Strip Tease (8 page)

Rojo rose drunkenly and called for a man named Ling. Soon a small Oriental in a black tuxedo and a Yankees cap appeared at the table. He didn’t look like the co-owner of a strip joint, but he was.

“Mr. Ling!” Rojo said, opening his arms. “Give us the scoop on Python Lady.”

“Her name is Lorelei,” said Dilbeck. “Have some respect.”

Rojo sat down. Dilbeck pointed at the cash. “Mr. Ling, you see what’s at stake.”

Ling nodded tolerantly. “You want the knocker report?”

“Indeed we do.”

“Miss Lorelei is a 38-B.”

“Ha!” Dilbeck crowed.

He grabbed for the money but Christopher Rojo caught his arm. “Implants!” the young man hissed. “Tell him, Mr. Ling. Tell him it’s implants, and we halve the bet.”

“No, sir,” Ling said. “Lorelei is all Lorelei.”

“Mierda,” said Rojo.

The congressman gloated as he scooped up the cash.

Ling said, “Only the best at Flesh Farm. Only the finest.”

“Top of the line,” agreed Dilbeck.

“Where else you see a snake so big?” Ling bragged. “Snake like that could eat a pony.”

“So could Lorelei, I’ll bet.” Dilbeck chuckled at his own incredible wit. It wasn’t a light breezy chuckle, though. It was deep and ominous. Erb Crandall went on full alert.

He said, “Davey, it’s getting late.”

“Nonsense.” The congressman lit a cigarette. “Mr. Ling, I would like to meet the python princess.”

“Me, too,” said Christopher Rojo.

Ling shrugged. “With or without the snake?”

“Without,” Dilbeck said. “Tell her I’ve got one of my own.”

Rojo busted a gut. Erb Crandall shifted uneasily. This wasn’t a smart idea, not at all. He said, “Come on, Davey, you’ve got a speech in the morning.”

The congressman postured idiotically. “Four score and seven years ago, our foreskins brought forth a new nation…”

Crandall didn’t smile. Dilbeck said, “All right, Erb, who the hell is it?”

“Chamber of Commerce.”

“Shit.” Dilbeck slapped Rojo’s shoulder. “Chris, you’ve never seen such stiffs. The Chamber of Cadavers is more like it.”

“Still,” said Crandall, “it’s for seven-thirty sharp.”

“We’ll get him there,” Rojo promised.

“So,” said Ling, mildly impatient, “you want a friction dance or what?”

The congressman spread his arms. “Sounds enchanting, Brother Ling. Go fetch what’s-her-face.”

“Miss Lorelei?”

“Absolutely.”

Crandall edged closer to Dilbeck and spoke sternly into his right ear. Dilbeck shook his head back and forth, keeping the drink to his lips the whole time. “One little frictionating lambada” he said with a slurp. “What harm could it do?”

“Yeah,” said Rojo. “Let the poor man have some fun.”

It was useless to object. Crandall removed all loose bottles and other potential weapons from the table. Then he made a slow pass through the club to see if he recognized anyone. He wasn’t worried about the press, because reporters didn’t make enough money to hang out in places like the Flesh Farm. Republicans were what Erb Crandall feared—all it took was one, spying from the shadows, and the Hon. David Lane Dilbeck was cooked. The crummy wig and dark glasses only made him more conspicuous; the chauffeur’s cap, borrowed from the taciturn Pierre, was at least three sizes too small. To keep it from falling off, Dilbeck had pinned it to his wig; every time the cap moved, the hair moved with it. Not even Christopher Rojo seemed to notice. That was one good thing about Dilbeck’s little problem; customers in nudie joints didn’t spend much time scrutinizing each other. The dancers got all the attention.

Tonight the club was scarcely half full, and Crandall spotted no one from the wonderful world of politics. When he returned to the table, the congressman’s chair was empty. Rojo pointed to the rear of the club, where a row of gilded booths lined one wall. The booths were reserved for friction dancing and other private interludes.

“I slipped him two hundred,” Rojo said. “He wanted three but I made it two.”

