Strip Tease (3 page)

“Creep,” Monique Jr. said.

“He’s not so bad.” Erin slipped into a blue terrycloth robe and a pair of sandals. She told the other dancers about Shad’s plan for the dead roach.

“Yogurt!” Monique Jr. cried. “God, that’s disgusting.”

Urbana Sprawl said, “I hope it works. I hope he gets a million bucks and goes off to live in Tahiti.”

Dream on, thought Erin. Shad wasn’t going anywhere unless Mr. Orly told him to go.

Orly’s office was done in imitation red velvet. He hated it as much as anyone. The vivid decor had been the choice of the club’s previous owner, before he was shot and dumped in the diamond lane of Interstate 95. Orly said the crime had nothing to do with the man’s taste for imitation velvet, but rather with his inability to account for gross profits in a timely fashion. Meaning he’d skimmed. The imitation velvet remained on Orly’s walls to remind employees that, unless one is very good at it, one does not skim from professional skimmers.

As the dancers assembled before Orly’s desk, he became overwhelmed by the commingling of fruity perfumes, and began to sneeze and cough spasmodically. Shad brought a box of tissues and a can of Dr. Pepper. Orly made quite a spectacle of blowing his nose and then examining the tissue, to see what had been expelled. Erin looked at Urbana Sprawl and rolled her eyes. The man was a pig.

“All right,” Orly began. “Tonight let’s talk about the dancing. I been hearing complaints.”

None of the strippers said a word. Orly shrugged, and went on: “Basically, here’s the problem: You girls gotta move more. By that, I mean your asses and also your boobs. I was watching tonight and some of you, I swear, it’s like watchin’ a corpse rot. Not even a twitch.” Orly paused and popped open the Dr. Pepper, which foamed out of the can. When he licked the rim with his tongue, several of the dancers groaned.

Orly glanced up and said, “Has somebody got a problem? Because if they do, let’s hear it.”

Erin raised a hand. “Mr. Orly, the style of our dancing depends on the music.”

Orly motioned with the can. “Go on.”

Erin said, “If the songs are fast, we dance fast. If the songs are slow, we dance slow—”

“We been through this before,” he cut in. “You wanted to pick your own songs, and I says fine on the condition that they’re good hot dance songs. But some a this shit, I swear, it’s elevator music.”

Urbana Sprawl said, “Janet Jackson, Madonna—I don’t call that elevator music. Paula Abdul? Come on.”

This was the wrong approach with Orly, who didn’t know Janet Jackson from Bo Jackson. He put down the soft drink and rubbed the moisture into his palms. “All I know is, tonight I see a guy sleeping like a baby at table four. Sleeping His face is maybe twelve inches from Sabrina’s fur pie, and the guy is fucking snoring. With my own eyes I gotta see this.” Orly sat forward and raised his voice. “Tell me what kind of a stripper puts a customer to sleep!”

Sabrina, who was combing a chestnut wig on her lap, said nothing. The dancers preferred not to argue with Mr. Orly, who was boastful about his connections to organized crime. Besides, some of the women weren’t very good on stage, and they knew it ‘listless’ was a charitable way to describe their dancing. Erin tried to help with the routines, but generally the other dancers were not keen on rehearsals.

Orly said, “Fast, slow or in between—it doesn’t matter. The point is to take what God gave you and move it around.” He sneezed suddenly, reached for a tissue and plugged it into both nostrils. He continued speaking, the tissue fluttering with each word: “Think of it as humping. Humping to music. What counts is not the goddamn speed, it’s the motion, for Christ’s sake, it’s the attitude. I don’t pay you girls to bore my customers, understand? A man who’s sleeping isn’t buying any of my booze, and he sure as hell ain’t stuffing any cash in your garters.”

It was Erin who spoke up again. “Mr. Orly, you mentioned attitude. I agree we’ve got a morale problem here at the club, but I think I know why.”

This got everybody’s attention. Even Shad perked up.

“It’s the name,” Erin said. “Eager Beaver—it’s a very crude name.”

