ad for “Blanca” reading:
For the Discerning Gentleman
Blanca – A Vision in White
Elegant. Mysterious. Unforgettable.

The face of an angel and the sins of the devil — Silk skin, sugar lips, and a touch that’ll leave you breathless.
No law enforcement. No time-wasters. Serious inquiries only.

Nadia planted a big kiss on the ad leaving a distinctive pink lip mark on the ad.

“Now?” Nadia asked excitedly.

“We attack,” I said as we headed out.

As we ascended the steps to Victor’s brownstone cloaked in the shadows thrown across the stairs, Nadia seemed to freeze. Her eyes told me to look up and as I did, I saw it — the camera staring right down at the front mat. I crouched quietly in the darkness and delicately slid the outcall ad over towards the doormat lightly putting a pebble from the garden on top of it to hold it in place.

As Nadia and I fled Perry street, we popped into a nondescript Coffee shop and shared a Denver omelette as some cops leered at us in our nightwalker outfits.

“What now?” Nadia asked with growing unease.

“We wait,” I assured her, “He’ll call.”

Coincidentally, “Don’t You Want Me?” By The Human League played on a stereo behind the counter and even I had to admit I was feeling like a girl waiting by a phone that never rang even though I called and checked the apartment machine every chance I got.

Finally, in between coffee cups 3 and 4, I checked the machine again and heard Victor’s shaky voice asking for ‘Blanca.’”

“Showtime,” I said throwing down a crisp ten dollar bill as Nadia and I pulled ourselves together and headed out towards Perry Street.

“What about you?” Nadia asked as if I hadn’t thought of everything already.

“Trust me,” I told her coolly and confidently, “Victor is going to think he won the fucking lottery.”

114 Perry St, New York, NY, 1988

Nadia rapped her knuckles on Victor’s door as we heard the deadbolt sliding open with a thunk. As the door opened, Victor looked at Nadia smiling like how a lion looks at a gazelle smothered in alfredo. “Blanca,” he purred as he pulled her close and nuzzled her neck and I saw Nadia’s eyes scream in disgust.

Nadia pulled herself away and ran her hand down my arm as if showing off a prized piece of art, “I brought my friend Lana to play with us,” she said as I resisted every urge to wretch.

Victor escorted us inside and I looked up at the camera as if to say fuck you with my eyes. As we approached his living room I noticed it was surrounded by baroque looking lamps as he turned on his stereo and the synth-y sounds of The Pet Shop Boys’ “West End Girls” filled the room.

As Victor began leading us to the living room, I saw Nadia fumbling with her necklace. In the settings of the necklace, I placed several fast-acting lozenges that contained a nuerotoxin capable of incapacitating a target. The only key? They had to be introduced into a target’s mouth quickly before one of us passed out. Nadia made quick work of shimmying along to the music giving Victor everything he thought he dreamed of and then some.

Victor slid the fur coat off of Nadia tossing it on his sofa as he moved towards his bar cart and poured three glasses of Scotch.

Nadia slowly shimmied out of her bra and panties and laid out across the sofa as if offering herself to Victor. As he navigated over towards us his smile parted wider than the Holland Tunnel. Handing us the glasses, I saw Nadia’s hands pressing at one of the dainty jewels in the settings on her necklace.

Nadia took a sip of the Scotch and then tipped the glass some spilling some Scotch on her chest as it traced a line down her chest and around the underside of her breast.

“Oops,” she said in her practiced but broken English.

“Clean me up?” She cooed at Victor as best she could without giving a hint of her true accent.

Victor happily leaned in and began to softly lick up the Scotch as I saw Nadia put one of the jeweled lozenges in her mouth. I saw her lightly sucking on it and then she pulled Victor to her mouth and began kissing him passionately as his hands pawed at her body. I could see her tongue darting in and out of his mouth and somewhere in this exchange I could see her pass the lozenge from her mouth into his. Bingo, I thought.

Nadia watched me with her eyes as Victor pawed away at her like a horny teenager, her eyes begging me to tell her how much longer before this damn lozenge kicked in.

I told her with my eyes and my posture to relax and that everything would be alright, that I wouldn’t let anything happen to her and I meant it. Victor sat up and looked around somewhat woozy.

“I feel kind of weird,” he muttered and I opened my arms beckoning him closer to me. “I’ll make you feel better,” I said in dulcet tones inviting him closer.

Victor wrapped his body around mine and starting wheezing so I knew my time was here. I delicately reached behind my head and pulled one of the long pins out of my hair holding it in the air to see the point above my head and how it shimmered in the light of Victor’s living room. I drove the pin down into his neck just below his ear and waited as the poison coursed through his system until I felt his body begin lightly convulsing before going rigid. I pushed his body and rolled it off of me watching it fall from the couch to the floor with a thud.

“Payday,” I told Nadia in Russian.

We stood and moved towards the entryway, I spotted a small closet with Victor’s camera equipment, I took the tape with us on it out of the recorder and put it into my bag and we stepped out into the early morning hours of Perry Street and we didn’t stop walking until we came to the West Side Highway. As we came to the far western edge of Manhattan, I looked at Nadia, her hair blowing delicately in the early morning breeze.

Looking out towards New Jersey, I told her, “Ты это сделала, поздравляю/You did it, congratulations.”

Looking at me, Nadia scrunched her face and said with a Soviet harshness in her voice brimming with defiance, “Мы сделали это вместе/No, we did it…together,” she said as a new day began under a new dawn, brimming with the sounds of the city humming to life around us and all the promise those songs held.