“Two’s plenty.” Crandall sat down and checked his wrist-watch. He’d give it ten minutes.

Rojo said, “I’m tired, man.” He reached into his coat and took out a tiny foil packet. “You want some blow?”

Erb Crandall felt exhausted. “That’s brilliant, Chris. What a nifty idea. May I?” He unfolded the foil and examined the powder. Rojo smiled encouragingly. Crandall smiled back. Then he hawked up a glob and spit all over Christopher Rojo’s dope.

“Jesus!” Rojo cried.

Crandall pushed the foil across the table. “Get rid of it,” he said, “on your way out the door.”

“You crazy mother!”

“Chris, listen. You’re not gone in thirty seconds, I’ll tell your old man about this. First thing mañana.”

Rojo saw the family trust fund evaporating before his eyes. He hastily wrapped the spit-soaked cocaine in a mono-grammed handkerchief. “There,” he said to Crandall. “You happy now?”

“I said get lost.”

“But what about my turn?”

Crandall didn’t understand the whining.

“With the snake lady, Erb. I’m next after Davey!”

“Take a rain check,” Crandall told him. He got up to search for the congressman. Nothing took David Dilbeck’s mind off his troubles like friction dancing. The sugar vote, the reelection campaign, the wife, the blackmail—who cared? He was alone with the python princess. They were swaying to imaginary Johnny Mathis tunes. The congressman had his hands on Lorelei’s bottom. She was rubbing her delightfully natural protuberances against his middle-aged flab. Her voice sounded sweet and sincere. Her hair smelled like orchids. Dilbeck was getting hard. Life was good.

When he tried to unsnap Lorelei’s top, she blocked the move.

“That’s a no-no,” she whispered.

“What!”

“It’s the law, baby.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“Look, if you want to slow dance, I can’t be naked. That’s the law. I’m naked, you can’t touch me anywhere.”

Dilbeck had a passing knowledge of the county obscenity ordinances.

Lorelei said, “I’m sorry, baby.” She moved her hips against him in sinuous rhythm. “That’s not so bad, is it?” She had him pinned against the door to the booth.

“I’ve got an idea,” Dilbeck said.

“Yeah?”

“What if you get half naked? Then I can touch the part that’s not.”

“Nice try,” Lorelei said, “but it’s all or nothing.”

So they continued dancing until Dilbeck felt himself poking her through his pants. In a low voice, he said, “And what are we going to do about him?”

“Admire it,” Lorelei said, “but that’s all.”

Dilbeck gazed at his groin forlornly.

“Look,” she told him, “you could be a cop for all I know.”

He whipped off the cap and the hairpiece, and presented his true self to the python lady. “I’m not a policeman. I’m a United States congressman.”

“Yeah, and I’m Gloria Steinem.”

Dilbeck sensed from Lorelei’s demeanor that the friction dance would soon be finished.

“How much time do we have?” he asked.

“About forty-five seconds, baby.”

David Dilbeck hurriedly unbuttoned his shirt, dropped to the floor and lay on his back. Lorelei studied him guardedly.

“Dance on me,” he said.

“How much?”

“Two hundred bucks.”

“Heels or bare feet?”

“One of each,” said the congressman, shutting his eyes.

Carefully, Lorelei stepped on his chest. “What’s that scar?”

“Double bypass,” Dilbeck replied with a grunt. “Don’t worry, I’m good as new. Now dance, please.”

“Jesus,” mumbled the python woman.

“Oh yeah. Good girl.”

“Let me know if it hurts.”

“I’ll let you know if it doesn’t,” said the congressman.

Lorelei had difficulty keeping her balance, as Dilbeck’s topography was spongy and uneven.

“You’re a wonderful talent,” Dilbeck said, groaning pleasurably under the weight. His hands crept spiderlike toward his crotch.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Lorelei stepped hard on his wrists. “That’s not allowed.”

“Stop, mommy.”

“You wanna play with yourself, go home and do it.”

David Dilbeck cried out once. Next came a series of wet suckling noises. Then he began to thrash epileptically beneath the astonished dancer; legs kicking stiffly, mad-dog eyes rolling back and forth.