Orly yanked the tissue out of his nose. Normally he would’ve fired a woman for such a remark, but Erin brought in lots of business for the club. She was one of the few dancers who could actually dance.

“I like ‘Eager Beaver,’” Orly said. “It’s catchy and it’s clever and it damn near rhymes.”

Erin said it was crude and demeaning. “And it’s bad for morale. It gives the impression we’re a bunch of whores, which we’re not.”

Orly told her to lighten up. “It’s a tease, darling. We’re a strip joint, for Christ’s sake, who’s gonna pay a seven-dollar cover to watch nice girls?”

The man had a point, yet Erin persisted. “I’m aware of the nature of our business, but it doesn’t mean we can’t have some pride. When friends and relatives ask where we work, some of us lie about it. Some of us are embarrassed to say the name.”

Orly seemed more amused than offended. He looked at the other dancers and asked, “This true?”

A few nodded. Orly turned to Shad. “How about you? You embarrassed to work here?”

“Oh no,” Shad said. “It’s my life’s ambition.” He winked at Erin, who tried not to laugh.

Orly rocked back in the chair and folded his hands behind his head. His white shirt was stained the color of varnish at both armpits. “The name stays,” he announced.

“What about a contest?” Erin suggested. “To come up with a better one.”

“No!”

Urbana Sprawl said, “I remember when it was the Pleasure Palace. And before that, the Booby Hatch.”

Monique Jr. said, “And I remember when it was Gentleman’s Choice, until the state shut it down for prostitution.”

Orly cringed at the word. “Well, now it’s the Eager Beaver, and it will stay the Eager Beaver as long as I say so.” He still owed two grand on the new marquee.

“Fine,” said Erin, “Eager Beaver it stays. Very classy.”

He ignored her. “The bottom line is, work on your goddamn dancing.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of videotapes. “This is from a joint in Dallas. Take it home, study how good these girls move. Three, four hundred a night in tips is what they make, and I’m not surprised.”

Shad handed a cassette to each of the dancers.

Urbana Sprawl said, “Mr. Orly, I don’t have a VCR.”

“I got one you can rent.”

Erin said, “Four hundred a night, huh? Maybe it’s worth a trip to Dallas. Maybe they’ve got some openings.”

Again, Orly ignored her. “One more item,” he said, “then you can all go home. It’s about what happened the other night. The fight on stage.”

Monique Jr. said it wasn’t much of a fight, just some guy swinging a bottle.

“Whatever,” said Orly. “You didn’t see a damn thing, OK? Anybody asks about it, you go tell Shad.”

Erin was surprised by these instructions. Fights broke out frequently at the Eager Beaver, but Mr. Orly seldom took an interest. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Is it the police?”

“The bottom line is, you don’t get paid to answer questions. You get paid to take off your clothes.” He drained the Dr. Pepper, burped and tossed the can at Shad, who caught it effortlessly. Orly said, “Now. We all clear on this?”

The strippers muttered apathetically.

“Good,” said Orly. He started a sneeze, but caught himself. The dancer named Sabrina shyly raised a hand. Orly told her to make it quick.

She said, “The guy who was sleeping at table four? That wasn’t really my fault, Mr. Orly. He was on pills.”

“Darling, I don’t care if he was on a fucking respirator. In my club, I want their eyes open. Understand?”

The dancers rose and, in an arresting gust of perfume, bustled out of the office. Orly told Erin to hang around for a minute. When they were alone, he said, “That guy didn’t hurt you the other night, did he?”

“Which guy—the one who grabbed me or the one with the champagne bottle?”

“Either,” Orly said. “I mean, if you got hurt, let me know. Cuts, bruises, whatever, we’ll get you to a doctor. It’s on the house.”

On the house? Erin was stunned. She told Orly she was fine.

“Good,” he said, “but just so you know: it won’t happen again. Shad’s been spoken to.”

“It wasn’t his fault—”

He cut her off with the wave of a hand. “A bouncer’s job is to bounce. I pay that asshole good money.”

Erin stood up to leave.

