Day 1 Evening - "Just a Whore"

The night was grinding to a halt at Murphy’s “Down The Hatch.”

Though most of the barstools were still held, the tables throughout were largely clear, save for the odd patron who was already sleeping the night’s effects off. The last card game had folded an hour hence, the meagre winnings of the night divided between Dorian’s pocket and the purse of the whore who now rested her back to his shoulder as they shared the piano bench. Dorian was stripped down to rolled up shirtsleeves and trousers. The whore wore an ankle length skirt of thin pleats, and Dorian’s vest, of which only the bottom two buttons had been used. She took a drag from her cigarette, then turned to press it to his lips.

“No, thank yah, darlin’,” he turned his head away from the smoke. “A habit Ah nevah took up.”

“Den,” she offered the glass instead, “you might be wantin’ dees?”

Dorian allowed her to pour the shot into his mouth, lifting his chin as she tilted the glass to his lips. “How does she do it?” he asked aloud. “Yah must be a clairvoyant,” he drawled, his fingers never leaving the keys of the old upright piano.

The melody came forth, played a bit more slowly than the original, but Dorian wasn’t in a hurry. The piano here at Murphy’s was more or less as want for tuning as the one he’d played earlier tonight at the Chavez home. Both emitted a thin, spindly sort of tone that could turn even the latest popular song into a work of antiquity. Playing for Marisol’s children had awakened a certain melancholy within him tonight. Never one to delve into such morose feelings, Dorian sought out the time tested cures of liquor, cards, and agreeable company.

“Dot music,” the whore, name of Felicity, whispered at his shoulder. “I haven’t heard it before.”

Dorian played, then allowed his head to more or less loll in her direction. “It’s very old,” he slurred mildly. “From Earth-That-Was.”

“Oh,” she nodded, sending a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “Ees classical, den.”

He shrugged, lifting his head. “One might say.”

She turned, then draped an arm around his shoulders. “Are dere words?”

“Lyrics?”

“Yeah.”

“There are,” Dorian said, “but Ah won’t sing them.”

Her embrace became playful. “Oh, come on!” she laughed. “Do it for me?”

“Not even fah them,” Dorian cast a lopsided grin as he swooped in to nuzzle her breasts.

The whore laughed. “Mister Dorian, you a bod mon, you know dat?”

He laughed with her. “Ah do. Ah also know that mah singin’ voice is like tah get stray cats humpin’ all ovah this town.”

“Please?” she asked. “say de lyrics for me? It’s like poetry den…right?”

“Curse you, vile woman,” Dorian chuckled as he gestured for another drink with his chin. “Curse you and yah indefatigable logic.” As the next drink burned its’ way down his throat, he paused, then rolled the melody back around to its’ overture. “Ah may butcher this,” he said, “but here goes.”

“A small Jean Genie snuck off tah tha city,
Strung out on lasahs and slash-back blazahs
Ate all yah razahs while pulling tha waiters,
Talkin’ ‘bout Monroe and walkin’ on Snow White.
New York’s a go-go and evahthing tastes nice…”

“Mister? Hey mister!” The voice came from above. Adler reeled slightly at the piano as he lifted his head. Staring down upon him from the second floor balcony was a tall woman, mid forties, her dressing gown open to reveal an intricate laceup corset whose neckline fought a losing battle to contain her bosom.

“Dot’s Miss Claudine,” Felicity whispered. “De house Madame.”

“To what do Ah owe tha pleasure?” he slurred.

“You some kinda doctor?” she asked.

“No….but Ah play one on that ship ovah there!” he chortled, amused at his own joke. Ah, whiskey…

“Don’t got time for no *Tā mā de*,” she barked. “Got a girl what’s hurt up here. Is ya, or aintcha?”

With Felicity to steady him, Dorian negotiated the stairs to meet the scowling madame. “Where’s tha patient?” he asked.

“Just how drunk are you?” Claudine demanded.

“Knee walkin’, mah dear. But mah eyes still work. Felicity, please get mah bag from yah room.” Dorian followed the madame to a door near the end of the hall, around which several of the girls were gathered. At Claudine’s demand, they cleared a path for the wobbling healer. The scene was a violent spatter of blood, all radiating from the head of a simple bed where a girl of startling young age lay. “*Cāo wǒ,*”\* he whispered at the sight of her. “She’s youngah than Maria.”

