William Kienzle - Chameleon

Why would a nun be on the make?

Wait a minute, I think I heard this one. But the way I heard it, the nun leaves the-whaddya call it? the convent, the order, whatever. Its the middle of the school year, the wrong time for the job market, her being a teacher and everything. So, to tide her over, she gets a job as a hooker. And she does fantastic business.

Her pimp cant figure it out. She isnt that great a looker, but shes bringing in twice the trade of any of his other girls. So, to learn how she does it, the pimp bugs her room. He hears her, usin that tone of voice kindergarten teachers use-only shes talkin to a john. And shes sayin, No, no! Youre doing it all wrong. Youre going to have to do it over and over again until you get it right!

Very funny. But I wasnt joking.

Whaddya mean?

Over there Under cover of his newspaper he gestured toward the far side of the lobby of the Pontchartrain.

What? The other mans eyes followed the direction of the gesture, but he could detect nothing out of the ordinary.

Over there, Fred: sitting on the couch near the lamp. Shes doing her nails.

Fred pinpointed her. Oh, yeah, What gives you the idea shes a nun?

Thats about as uniformed as they get nowadays. Its called a modified habit.

Thats a nun? Fred was not buying it. Not yet. Go on! Ive seen pictures of them!

Lately?

Sure! On TV. Ingrid Bergman. Loretta Young.

Fred, those are old movies. You find a nun dressed in an oldfashioned habit from head to toe now, shes in a nursing home or shes wacko or senile.

Well, pardon me, Al; we cant all be good Catholics like you.

Just read a paper once in a while, willya, Fred.

Why? You can get all the news you need in a half hour on TV.

Even so, you musta seen nuns on the news. Theyre always protesting nuclear power plants or war or theyre feeding the poor or something.

Oh, yeah, theres Mother Teresa, I know her, But she wears the habit.

Thats a sari. But Ill give you it looks like a habit. Havent you seen any of the other nuns?

Al, if theyre not wearin a habit, how would I know?

Well, for one thing, the TV reporter identifies them.

I guess I havent been payin that much attention. Fred sounded repentant. But take that little lady over there. Howd you know shes a nun?

The veil mostly.

Thats a veil? Dont look like a veil to me. Not a nun-type veil. Wheres that stuff they used to wear around their faces that pinched their cheeks and mouth?

Al sighed deeply. He would not have made a patient teacher. Thats why I called it a modified habit. The veil sits back on her head, lets her hair show. Its supposed to remind you of what the wimple-the old veil-was like. Same with the rest of the habit uniform would be a better name for it. His tone made it clear he intended the term to be derogatory. Continuing the comparison, he added, And that starched white collar is whats left of the you know, the bib. Theres even a scapular.

A what?

That strip of cloth that hangs down fore and aft. It covers her shoulders. Thats why they call it a scapular.

Fred was impressed. God, Al, I had no idea you knew so much about nuns. I didnt know anybody knew that much. Fred mulled over his newfound respect for the religious insight of his companion. Okay, so shes a nun. But what makes you think shes a hooker? I mean, I got a problem with that. A nun a hastler? Sheesh! That almost makes me sick to my stomach. Maybe youre wrong, Al. Fred sounded as if he were praying that his otherwise knowledgeable friend was mistaken.

Maybe, but I dont think so. When was the last time you saw a nun who looked like that?

Geez, I dont know. The last time I can remember seeing nuns, all they had was faces and hands. Everything else was covered up.

Okay, well, take my word for it: Nuns-even todays nuns-dont look like that. Doing her nails in public? Come on! And look at the makeup: Thats practically professional!

Yeah! As Fred studied the woman in earnest, he began to appreciate her less as a possible nun and more as a desirable object.

Dont get me wrong, Al continued, nuns today may dress like everybody else or with a hint of a uniform like that one, but theyre usually kind of well plain. Maybe a little makeup, but nothing like that.

Nuns dont necessarily prefer Hanes, huh? Fred smiled. He enjoyed women more than just about everything else in life. He felt a growing excitement in the possibility that this fantastic-looking female might be a nun and a hooker as well.

So, Fred, I may be wrong, but I think shes here to turn a trick. You and I, we travel the country often enough as sales reps to know what a hooker looks like, how she acts.

Fred was grinning. Hey, Al, whaddya say we hit on her? I mean, if shes really selling, Id be glad to do a little buying. Whaddya say?

Al shook his head. Frankly, Fred, I dont think we could afford her.

She held up her hand, examined the tips of the spread fingers approvingly, tucked the emery board into her purse, and checked her watch.

She tapped her fingers against her knee. Time was not a significant consideration. Her basic charge was computed by the hour, and she had no other business on her schedule tonight. Nevertheless, waiting, killing time, made her fidgety.

As she glanced around the lobby she spotted the two men obviously studying her. They were seated far across the room, but there was no mistaking their interest.

She was used to this sort of reaction. She was a strikingly beautiful woman and she knew it.

But there was something out of the ordinary about those two across the room. At least about one of them. One was looking at her with that familiar lust to which she had grown accustomed. But the other one wore an expression that could best be described as disgust. Now why would-then she remembered: She was wearing the habit.

She almost smiled. Instead, she carefully curled a lip.

It worked. In a few seconds the two men exchanged a few words and then left the lobby. She had it all to herself. Just right.

One of the problems with being unoccupied, as she was now, was that it gave one time to think. She didnt want time on her hands. She didnt want to think.

That guy-the one who had been regarding her with such distaste-he reminded her of someone. Who?

Her memory searched the distant past. Way back to the days when shed been a student at Sacred Heart school in Dearborn. Yes, that was it: Monsignor Hardy. Hed always reminded her of someone who had just smelled something repugnant.

More than once, no, frequently, she had been marched into Monsignor Hardys office in the rectory. Little Helen Donovan had been bad, had broken some rule, had violated some rule not yet legislated, had given scandal. Little Helen Donovan needed to be lectured, and then, after what passed for a fair trial in the parochial school of old, punished.

But that was it: old Monsignor Hardy used to look at her just the way that stranger had tonight.

It didnt matter. She was not going to continue this line of work forever. For one thing, it was far too dangerous. You never knew what sort of client you were going to entertain. Often enough it was just an insecure guy after some variety or a thrill that he thought only a pro could deliver.

But there were the other times when the john was a certifiable sicko. She shuddered. Those dicey episodes were only too easy to recall and too painful to ponder voluntarily.

Then too, she had done well-very well-financially. She felt sure she was on the verge of a secure future no matter what happened. Then-when that magic moment arrived-she could quit. She wasnt certain when it would happen. But shed know when it did.

He was walking across the lobby in her direction. Even if he had not been headed straight for her, she would have known. Moderate height, moderate build, balding, dark hair clipped tight to the scalp. But it was his expression that identified him. It was a singular mixture of self-confidence, embarrassment, bravado, and ingenuousness. Shed seen it all too many times.