Lorelei was afraid to take her feet off the man’s arms. Inwardly she berated herself for not demanding payment up front; if the jerk croaked, she’d have to go through his pockets.

Dilbeck began to buck as if jolted by a hot wire. To keep from falling, Lorelei braced both arms against the walls of the booth. The door flew open and a stranger took her under the arms. He carried her out and asked if she was hurt. She said she’d left a shoe inside. The man said she probably wouldn’t want it back, all things considered. He handed her three hundred dollars.

“Thanks,” Lorelei said. “Will he be OK?”

“Don’t you worry.”

The dancer’s hands were shaking as she folded the money.

“You know what he told me? He told me he was a congressman.”

Erb Crandall laughed. “Some guys,” he said, “will try anything.” He dug into his pocket for another hundred-dollar bill.

Moldowsky’s feet were so small he had to rent women’s shoes. He got a nine-pound ball and tried to clean the germy holes with his monogrammed handkerchief. He willed himself to not think about those who had fingered the ball before him.

He bowled alone for an hour until the man showed up. He was as big as a wine keg, and wore a brown UPS shirt. He scanned Moldowsky’s scores and said, “Not bad.”

“I cheated,” Moldy said, tossing a gutter ball. He had knocked down maybe forty pins in all. On the score pad he had given himself a 164.

The man put on his bowling shoes and bowled strike—spare—strike. “You picked a good lane,” he said to Moldowsky.

A waitress came by and the man waved her away. Moldowsky handed him a thick brown envelope. “It’s all there,” he told him. “The tickets, too. Check for yourself.”

“Nuh-uh,” said the bowler. “I don’t care what’s inside. I’m just the delivery boy.”

He rolled a snapping curve that left the seven-ten combination. “Are you a gambling man?” he asked Moldowsky. “Wait, that’s a dumb question. Of course you’re a gambling man. Otherwise you wouldn’t be involved.”

“Good thinking.”

“Five bucks says I make this split.”

“Sure,” said Moldy. “Five it is.” His lack of interest would’ve been obvious to a three-year-old.

The big man made it look easy, nicking the seven-pin just enough to kick across and take out the ten. “That’s the toughest split in bowling,” he said. “Did you know that?”

“Amazing,” said Moldowsky with a yawn. He gave the man five ones. “Ask your people to move as quickly as possible. We’re up against a deadline.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” the man said, “but I’ll be happy to pass it along. Your turn, sport.”

Unhappily, Moldowsky positioned himself at the head of the lane. He made three tiny, stiff steps and heaved the ball down the alley. Somehow he got a strike.

“Pure luck,” Moldy admitted.

“The best kind,” said the man in the UPS shirt. “You go on home now, OK? Everything’s under control.”

A single piece of rotten news affirmed the leaden sense of futility that had burdened Mordecai every day since his graduation from law school, 207th in a class of 212.

The setback was especially cruel, coming at a rare moment of optimism. A lawyer from the Delicato Dairy Company had arrived at Mordecai’s office to discuss a possible settlement in the case of the roach-tainted blueberry yogurt. For Mordecai, the company’s willingness to negotiate (without the customary exchange of nasty correspondence) was a glorious surprise. An out-of-court agreement would have spared him long hours of excruciating preparation for a trial; it would also have saved him from exposing a jury to the sight of his client, Shad the bouncer.

The informality of the meeting had sent Mordecai’s hopes soaring. The attorney from the Delicato Dairy Company had been civil, sensible and not given to bluster. He was keenly aware of the public-relations consequences of a high-profile insect trial. The central concern was television: in Florida, TV cameras are allowed in court. The two men agreed that color videotape of a cockroach being plucked from a Delicate container could have a negative impact on consumer confidence. The extent of damage, sales-wise, would depend on how many major markets picked up the satellite feed from the courtroom. The attorney’s eagerness to avoid such a risk was obvious by the size of his initial offer—a settlement in “the mid-six figures.” Mordecai struggled to mask his elation.