Eyes glistening in pain and fear regarded him from a solid cover of blood soaked towels. The girls who tended her pressed them firmly against her face, their own hands and lingerie now likewise soaked. “We can’t stop the bleedin,” one of them said as she attempted to move for the doctor. “Cuts are fearful deep,” her voice cracked as she tried to offer something of use.

“More towels,” Dorian ordered as he sat upon the bed with the girl. “Bring warm water, and some rags. Felicity? Mah bag?”

“Here.”

The case slid into his peripheral view as he pulled a bedside lamp closer. “Here’s how this works, girls. Keep yah hands on those towels ‘til Ah say pull it off. Ah need someone handy with that water an’ rags.” He opened his medical bag. “Felicity,” he handed her a roll of cloth tape, “tear off pieces of this when Ah say…*dohn mah*? Good. First thing’s first.” Dorian rummaged through the bag, reading one label after another. He popped a blue capsule from its’ bottle, then crushed it beneath his nose. He inhaled, the air hissing up both nostrils as he breathed deep the foul smelling contents. “Uuh!” he grimaced. “Yī zhǐ liǎng zhī è gǒu de érzi!”\*\*

“What are you doing?” Claudine asked.

“Gettin’ sober.” As the fog of his debaucheries cleared, Adler said, “alright. Forehead first. Now.” The towel lifted, permitting a fresh veil of blood to pour from a clean horizontal slice. “Head lac…very clean. Not serious,” Dorian said of the wound. “Don’t worry. Head wounds bleed a lot. Mop that blood now. Felicity? Tape…’bout that long,” he ordered, gauging the distance with his index fingers. “*Mei mei*,” he said to the frightened girl, “Ah’m tapin’ each of these injuries so we can clean yah up a bit. Then Ah’ll see about closin’ em proper. Can yah tell us what happened?”

“My…last john,” she stammered. “Said he liked…said he…liked it rough. I been knocked about before…I said okay. Then come a knife…”

“A knife,” he repeated. “What’d this man look like, hon?”

The second towel came away as she spoke, revealing a deep diagonal slash from her left temple down to just above her chin. Dorian maintained a neutral expression, but the realization of what he was seeing lay like a stone in his stomach. He quickly taped the wound to temporarily staunch the bloodflow.

“Tall…real clean cut…dressed mighty nice. Got a real clean beard. Said he was in town for the opera.”

Dorian examined the third wound, a horizontal cut that laid her cheek open all the way to her mouth. “Has anyone called tha marshall?”

“What for?” Claudine asked. “She’s just a whore, Doc. High toned gent like that. Marshal’s just gonna tip his hat ‘n’ step aside.” The madame gestured toward her girl. “What can you do for her?”

Dorian used a damp rag to wipe the blood from his hands. “Liquid suture the forehead By the time it’s healed, shouldn’t look more than a worry crease,” he said. “These two?” he said of the severe cuts. “There’s underlying muscle damage. Got no choice but to suture that.”

The color drained from a number of faces in the room. “But,” Claudine gasped, “what about her face?”

“The cuts are very clean,” Dorian offered. The scars should be narrow…”

“Scars?” the girl asked. “I can’t have scars! I just started! Claudine! Please!” Fresh tears filled her eyes as they darted in search of anyone who’d refuse the nightmare.

“You don’t got anyting better?” Felicity asked.

Dorian shook his head. “What about tha town doctah? Ah met him earlier tahday…”

Claudine shook her head. “He’s a hack…won’t lance a boil without givin’ one of my girls a pelvic exam. We fare better with the boat medics.”

“Central planets,” Adler suggested. “Deep tissue and muscle fiber rebonding is somethin’ they’ve developed…can ya take her?” He knew before the words left his mouth that Claudine had already performed the grim calculus. There’d be no flight to Osiris. Not for a Santo whore.

“Stitch her up, Doc.”

“Very well.” He set to work on the most serious wound, the horizontal slash. Moving as cautiously as he could, he began a row of the most tightly placed suturings his skill could manage. Beneath his hands, the girl wept quietly for her future. A couple of the other girls could be heard sobbing, before Claudine ordered them out.

Everyone here understood just what would now lie in store. When a customer was willing to pay for service either too violent or repugnant in its’ nature for one of the regular girls, the grisly work would forever be hers. For this poor child, life in the ‘verse was about to become many times more cruel.

“Yah’ll be alright,” Dorian lied. “The right bit of makeup…”

Translations:
\* Fuck me
\*\*Son of a two dicked dog