+J.M.J.+
TITLE: Gigolo Turf Wars
AUTHOR: "Matrix Refugee"
RATING: R (Sexual themes)
ARCHIVE: Yes
FEEDBACK: Please, please, please, please!!!
DISCLAIMER: DreamWorks holds Joe's license, I just borrow 'um once in a while.
Chapter Three
Another week passed, then yet another slow night befell me. Cecilia, Tammy, Georgia…a couple other regulars thank God for them, or I wouldn't have earned any decent cash that night.
I was walking back to the Hotel Satine, walking so that the yellowed street lamps and the neon lights of the clubs would catch on my figure, keeping my eyes open, to watch for anyone who looked interested—and to show off one of my very few assets. I'm not much to look at, but I've had customers tell me that they just had to look into my huge dark eyes to change their minds about me.
I looked up the length of the street, up the crowded sidewalk, I saw heads turning, looking back, mostly women's heads, but a few men's heads as well. People stepped aside with unusual graciousness.
A tall, lithe figure made his way through the crowd, coming toward me, half swaggering, half on the verge of dancing. Why just walk when you looked like that? I have to hand it to him, he had the kind of looks I would kill for. The lights gleamed off his patent-leather slick hair, off his wide-skirted leather coat, off the slightly iridescent front of his shirt, off his too perfect skin and his too glassy eyes. He covered the distance between us quickly, but without hurrying, with an easy, nonchalant agility. Think of Fred Astaire's cool grace and eloquent elegance combined with Gene Kelly's easy charm and joie de vivre and flavored liberally with Frank Sinatra's slightly raffish sophistication.
He crossed one foot over the other, executing a perfect pirouette, the skirts of his coat flashing like slow lightning.
"Hey, you!" I called. "Hey, dancing Dan!"
He looked at me, or rather, his eyes swung down to me before he turned his head and tilted it down.
"Yeah, you, the lover-robot."
A thin smile of ironic amusement tweaked the corners of his mouth. "So the impolite manikin seeks to call for me by name—but he has the wrong name."
"Never mind that, it's totally irrelevant. I'm not interested in you, except for a little experiment. What's your hourly rate?"
"Two hundred dollars."
At least they weren't paying any more for it than they pay for me. "I can manage that. But like I said, this is NOT for me."
"If it were, I am not optimized for such services."
"Good, if you were, the very sight of my ugly mug would short out all your circuits."
"What precisely do you want of me? Have you a lonely sister?"
"I've got a friend who's interested in you."
His ears pricked up at this. "Indeed! And you have failed to delight her?"
"It isn't that; Neve and I are just FRIEND friends. Come on."
I put my hand behind his shoulder—man, the thing felt real, he felt warm; his body must have been artificially heated somehow to the same temperature as a flesh and blood human—and led him along the street to the subway entrance where Neve had her usual stand.
She was just setting up, tuning her guitar and humming a few warm-up notes. I made the robo-rent boy wait for me behind a phone booth.
"Hiya, Neve," I said, trying not to sound nervous.
"Hi, Jay. Isn't it a little early for you to be down this way or is business that bad?"
"No, I just wanted to know if you were interested in a free f---."
She wrinkled her nose at me and glared. "What's that you're on, stringer?"
"I'm clean. The boss does drug testing any way. No, I just got this idea: you told me that you wanted to find out what that handsome android was like, you know the one I mean, that weird guy I told you about that was cutting in on my business?"
"So where do I come into the picture?"
"He's waiting for you behind that phone booth over there. We've been arguing over who's better at making a woman happy, so I wondered if you'd like to help settle the argument. You won't have to pay a cent: it's all on me."
"Jay, that's a great idea as a theoretical experiment, but as an actual activity: no, thanks. I was with this guy who wanted it ten times a day, so I've had enough of that for very long time. And I'm considering joining the Dominican Sisters who run the women's shelter over on Houston Street. Y' know, sorta pay back and pay forward the help they gave me."
