Connie\'s Girl

When Connie Mackenzie entered the offices of Good Neighbor Realty her eyes went straight to the sales board. Connie was  shamelessly materialistic -everything she owned was - well, opulent. Yet nothing gave her more pleasure than that stained, battered Formica board. It was a scorecard, of sorts, showing who at Good Neighbor was producing. Every month for twenty-five years Connie's name was at the top.

But now the board loomed over her like an accusation. She wanted to snatch it down and smash it.

  "Connie, could I see you in my office?"

It was bald, frumpy Lou Wright, the owner of Good Neighbor.

"Sure, Lou, just let me put my purse..." Connie's heart seized. "Lou! What happened to my desk?"

"That's what I want to talk to you about."

"That's my desk, Lou! It's been my desk for twenty-five fucking years!" There was nothing special about the desk - like everything else at Good Neighbor it was cheap and battered,  but it was the window desk, overlooking the strip mall parking lot. It said to anyone who entered Good Neighbor that Connie was the A-Number-One salesperson.

"You know the rules, Connie," said Lou, holding out his hands as if he was helpless in the matter, "Best desk goes to the top producer."

Connie felt her whole body wrench. "I'm the top producer, Lou. You know it!"

"Not according to the board."

"Fuck the board, Lou! I will not stand for this! You take my desk, Lou, and I quit. You hear! I quit, and all my clients go with me!"

"Now, Connie."

"I'm serious, Lou. Serious. You think Rod Harper wouldn't give his left nut for an agent like me?"

Lou thrust his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, a thing he did whenever he got prickled. "Connie, no need for threats. You've got it good here. Why lose it all over a stupid desk?"

"When I joined this agency you were a cunt-hair from bankruptcy! I saved your ass, Lou! I busted my hump closing deals while you sat in your office sucking gin!"

Lou flushed. "Let's not get personal, Connie."

"Personal? Her stuff is in my desk, Lou! How much more fucking personal can it get?" Connie could feel herself hyperventilating. "I'll do it, Lou, I'll walk. I swear I will!"

She wouldn't of course.  Moving to Rod Harper would be starting from scratch, and damn it, she just didn't have the energy.

  Lou knew it too. He shrugged, "If that's what you have to do, Connie, okay. Maybe it's time we got some fresher faces around here."

  Fresher faces - the words cut Connie to the soul. Connie's picture was plastered all over town, on scratchpads, bus stop benches, even a huge billboard just off the interstate, but the photograph was twenty five years old. Clients were always startled to see how much older she really was..

"Don't do this to me, Lou. I'm in a slump, that's all. Just a run of bad luck."

"It's got nothing to do with luck. Things have changed. Customers are more sophisticated, they want facts and figures, not...glitz. Look at yourself, Connie: loud clothes, big hair, a damn pink Cadillac, for god's sake."

  "Yeah, I got all that. And you know what else I got? Loyalty. Sure, she's young and pretty, with business suits and a silver Mercedes, but how much longer you think she's gonna be selling the little shit boxes you list?  What happens when word gets around how good she is? What happens when the commercial boys with their salaries and expense accounts come calling? What have you got to offer compared to that, Lou? This desk?"

  Lou glanced at his watch. "You'll always have a place here, Connie. Now, do us both a favor and just take another desk. I gotta meet a client."

  Connie watched Lou waddle out the door.

There was only one empty desk, way in the back next to the bathroom. On it was a cardboard box filled with all her stuff.

Numb, dazed and defeated, Connie began emptying the box into the drawers. There was a framed photo of Connie and three smiling boys. Connie never corrected clients when they assumed the kids were hers - it was good business for them to believe she was a single mother with three hungry mouths to feed - but in fact they were her nephews. Connie had never married.

When she was done unpacking she slumped down in the chair and cried - a thing she had not done in...well, ever. With a tissue she wiped her tears, took a deep breath, and angrily tore the tissue to shreds. 

  "Connie, are you okay?"

It was the last person Connie wanted to see: Allison Crocker. It was all her fault -a housewife, for god's sake.

  "I'm fine. Just a  touch of allergies."

  "If it has anything to do with the desk, I'll move my things out right now. I didn't want to change in the first place. Lou was just so insistent."

  "Don't be silly! I could care less. Besides, you earned it! Nine closings in a month! Got to be a record."