Of course, the Delicato attorney requested to see Shad’s roach. Just a formality, he assured Mordecai. The attorney had brought a 35 millimeter camera to document the contamination. Photographs would be important, he explained, should his clients challenge the wisdom of settling. A brief slide show in the boardroom would turn them around.

Mordecai was impressed by the attorney’s thoroughness. He could see how product liability might be an attractive field of practice, if one could avoid the courthouse.

He wished Beverly were there to share the triumph, but she was out with one of her three-day migraines. Mordecai was using a temp named Rachel, whose unflagging bubbliness compensated for her lack of shorthand skills and slothful pace at the typewriter. Mordecai called Rachel into his office and told her to fetch the blueberry yogurt from the refrigerator. The smile left her face instantly, and Mordecai knew.

“I’ll get some more,” she said quickly, “on my lunch hour.”

Mordecai found no words to express his dismay. The Delicato attorney politely excused himself to use the telephone in the other room.

“Oh Rachel,” said Mordecai, abjectly.

“I’ll buy the variety pack. Eight kinds of tropical fruit.”

“Rachel!”

“Yes, sir?”

“What possessed you?”

“I was hungry.”

“Did you not notice that the carton was open?”

“I thought it was Bev’s. I didn’t want it to sit there and go sour.”

“Rachel,” said Mordecai. “You don’t understand.”

“I’m very, very sorry.” She began to weep.

“Shut up,” Mordecai said. “Shut up this instant.” When he thought of Shad, the flesh on his neck got damp. How would he tell him? What bloody havoc would ensue? Mordecai also mourned his own financial loss: forty percent of zero was zero. His vast stomach pitched.

“I didn’t know it was yours,” Rachel slobbered. “I didn’t know you liked yogurt.”

“I hate yogurt. It gives me the runs.”

The secretary’s remorse clouded with confusion. “Then why are you so upset?”

“Because you swallowed my evidence.” Mordecai spoke in an odd singsong voice. “So how was it, Rachel?”

“The yogurt?”

“Yes, the yogurt. A little chunky, perhaps?”

“Now that you mention it.” She sounded worried. “Are you going to fire me?”

“Oh, worse than that,” said Mordecai. “Please sit down.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Something that will give me great pleasure. I’m going to tell you exactly what you ate.”

Visitation day.

Erin waited under cloudy skies at Holiday Park. She chose a bench near the public tennis courts where Chris Evert had learned to play. Today it was a doubles match among French Canadian tourists. They had the whitest skin and the bluest veins that Erin had ever seen.

Darrell Grant always kept Erin waiting because it gave him a feeling of power, knowing how she lived for these afternoons. Today he arrived forty-five minutes late, pushing Angela in a wheelchair.

“Momma, look what we got at the hospital!”

Erin lifted her daughter to the sidewalk and told Darrell Grant to get lost.

“How’s your butt-ugly boyfriend?” he said.

“Momma’s got a boyfriend?” asked Angela.

“No, baby, I don’t.”

Erin was furious that Darrell was using Angle in his wheel-chair heists. If he were caught, the consequences would be terrible—the state authorities would take the little girl for good. Erin felt perfectly entitled to scream at Darrell and tell him what a reckless idiot he was, but she didn’t want to spoil her brief time with Angela.

Darrell Grant said, “I see you got new tires.”

Erin ignored him. She checked her daughter’s dress and socks and underpants, to make sure they were clean. For a sociopath, Darrell was good about doing the laundry.

“Take care of my pretty little partner,” he said, and pushed the empty wheelchair back to his van, where he waited. On visitation days, he never let Erin and Angela out of his sight. Given an opportunity, Erin surely would try to run away with the girl. Darrell knew it for a fact.

Erin held her daughter’s hand and they began to walk.

“How are you, baby?”

“Just OK.”

“Are you making new friends?”

“I spent Friday at Aunt Rita’s. She’s got a real wolf!”

Terrific, thought Erin. Crazy Rita and her cuddly carnivores. “Stay away from the wolf, Angela. They can be mean sometimes.”

“She said I can have one of the babies, Momma.”