"Oh…okay," I shrugged. "Suit yourself."
I didn't know anybody else who'd be as unbiased as Neve. The best laid plans of men and machines…
I went back to where the thing waited for me.
"Hey, Joe, or whatever your name is."
He looked at me. "So, I gather she has selected me to be her first?" He—its—eyes started to kindle, or was that glow brighter (his eyes are electrical, after all).
"No, she doesn't want either of us."
"Indeed! Is she merely uninterested or is she a lesbian?"
"I guess she qualifies as uninterested: she's planning to enter a convent of nuns."
His face fell at this. "So unfortunate! With all of us unattached young men who would enjoy the pleasure of her company, she would deny us the delight of delighting her." His face took on a look of calm resignation, then resumed the elegant smolder that he seemed to wear as a trademark. "But this is her decision and we both—you and I alike—must respect it."
"Tell me about it; she's one of the most decent girls I ever met in this town. I guess this means you don't get your two hundred dollars. Sorry about that, Joe."
He shrugged, spreading his long, graceful arms slightly. "You need not feel so. You made the attempt; we had few options at hand."
"I just thought of something."
He tilted his sleek head toward me. "Regarding?"
"I don't think there's any way to really find out which of us is better at making a woman happy, because her choice would be biased by any previous experiences or, if she were a virgin before putting either of us to the test, she'd be most affected by the first one she lay with."
He shrugged again, a little less broadly. "There exist some questions that cannot be answered, to which we can never know the answer, even with perfect logic."
"Well, if that's the case, there's one thing you can do."
He cocked his head. "There is?"
I stood on my tip toes in an effort to get myself up to his level and look him in the eye as I said, "Get your pretty face and your silicon prick off my turf, you damned bucket of bolts!"
Said pretty face crinkled slightly as if to say, 'Can you not speak like a gentleman, you meathead?!', but he replied with a politely nonchalant, "As you wish."
A blonde in a red dress and spike heels passed by, eyeing us both up and down. Of course her eyes lingered the longest over Joe the robot.
"Hey, honey, hey, green-eyes, how much?" she asked.
He darted a glance at me, and with the tone of a shared joke, he said, "Now this question I can answer."
Before I could object, he turned to the blonde and replied, "Two hundred an hour, milady."
"I bet you're worth every penny of it, too," she said. She slipped her arm through his, pulling him to her side. "Could you walk with me to my hotel room?"
I sighed and turned away to return to the agency. I couldn't stand it any longer.
Don't ask me where this bug came from that suddenly got into my head, but in private, and when I was having a profitable night, I felt a little sorry for Joe-the-robot. Wherever he was, when he wasn't on my turf, the poor thing was probably worked to exhaustion (if such a thing was possible) and he probably couldn't know the pleasure of one of the perks of the job. As a big for instance: I've actually been able to sponge a little extra cash off one or two of my wealthier regulars. Our Joe will never have the joy of bleeding a well-heeled woman of a few extra hundred dollars after you've fed her a sob-story about how you'd like to take a break from the racket for a while and go home to see your ailing mother before she dies, but how you can't since you've got college tuition, bills, rent, yadda, yadda, yadda.
I realized very quickly that whoever owned Joe was making a fortune. Our boy didn't have very many needs to pay for, just the occasional batttery or two and repairs. And he was likely to get abused worse and more often by less scrupulous clients.
I actually forgot about Joe for a while. I had a student performance of
*Eugene Onegin* come up, so I had to take time out from work, which didn't please my boss too well, but he didn't let on.
But I quickly remembered Our Boy when I got back on the street.
"Hey, Jay!" Neve called to me one night as I passed by her. "Yoi might want to keep an eye open: Joe's been back." She played a few bars of what I realized was "Call Me" by Blondie.
"Guess I'd better make sure I look my best," I said. "Show that artificial Brit what we American gigolos are made of."
Something odd was in the air when I reached the Hotel Satine and headed up to my room, something almost like an aroma, just detectable over the usual tang of air freshener, perfume, liquor, and old wallpaper.