  Allison gave a half smile. "Just a run of good luck."

A run of good luck.

For the past six months Connie's life had been in a downward spiral, and it all began the day Allison Crocker appeared.

Six months ago Allison Crocker had wandered in fresh off the streets, so nervous she was nearly in tears.

"I'm here about the sales position," she had stammered, "Has it been filled?"

That was a laugh, the ad ran year-round. Like every other real estate agency,  Good Neighbor was a revolving door, continually in need of fresh meat to pound and devour. Lou had snatched up an employment application from the table by the water cooler, wrapped an arm around Allison and hustled her into his office. A few minutes later they emerged.

"Allison, this is Connie Mackenzie. Connie has been our top producer for twenty five years running. She'll show you the ropes."

Connie did not mind, in fact, it was a bone of sorts. The new ones usually lasted a month or so, just long enough to list their friends and relatives. Connie would mother-hen her for a few days, and then, when Allison Crocker washed out, all her listing would go to Connie.

So Connie loaded her into the pink Cadillac and off they went to make the rounds.

Allison Crocker's story was so common Connie could have recited it verbatim; husband takes off with his secretary leaving her with two kids hardly out of diapers and a house payment pushing the size of the national debt. Wife is determined the kids' lifestyle will not suffer, which means she needs much more income than she can make as a clerk at the cosmetics counter - she needs a  job where a person with absolutely no skills or experience can make scads of money -  like in real estate. Yeah, right.

Sure, Connie pulled down the big bucks, but real estate was her life. No housewife was willing to make that kind of sacrifice.

Connie did have to admit that though Allison Crocker's story was common, Allison was not. For starters, she was better looking; indeed, she was beautiful.  She had some artsy-fartsy-worth-absolutely-nothing college degree. And she had polish. But most important, she had this fresh-faced innocence. Connie almost felt sorry for her.

The day had been a good one - two listings and a solid offer. To celebrate, Connie had insisted they stop at the King Arthur's Lounge and have a drink. They took a table in a dark corner. Allison was nursing a chardonnay and glancing nervously at her watch. Connie, flush with success and three martinis, was laying out the dirt on Allison's new co-workers. "And Lou's the worst. He plays the nice guy, but he'll short your commissions every time if he thinks he can get away with it," she was saying, leaning in close to be heard over the blare of the juke box. Suddenly, inexplicably, she was so taken by Allison's ingenuous manner and good looks she leaned in and kissed her.

It was hard to tell who was more shocked - Allison or Connie. Allison Crocker had pretended it was nothing. But less than a minute later she had gathered her things, made her excuses, and left.

Connie sat there, clutching an empty martini glass, feeling her whole world, piece by piece, bit by bit, crumble. One moment of weakness and suddenly everything she had struggled the past twenty five years for, was gone. Allison Crocker had discovered Connie's dirty secret, and now Allison owned her.

  "Connie, are you certain?" said Allison, breaking Connie's reverie, "Ten minutes we can have desks switched back again if you want."

What Connie wanted was to claw Allison's eyes out. "Pshaw! Trust me, honey, it means nothing!"

"Okay. But if you change your mind, just let me know." Allison glanced at her watch, an elegant little Cartier she had been recently sporting, "I gotta run, meeting a client at the old Posner place."

  Connie watched Allison Crocker's long, trim legs carry her out the door. Yes, Allison owned her.

Twenty five  years ago, in a town miles from here, fresh out of secretarial school, Connie had set her sights on a husband. Oh, there were lots of suitors, but she could not settle on which boy to marry. That was when she began to suspect perhaps marriage was not her cup of tea. But what was? One thing led to another and one night Connie found herself in a seedy downtown joint - "The Bird's Nest" -  a lesbian bar. It was a strange new world - a whirlwind of sensations and emotions so different and bizarre Connie was uncertain what was real and what was a young girl's rampant imagination. She went every night for a week.

At the end of the week the bar had been raided and everyone in it arrested.

Connie had to spend the night in jail because she was too ashamed to phone her family. No charges were pressed, but to Connie the sense of helplessness and shame had done damage enough. The next day she packed everything she owned and moved here to Walden City, and decided to take a job in real estate, where she could make lots of money and never feel so helpless again. She walked into the Good Neighbor Agency so nervous she was nearly in tears.