Orly said, “One more thing. I wasn’t talking about you in here tonight. When it comes to the dancing and all—you’re the last girl needs to look at some frigging video. You’re one a the best we ever had.”

“Thank you, Mr. Orly.”

“The music I don’t get. It’s awful damn soft but, hey, you make it work. They can’t take their eyes off you.”

“Thank you,” she said again.

“Keep it up,” Orly said. “You need anything, I mean anything, lemme know.”

Erin walked out of the office absolutely certain that she was in the middle of trouble.

When she got to the car, the man she called Mr. Peepers was waiting.

“My name is Mordecai,” the lawyer said. Over a vast belly he clutched a thin burgundy valise, brushed leather. “I’m here to help in any way I can.”

Paul Guber’s brainpan sloshed with morphine. He tried to speak but it felt as if he were spitting ash. His field of vision was narrow and electrical around the edges, like a cheap television. A woman came into the picture, her lips moving.

“Darling, how do you feel?”

It was Joyce, his fiancée. Paul Guber saw her reach out and touch a lump in the blanket—his left foot. Paul Guber was pleased to discover that he wasn’t paralyzed.

Mordecai said, “Your friends told me what happened. I was sickened, to be very honest. Such a world we live in.”

Paul Guber blinked rapidly to improve his focus.

“You are lucky to be alive,” confided Mordecai.

Paul wasn’t so sure. He wondered what Richard and the others had said to Joyce about the bachelor party. The appearance of a lawyer in his hospital room caused him to suspect the worst.

He opened his mouth to launch a provisional defense, but Mordecai halted him with a flabby pink palm. “It would be better if you didn’t,” the lawyer said, smiling like a wolf.

By way of introduction, Joyce said, “Mordecai is my cousin. Uncle Dan’s oldest son—you met Uncle Dan. I called him the minute I heard what happened.”

She didn’t seem the least bit homicidal. Paul Guber was relieved, but wary.

Mordecai said, “You probably don’t remember much. That’s to be expected.”

But Paul remembered everything. Joyce patted his shins under the bedcovers. “Oh Paul,” she said. “I can’t believe such a thing could happen.”

“In my game,” said Mordecai, “it’s known as gross negligence.”

Paul coughed. It felt like someone had taken a cheese grater to his throat.

“Don’t try to speak,” the lawyer advised again. “You’ve been beaten severely, resulting in physical and emotional damage. Permanent damage, as a result of gross negligence.”

The words came out of a tunnel, but Paul got the general idea. The lawyer was itching to sue somebody. Paul wanted to nip that scheme in the bud—prolonged litigation against a strip joint would please neither his employer nor his future in-laws.

“We’re not interested in who did this,” Mordecai was saying. “We’re interested in how it was allowed to happen. Accountability, in other words. We’re interested in compensation of a magnitude that no simple street thug could afford.”

Joyce moved to the front of the bed and began stroking Paul’s forehead. “Someone’s got to pay for this,” she said quietly.

Mordecai was quick with the follow-through. “You are not the only aggrieved party, Mr. Guber. The cancellation of a wedding is a heart-wrenching event for all concerned. I’m thinking of the bride-to-be.”

“All those engraved invitations,” Joyce elaborated. “The musicians, the florists, the deposit on the reception hall. The Hyatt’s not exactly cheap.”

Paul shut his eyes. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe there was no naked lady dancing to Van Morrison.

The lawyer said, “I could scarcely believe it when your friend Richard described the circumstances. Getting mugged on the grounds of a synagogue!”

Paul groaned involuntarily.

“Don’t worry, we intend to pursue an action,” Mordecai said. “You can depend on it.” He raised the briefcase as if it held some secret power.

“Unh—” said Paul, but Joyce pressed two fingers to his lips.

“Rest now,” she whispered. “We’ll come back later.”

“And not a word to anyone,” said Mordecai the lawyer. “In my game, the best client is a helpless client.”

Paul Guber felt a stab in his arm, and he opened his eyes to see a beautiful nurse injecting him with drugs. He was so grateful he could’ve kissed her on the lips.