"Your old friend Joe the robot had been around," Shotsie warned me as I headed downstairs, him on my heels.
"Oh, what happened?" I asked.
"Not much, he pretty much kept out of our way, but then the other night, he kept disappearing with our tricks."
"That's odd," I thought, hoping against hope that the novelty was wearing off for our customers. "You said yourself that tag thing on his chest was probably a turn-off for most women."
"That's what I thought, but we both thought wrong. The sneaky f---er just about stole a gal right from under my nose."
"That's nothing. He just about stole one girl from under me." I don't know why but I immediately regretted saying that.
We'd reached the lobby by now. I leaned against the balustrade, watching the door.
And, like magic, who should--almost literally--waltz in through the door but Joe the robot himself, heading into the bar. I had to admit, he was a pretty little tchotchke, but I doubted he was more than that. Sure, they gave him an electronic brain, but having him wasn't the same as having a flesh and blood man. I mean, you wouldn't have the element of risk, of a woman falling head over heels in love with her temporary innamorato, not unless she didn't mind making a fool of herself. I mean, we had one guy actually go off the floor permanently when he (GASP!!) married one of his regulars. I imagined (read: hoped) Joe would probably vanish when some very wealthy woman took a shine to him and bought him. But I doubted that would last long, since he probably who have an annoying habit of straying off on her, of falling back into his "old" ways.
"Whaddya say we really show this guy how we do it in New Yawk?" Shotsie asked, watching the lobby over my shoudler. "It's your call, Jack. I got Dorian and Jules waiting in the back alleyway."
My instinct was to a hissing "Yesssss!!!!" But my usually dormant better nature kicked in. "No, pal, I can't let you cut him up."
"Why, you got something for 'um? I thought you said you were straight and that's why you can't stand it when you a John calls for you."
"It's not that," I said. I don't know why of a sudden I was defending Joe. "He's just a harmless fella. I don't think he can defend himself, really."
"Yeah, well, we gotta do something about that thing."
I turned around; I was getting irritated now. "Listen, testosterone head, it's not the same as clobbering a regular guy. Any other fella can put up a fight. I don't think Joe's allowed to."
"Well, all the easier for us," he said with an evil grin. With that, he went downstairs.
My blood temp dropped from 98.6 to 75 in less than half a second. "Shotsie, y' can't do dis. Leave da bugger alone!" I called, my accent going from London to Awlb'ny.
"Shut up, Jack. I'm doing this for you, too," Shotsie said over his shoulder and stepped into the bar.
I darted after him, helpless as Shotsie caught up with Joe.
"Hey, you named Joe?" Shotsie asked, approaching him as he stood near one of the carved pillars supporting the ceiling.
Joe turned his flawless green eyes to Shotsie, one eyebrow rising quizzicallly. "They call me that when they ask for me by name."
"Yeah, we got someone who's askin' for you. We t'awt she meant skinny Jack, since some geyrls call 'm Joe," Shotsie explained.
Joe the robot smiled with barely veiled pleasure. "She must have been gravely disappointed when you presented her with that unsightly little mannikin."
My blood temp returned to normal at that point. I wish he wouldn't call me that! But I couldn't stay mad: I knew too much.
"Damn right she did. She t'awt we was playing a prank on her first," Shotsie said, taking Joe by the shoulder and steering him toward the hallway. With Joe alongside him, Shotsie looked more plain than he usually does; the Roman nose he inherited from his Italian mother just looked large and beaky.
"In which case, I shall do my utmost best to alleviate her distress and compensate her for her dismay," Joe said with a smile, ready to oblige. "And where does she desire this encounter?"
"She's waiting in the alleyway; she's curious about having it in a rough place."
"To each her own. Novelty can inspire flagging desires."
They passed me in the hallway. I ran after them.
"Joe, don't listen to him!" I called. "He's got two goons out in the alleyway. They're gonna beat the components out of you!"