It took years of hard work and agonizing loneliness, but Connie built a wall of security around herself. And with one stupid kiss, everything was lost..

  Everything. Even her desk. But Connie was going to change that. She picked up the phone and dredged up a number that had been laying in the murky recesses of her brain for two and a half decades.

  "Bird's Nest," said an impatient voice.

  Connie's throat was so dry the words almost stuck. "Is Maxine there?"

"Hang on, I'll get her."

"Yeah?" came a voice a moment later, unmistakably Maxine's

  "This is Connie Mackenzie. Do you remember me?"

  There was a long pause, then: "How could I forget?"

Connie felt her heart flutter. "Do you still...I mean, I heard once that you..." She couldn't even imagine what to say next.

  "You got lots of money, Connie?"

  "Yes."

  "Just say the name and hang up."

Three weeks later Allison Crocker left Good Neighbor for  a position with the Rob Harper Agency, a guarantee, an expense account, and an exclusive on the swanky riverfront neighborhoods. Lou was so devastated he fell off the wagon and had to go to a clinic.

  Connie saw Allison's picture in the paper a few times, the society section, board member of this or that charity, fund raiser for this or that museum or symphony. Then, one day, her picture made the paper for a different reason. She was missing.

  According to the police investigation, Allison left her office to meet a client at a listing - one of those ritzy secluded places off Highlands. She never arrived.

  A manhunt was organized and Connie volunteered, spending hours at the Good Neighbor copier running off "Have You Seen Me?" flyers, and manning the round-the-clock hotline. She worked so hard, in fact,  the Chief of Police gave her a commendation. But it was all to no avail; a year passed with no sign of Allison Crocker. Connie heard the ex-husband got custody of her kids. She even took a few clients around to show Allison's house, but the place was far too rich for their pocketbooks.

The "Bird's Nest" was a glass door painted pink and tucked in the dying downtown side-street gloom. When Connie pushed the door open a chime sounded. She followed a narrow hallway of walls plastered with tattered movie posters from the nineteen sixties. The place wreaked of disinfectant. The soggy carpet gave like flesh beneath her step.

There was a second door. She pushed this one as well.

   The only light came from juke box in the corner and a neon beer logo over the bar. Three women were seated at a table playing cards. All were decidedly masculine. Especially Maxine.

  "Hello, Connie. Long time no see."

  Maxine had not changed much in twenty five years, harder around the eyes, maybe. All those muscles, there was not much to sag.

Introductions were made, but Connie was too nervous to catch any names.

"Drink?" said one of the women, with a nod to the bar.

"No, thanks," Connie managed.

"Then, let's get down to business," Maxine turned towards the curtained door and shouted: "Pookie! Get your tight little ass out here. Ya' got company!"

Connie heard heels clatter across linoleum and suddenly the curtains parted.

Connie's jaw dropped. Allison Crocker, the prim, conservative business woman and mother was quite changed. Her hair had been bleached and cropped short, in the fashion of someone much younger. Her make-up was hard and sprinkled with glitter. She wore a black lycra skirt no more than a hand from waist to hem, and a pink tube top so narrow it barely hid her nipples. Her platform heels were a good eight inches high. She was chewing gum. The most startling alteration though, was the body jewelry. Each ear was pierced with  a dozen studs, and three large hoops dangled from each lobe. A stud pierced the inner and outer corners of her eyebrows,  another dotted the side of her nose. Four rings hung from her lips and a larger ring dangled from her septum.

"You remember Connie, don't ya, sweetie."

The face formed a smile false as a mask. But the eyes were boiling with emotion, a mélange of hope, fear, humiliation. "Sure."

"Don't be shy," said Maxine, "Give your old friend a proper how-do."

With no hesitation Allison stepped forward, wrapped her arms around Connie and pressed her mouth to hers. Her tongue traced a quick, wet circle around Connie's lips, then wedged its way into Connie's mouth. Curious and quick, it danced across the ridges of Connie's teeth before plunging deep into her mouth. Connie heard herself moan. She had to clutch the edge of the table to keep from falling.

"Good kisser, ain't she?" said one of the women with a laugh..

  Abruptly, Allison pulled away. In a practiced motion, she touched a finger against the corners of her mouth, dabbing the saliva.

  Maxine plopped down a coin, "What say you give your friend a little dance."