Erin’s mother lived in California with her fifth husband. She wrote biweekly letters to Erin—richly detailed accounts of shopping sprees. Always the letters ended with a plea: “Quit that awful job! Leave that awful place! Come live with us!”

Erin’s mother didn’t approve of nude dancing as an occupation. Erin didn’t approve of marrying men for their money. The two women seldom conversed without argument. Each of Erin’s successive stepfathers had offered financial assistance, but Erin wouldn’t take a dime. It infuriated her mother. Money was the name of the game, she would say. We girls ought to stick together!

Erin’s real father, who was also rich, had died in an automobile accident when she was young. One night he got drunk and drove his Eldorado into a drainage canal. The three young women in the back seat managed to climb out and swim to shore. It was just as well for Erin’s father that he did not.

On the way to the funeral, her mother said it was a shame the sonofabitch hadn’t lived, so she could’ve divorced him in a manner consistent with his sins. Over the years, Erin’s mother came to be an expert at divorce, and also at widowhood. It was no coincidence that each of Erin’s stepfathers was wealthier and more elderly than his predecessor. As Erin grew older, she accepted the fact that her mother was a restless gold digger who would never be happy, never be satisfied. On the other hand, her husbands knew exactly what they were getting, and didn’t seem to care. It taught Erin one of life’s great lessons: an attractive woman could get whatever she wanted, because men were so laughably weak. They would do anything for even the distant promise of sex.

Erin had almost forgotten this precept until her marriage broke up, and she was left broke and fighting for her daughter. It hit her on the day her divorce lawyer explained what it might cost to gain permanent custody of Angela. Erin was dumbstruck at the figure, which was more money than an office secretary would earn in two or three years. It all depended, said the lawyer, on how big of a prick her ex-husband Darrell intended to be. The biggest, Erin replied.

She knew then that a regular nine-to-five job wouldn’t do, that she’d have to find another way. That night she’d gone home and stood at the bedroom mirror and slowly removed her clothes, starting with the blouse. It looked ridiculous. She put on some music, Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels, and tried again. Erin had always been a good dancer, but she’d never seen herself dancing in a full-length mirror, stark naked. Even though she had a good figure, she felt silly. She thought: Who in the world would pay to see this?

The next night Erin went to the Eager Beaver to get a sense of the atmosphere. The place was crowded and the music was very loud. It took about an hour before she relaxed enough to take inventory of both the talent and the clientele. Erin noticed that many of the women were extremely poor dancers who tried to compensate with stage gimmicks. A common move was to wheel around, bend over and show off one’s buttocks.

Another trick, when hopelessly out of rhythm, was to halt midstep and lick one’s own index finger in a salacious way. It spurred the male audience from boredom to wild cheers. Erin watched in amusement as customers lurched toward the stage, whistling and waving beer-soaked currency. How easily amused they are! she thought. There was little difference between this and what her mother did; it was the same game of tease, the same basic equation. Use what you’ve got to get what you want.

The following morning, Erin drank two cups of black coffee and phoned her mother in San Diego. “Guess what?” Erin said, and delivered the news in a chirpy tone.

Erin’s mother disapproved. She said it was a tawdry way to make a living, even for a few months. She said it was no place to meet high-class guys.

“The money’s good,” Erin said, “and I think I can do it.”

“Not with those tits,” said her mother.

The modest dimensions of Erin’s breasts had been an issue for a long time. Erin’s mother (who was on her third set of saline implants) believed that surgical enhancement would increase Erin’s chances of attracting a good man. She pointed to Darrell Grant as an example of the lowlife trash that was drawn to small-bosomed women. She insisted there was a mathematical corollary between the size of one’s boobs and the financial viability of one’s suitors.

Erin said she was satisfied with the God-given size of her breasts, and confident that customers would find her sexy.

“Ha!” Erin’s mother said. “You’ll see, young lady. You’ll see who gets the biggest tips—the girls with the knockers, that’s who!”

Erin’s mother was wrong. Her daughter was quite a dancer.