"Aw, he's just jealous 'cause she threw him over for *you*," Shotise insinuated.
"He will have his moment," Joe said. "There are enough lonely women out there for us all to serve."
I trailed them through the back rooms, into the kitchen and out through the back door to the alleyway. Once they stepped out into the gap behind the buildings, Shotsie let go of Joe's shoulder.
"You wait here; I'll go get her," Shotsie said, heading out into the night, leaving Joe alone for a second. The bot looked about him, then pushed back the skirts of his long jacket, hooking his thumbs into his trouser pockets.
I touched his arm from behind. He stepped back to half turn toward me, his eyes swinging wide before he dipped his chin to look at me.
"Don't believe him," I said, dead-serious. "I'm not sore because someone threw me over for you and he's not going to find the girl who's looking for you. He's going to get his two cronies who're gonna clobber you for cutting in on their business."
"How do you know this will happen?" he asked, almost naively.
"I know because I've helped these guys beat the crap out of other guys who've tried to work off our turf."
I looked around for a usable weapon. I wasn't about to rip the lid off the metal dumpster off to one end of the alleyway.
Just at that moment, Beronica, better known as "Ronnie" the dishwasher came out with a metal can full of kitchen trash, heading for the dumpster.
"Hey, Ronnie, let me take that for you," I said, taking the trash can from her.
"Gee, thanks, Jack," she said, blushing. She has a crush on me, but on her dishwasher's pay of $7.25 an hour, she stands a snowflake's chance in hell of affording me. But for helping me out of this jam, I decided to reward her with a free one. Thank God she hadn't noticed Joe, who was looking at her curiously.
At that moment, I heard footsteps approach. Shotsie stepped back into the alleyway, Jules and Dorian flanking him in a kind of reversed flying wedge. I stepped back into the open doorway.
"Hey, Jack! Y' gonna pin our pretty-boy for us?" Shotsie yelled.
"Yeah, bring him on," Jules said, taking a pair of brass knuckles from his pocket.
"Get ready to meet yah match, plastic boy," Dorian said, taking a cigarette lighter from his shirt pocket.
From under his coat, Shotise produced an empty glass wine bottle, holding it by the neck. He swung it against one of the walls, smashing the bottom off.
Joe stared at them, his face blank, too-clearly not knowing quite where to run: a brick wall and a dumpster behind him, three thugs in front, and me blocking the kitchen door with the trash can.
With a roar from the gut, I hoisted the can over my head and lunged out, dumping the trash over Shotsie's head. I slammed the bottom of the can into Dorian's face, keeling him over. Jules swung at me with the brass knuckles, but I parried the blow with the can, kicked him in the knee caps and hit him over the head with the can, knocking him to the ground.
Joe ran for the open door, but Shotsie grabbed him by the coattails. He raised the broken bottle, aiming for Joe's neck.
I expected it to slash Joe's simulated flesh, but Joe's hand flew out, catching Shotsie's hand by the wrist.
Shotsie's jaw dropped and his eyes widened. his hand started to tremble and realsed the bottle, which crashed to the ground.
"Ow...OHHH! What the f---?!" Shotsie yowled. He twisted his arm trying to break free of Joe's grip. he tried backing away from Joe, but the 'bot just followed him.
"Care to dance?" Joe asked, almost facetiously.
"Lemme go! Leggo my hand, yer breakin' my wrist!" Shotsie screeched through clenched teeth. Even in the half-light, I could see sweat beading up on his brow.
And then as if a switch had been turned off, Joe let go of Shotsie's hand. Shotsie staggered back, panting, hobbled toward the kitchen, nursing his wrist in the other hand, the skin of his wrist turning purple, then bluish black.
He suddenly turned on me, eyes blazing. "I'm sure of it: you got something for this thing."
"Not the kind of something you've got on your mind," I said.
Without another word, Shotsie limped into the kitchen.
I turned back to Joe. "You better make yourself scarce," I said. Behind us, Jules and Dorian were starting to stir, recovering from the assault.