"Sure," said Allison with a shrug. Her jewel encrusted nails were too long  to pick up the coin, she had to brush it off the table and into her palm..  She moved across the room in an exaggerated hip-swaying motion.  She slotted the coin into the juke box and punched a few numbers with a knuckle, then stepped up on a rickety wooden box that served as a stage and waited for the music.

It came like a peel of thunder. She danced with her eyes closed, swaying back and forth, tossing her head and running her hands up and down her body.. She was tall to begin with, but in the heels she seemed all legs, and in the scant clothes, all flesh. She wasn't very good, which somehow that made it all the more enticing.

  "Ain't no law here,"  Maxine shouted over the music, "Give us the full show."

In one motion the top was off, revealing small, magnificent breasts curling up like a pair of apostrophes, the aureoles puffy, with nipples taut enough to hang a hat on.

  The skirt came off easily, but getting the thong down those legs and past the heels was a gymnastic maneuver of gold medal proportions.

  Allison Crocker's sex was completely shaved. And her  flesh had nary a tan line. What Connie saw next took her breath away. On Allison's ass cheek in bold, gothic lettering, was a tattoo. It read: "Connie's Girl."

When the music was done she stepped down from the box, snatched the clothes from the floor and in a motion almost too quick for the eye, she was dressed again. In  a single stride she was back at Maxine's side, hands on her hips, pelvis cocked, snapping her gum.

  "What do you think?" said Maxine.

  Connie felt she might faint. All she could do was nod.

   Like the strike of a snake, Maxine's hand shot up and grabbed a handful of Allison's hair. The woman winced in pain but did not resist as Maxine  pulled her head down until it was only inches from her own.

  "You mind Connie just like you mind me. Understand?"

  Allison shrugged. "Sure."

  Maxine's face folded into a look hard enough to crush diamonds. "We clear on that, young lady?" 

   For a instant the petulant teen façade dissolved, revealing the face of a woman paralyzed with fear. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Good." She released Allison's ear. "See-ya'-wouldn't-want-to-be-ya'!" she hooted and gave Allison a firm slap on the ass.

  Trembling, tottering on the impossibly high heels. Allison  Crocker followed  Connie to the parking lot.

They made the ride back to Walden City in silence, Allison motionless, arms folded across her chest, staring straight ahead out the windshield of the pink Cadillac. Connie, on the other hand, had a hard time keeping her eyes on the rode. Her gaze kept wandering over to all that exposed, tan flesh.

Twice Connie almost missed her turns. She couldn't concentrate, the image of that tattoo was emblazoned on her mind. "Connie's Girl". One of Connie's nephews had gotten a tattoo; for the first several weeks it was swollen and washed-out looking. Not the one on Allison's ass. It looked settled. Connie wondered how long Allison had known she was "Connie's Girl".

Connie had had a year to prepare for this, but still she was - overwhelmed. It was both exactly what she imagined and not at all. She had expected submission, that was, after all, Maxine's specialty, but the indolent teenager act - not just the dress and manners - but the attitude, was a surprise. Not that Connie was complaining - a thirty-year-old successful businesswoman and mother of two reduced to a snotty, rebellious teenager was oddly titillating. But what was the purpose of it? Then it struck her, Connie had been exactly the same way those twenty five years ago when she had sauntered into the Bird's Nest and took center stage. Maxine had re-created young Connie.

  Only once, as they entered the city limits, did Allison make a sound - a sob, which she quickly choked down. They had just passed Allison's old house.

   A few moments later the Cadillac rolled into the driveway of Connie's bungalow. "Home again, home again, jiggedy-jig," said Connie, nervously.

  The house was a split-level built in the fifties, in a neighborhood that had not managed to keep up with the market. The architecture had strived for modern, but missed the mark, landing something nearer the Jettson's, only landlocked. But Connie liked it. It was set back from the street and nearly lost in the tropical vegetation she had cultivated.

  Connie gave Allison a quick tour of the interior, falling easily into her realtor's spiel, even mentioning the good schools in the neighborhood. Connie was proud of her place; lots of gold gilt and shag carpet, classic stuff you just couldn't find anymore. Allison took it all in without comment.

The last item on the tour was the bedroom.