Erin was startled to meet Jerry Killian in the parking lot of the Eager Beaver lounge. He handed her a bouquet of yellow roses, and a small box containing a diamond lavaliere. Then he told her that he loved her more than life itself.

“Try to get a grip,” Erin said.

“I am lost.”

“Obviously.”

“Lost in love!”

Erin said, “You don’t know me. If you’re in love with anything, it’s my dancing. And possibly the fact that I was naked at the time.”

Killian’s face twisted in pain. “I would love you as much,” he said, “if you were a bank teller.”

“Fully clothed?”

“In a potato sack,” he declared.

Erin accepted the roses but gave back the diamond necklace. She unlocked the car and laid the bouquet on the front seat. She felt around on the floorboard for the.32, just in case.

“Erin, I know all about you. Did you read my note?”

“Anybody can go down to the courthouse, Mr. Killian. It’s all in the files.”

Abruptly Killian dropped to one knee, on the pavement. “I’m a serious man.”

“Don’t do this,” Erin said, wearily.

“I love you. I can fix the custody case.” His voice was burning. “I can get your child back.”

Stay cool, thought Erin. She was dying to ask him how it would work, how he would do it. “Mr. Killian, get up. You’re ruining a perfectly good pair of pants.”

Killian maintained his genuflection. He folded his hands at his breast, as if praying. “The judge has aspirations for higher office. He has an eye on the federal bench.”

“And I suppose you’ve got connections.”

Killian glowed. “One phone call, and he will see your case in a different light.”

“I’ll tell you about this judge,” Erin said. “He comes to the club, sits in the back and doodles with himself while I’m dancing.”

Killian said, “That’s good information. We can use that.”

“Forget it—”

“Please,” he cut in, “don’t underestimate me.”

Erin was thinking, What if he can do this thing? What if he’s really got some pull?

“Tell me about your connections. Why should a call from you make a difference?”

Killian said, “Not from me. From a certain United States congressman.”

Erin took the car keys from her purse and jangled them impatiently.

Killian merrily went on: “Think about it, Erin. A U.S. congressman asks a favor. Would you dare say no? Not if you had hopes of getting a federal judgeship. Not if you needed some pull in Washington.”

He touched her arm lightly, and she noticed that his fingers were shaking. He said, “Your little girl—her name is Angela. She belongs with you.”

Erin felt a hitch in her breath. The sound of her daughter’s name, coming from this stranger, filled her with sorrow.

“I’m single myself,” Killian said.

“Don’t get carried away.”

“You’re right, Erin. I’m very sorry.” He stood up, brushed the dirt from his trousers. “I’ve been working on this plan, making progress. Give me another week and you’ll have a new court date. And I think you’ll find the judge to be much more open-minded about the case.”

He was bowing to kiss her hand when Shad tackled him from the side. It hardly qualified as a scuffle, as there was no resistance from Killian. He seemed to go limp. When his eyeglasses flew off, a dreamy look came to his face.

Erin told Shad not to hurt him.

“Why not?”

Killian was stretched out on the damp asphalt. When he raised his head, pebbles stuck comically to one cheek. “I’m a man of my word,” he said in a marbly voice.

Shad pointed at him. “Don’t come back, you little dork.”

“Do you speak for the management?” Killian inquired.

Shad placed a size-thirteen shoe on his windpipe.

“Be careful,” Erin said again.

“It’s so tempting.”

“But I love her,” Killian croaked. “I am lost in love.”

Shad shook his head. “You’re pathetic,” he told Killian. “But you got good taste.”

“Don’t underestimate me. I am not without influence.”

Shad looked at Erin, who shrugged.

“Be my wife,” Killian cried.

Shad leaned over and seized him by the collar. “That’s enough a that,” he said.

Erin started the car. Shad didn’t let Jerry Killian off the ground until she had gone. The next night, in the dressing room, Monique Sr. announced that Carl Perkins was sitting at table seven.

Erin, who was repairing a heel, glanced up and said, “Carl Perkins the guitarist?”