He looked down at them. "You need not tell me twice," he said. He turned on one foot and sped down the alleyway, out of sight, just as Jules started to prop himself up on one elbow.
I didn't see Shotsie for the rest of the night. Even if I had, I would have stayed out of his way. Before Ronnie went home for the night, I rewarded her for helping me out of the jam.
"This makes you a hero twice over," she said to me afterward, with me still on top of her. "You helped me give the people who diss me something else to talk about and you saved Joe from getting smashed."
"I couldn't just stand by and let three guys wreck him," I said. "You know the stereotype runty kid who gets clobbered by the grade school bully and jeered at by the jocks in high school? That was me."
"You?"
"Yeah, you think the jocks got any respect for the guys in the drama club? They can't even put three words together and pronounce 'em properly, but they manage to corner most of the chicks through sheer brute charm. Fortunately, I had an older cousin who was on the fencing team at the same school. Many's the time Connor had to stick up for me when the linebackers started dissing me."
"But look at you now: and you're getting paid for it too."
"Don't rub it in: this is just what I do for work."
She changed the subject. "So you're paying it forward?"
I sat up and reached for my pants. "Don't turn me into a hero, Ronnie-girl. That's one role I never want to play, especially fro someone like him, who's been cutting in on my business."
"I think you already have," she said, grinning.
The following evening, I was heading out of a club on Houston Street, where I'd met up with someone in a back room, when I spotted Joe standing in the pool of light cast by a lamppost. I know, it sounds like the stereotypical place for a whore to stand, but the way he stood posed there refreshed that image: One hand leaning against the lampost, above his head, the other on his hip, coattails pushed back, one foot behind the other, watching the passersby with warm eyes and a smoldering smile.
I pretended not to notice him and kept walking by, long-stepping so my strides would give the illusion that I'm taller than I really am.
I heard someone's footsteps fall in alongside mine. I paused and turned to find Joe the robot at my side, giving me this ingratiating, cheerful smile that almost melted my heart, he was so damn cute about it.
"What do you want?" I demanded.
"I wanted only to thank you for saving my brain last night," he said. "What you did deserves the name of a noble act."
"I just didn't want you to get jumped by three guys," I said with a shrug. "But let me give you one bit of advice."
He leaned closer to me, head cocked. "You wished to say?"
"Go back where you came from," I snapped. "Next time three guys go after you, you might not be so lucky. You tell your owners or whatever to get you out of this racket. Tell 'em I said so. You don't belong out here on the street, robo-boy."
He had nothing to say to this, his face went slightly blank. But his usual gentle smolder returned to his eyes. He shrugged gracefully. "As you wish. I can only obey," he said.
"Then do it," I said, my teeth clenched.
Before he could say more, I walked away as quickly as I could, not wanting to risk seeing him go off with another customer and to get away from those too-shiny green eyes which I swear looked right through me as I walked away.
I later got the scoop on Joe from Damien the secretary: it seems that some android designers based in Pennsylvania had built Joe and sent him up to New York City (aka. Over-Sexed Women Central) for beta testing. But after Joe reported on the attempted violence directed at him by some of the local flesh and blood male sex workers (read: Shotsie and his cohorts), the designers withdrew our boy from street work.
@--`--
Thank God that was the last time I ever saw Joe the lover robot. It's been thirty years since this happened, and every time I see someone with a companion droid, I can't help remembering Joe the love machine. There's times I catch myself wondering whatever happened to him; my hope is some rich woman bought him and installed him in her home, but I doubt that ever happened. Them that built him probably just moved him to another city, plunked him on some other poor man whore's turf. It was bad enough I had to compete with flesh and blood guys who look better than me, and I was worse still that I have to deal with the anti-vice organizations that are always trying to shut down the only trade I ever found a decent paying job in till I finally got my acting career off the ground, I had to be at odds with something built specifically to do the same kind of work. Damn you, whoever you are, wherever you ware, who designed that thing!
The End