  The bedroom was much like the rest of the house, with a single exception - coiled on the floor was fifteen feet of chain.  One end of the chain was bolted to the floor, right into the slab. On the other end was a padlock.   The chain was long enough for Allison to reach the bathroom, but otherwise kept her near the bed. The chain was not a precaution; Maxine had assured Connie there would be no escape attempts - "Oh, she won't do nothin' that might get her sent back to me," Maxine had said with a laugh. No, to Connie the chain was a symbol of ownership.

   "Let's get you settled in," said Connie.  Expecting the first confrontation, or in the least, having to make an awkward explanation, Connie's heart was pounding. But no objection was made,  Allison seemed to know exactly what the chain was for. Without a word, she leaned forward so Connie could easily lock it around her throat.

  The lock clicked shut with a sound of infinite finality. "There. That should do nicely," she said, for lack of anything else. For the first time Connie was aware of how -especially in those heels - Allison towered over her..

  "Well, I had best be getting to work,"

There was a pause, then Allison, without looking at Connie, said: "Am I allowed on the furniture?" She asked it in the same way a teenager might ask about staying out past curfew.

"No," said Connie, surprised by her own answer.

Allison rolled her eyes and gave a petulant little sigh, but nothing more. Connie left the room, leaving the door open behind her. She did not go to work immediately, but puttered around the house for several minutes. When glided past the bedroom she glanced through the door. Allison was exactly as Connie had left her, standing at the foot of the bed, hip cocked, arms folded across her chest, the chain around her throat dangling to the floor.

The phone call Connie had made to Maxine all those months ago had been only that, a brief conversation with a voice miles away; the year Connie had spent afterwards, biding her time, carrying on with her life as though nothing were out of the ordinary - had made it easy for her to feel removed from the events she had set in motion, made it easy to believe the circumstances were purely imagined, easy to feel un-responsible. But now a nearly naked woman was in her bedroom, chained to the foot of her bed, with Connie's name tattooed to her flesh - a woman who had been torn from children, family and life - Connie experienced a sudden and nearly overwhelming sense of guilt. She wanted in to rush in, fall to her knees and beg Allison Crocker to forgive her, swear to undo all the wrongs, if only Allison...But that was it, wasn't it. Undoing would mean arrest, humiliation and ultimately prison for Connie. She snatched up her keys and headed for her car.

  Connie spent the afternoon with a pair of newlyweds, touring fixer-uppers. She should have done a better job, but she was distracted, her thoughts wandered constantly back to the woman in her bedroom, so she was amazed when the couple signed an offer. Definitely, her luck was turning.

  She returned home to find Allison sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, the chain depending from her neck, spilling across her thighs and the floor. Nothing in the room appeared to have been touched Without word Connie tossed her the bag containing a burger and fries she had picked up on the way. Allison tore into it hungrily.

  Connie tried to cook herself dinner, but quit midway with no appetite. It was too early for bed but Connie could wait no longer.

  She showered, brushed her teeth, donned her pajamas and climbed into bed.

  "Bedtime," she said to Allison when she could think of nothing else to say. "There's a toothbrush by the sink."

The woman climbed to her feet - no easy task in those shoes - and sauntered towards the bathroom, the chain trailing out behind her. A few moments later she returned.

Connie's heart was pounding, her mouth was dry and she hadn't a clue what to do or say next. But Allison needed no prompting. In precisely the same motion she had used in the striptease at the Bird's Nest, she slipped out of her clothes. This time the shoes came off as well. Naked, she slid under the covers and up against Connie. She pressed her mouth to Connie's and gave her the same deep, practiced  kiss she had given her earlier that day at the Bird's Nest. The ring in her nose felt cold against Connie's lip.  Her hands worked up Connie's pajama top as she kissed hungrily at her throat. Connie may have mewled. She hoped not. Allison's naked flesh was hot against hers but the chain between them was cold as ice.

Connie had never lain with a woman, never lain with anyone, and she felt awkward and inept. Her hand thrust clumsily between Allison's thighs and her fingers found Allison's sex. Allison stiffened. Connie feared it was from revulsion.

Allison mumbled "Sorry," rolled off Connie and with one hand began stroking vigorously at her own sex while the other hand caressed her own breasts. It took Connie a moment to piece it together. Allison's apology was for not being aroused  - Connie's finger had found it dry -and Allison was now earnestly trying to rectify the failure.