“No, we’ll get you a real puppy—”

“But Daddy said no. He said maybe a bird.”

“A bird?” Erin said. Just what every four-year-old wants.

“A talking one,” Angie said. “Like Big Bird, only littler.”

“Would you like that?”

“He said we can call it Humpy. Is that a good name?”

“No,” said Erin. “Not really.”

They walked the perimeter of the park. Darrell Grant followed slowly in his van. Erin fixed a picnic under the trees. She and Angela ate peanut butter sandwiches and sang songs from “The Electric Company.” A gray squirrel appeared and they fed it Cheese Doodles.

At ten minutes to three, Darrell began honking the horn. When Erin didn’t react, he leaned on it annoyingly. The blare drowned the gentle sounds of the park. The Canadians stopped playing tennis and began cursing at Darrell Grant in French.

“For God’s sake,” said Erin.

“Is Daddy making that noise?”

“I’m afraid so.” Erin gave her daughter a hug and a kiss. She smelled Darrell’s goddamn cigarettes in the girl’s hair.

“Momma, I forgot to tell you.”

“What, honey?”

“I lost all my dolls.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“When we moved. Daddy said he couldn’t find them.”

“I’ll get you some new ones,” Erin promised. She would never reveal to Angela what her father had done. Such a thing could not be explained.

“I love you, Angie.”

“Love you, too, Momma. Can I tell Daddy about the new dolls?”

“Let’s keep it a surprise.”

From Agent Cleary, Erin had learned the following basic information about Jerry Killian: he was five-foot-nine, 140 pounds, 48 years old and divorced. He worked as a videotape editor at the local CBS affiliate. He was a registered Democrat. He drove a 1988 Chevrolet Caprice. He purchased his eyeglasses from a discount optician. He subscribed to Newsweek, Harper’s, The New Yorker, Rolling Stone, Consumer Reports and Hustler. His ex-wife recently opened a macramé shop in a suburb of Atlanta, and he co-signed the loan. They had two daughters at Georgia State University. He owned season tickets to the Miami Dolphins. He rented every movie that Debra Winger ever made. He carried a $3,000 credit limit on his Visa card. In the fall he went trout fishing in western Montana, and always rented a compact car. In his entire life he had never been arrested for anything.

And he lived in Apartment 317 at 4566 Green Duck Parkway, Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

Erin phoned ahead. Killian was flabbergasted to hear her voice. He put on a coat and a tie to meet her at the door.

“In my purse,” said Erin, “is a loaded gun.”

“So be it.”

“I’m here on business only.”

“Understood,” Killian said.

She had expected his apartment to be tidy, and it was. The place smelled of Lemon Pledge. They sat in opposing chairs at an oval-shaped dining table.

“I just wanted to thank you,” she said. “That music you suggested is great for stage dancing.”

Killian glowed. “You tried it? I’m so pleased.”

“You should come by the club to see. I told Shad it’s fine if you do.”

“Really?” He looked wistful. “Maybe later down the road.”

“Why later? Why not now?”

“The deal is cooking. Part of the agreement is for me to steer clear of the Eager Beaver.” Killian paused. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I miss you so much.”

Here we go, Erin thought. Get the hose.

She said, “May I call you Jerry?”

“I’d be in heaven if you did—”

“Jerry, look. I need to know more about this so-called deal. It’s my life we’re talking about. My little girl.”

“Naturally you don’t trust me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Erin,” he said, “I would do nothing to put you or your daughter in jeopardy. My devotion is complete and enduring and pure. I am consumed by it, day and night. I am lost in love.”

Erin’s heart didn’t flutter even slightly. She said, “Jerry, who is this congressman?”

“His district is elsewhere. You wouldn’t know his name.”

“Try me. I read the newspapers.”

“The name is unimportant,” Killian said. “The key fact is, he’s got a serious problem with the ladies. I’d feel uncomfortable going into details.”

“Oh please.”

“I’m a gentleman. That’s how I was raised.”

“And I’m a stripper, Jerry. Once I had a customer eat the G-string off the crack of my ass—chew it up, swallow it, wash it down with Southern Comfort. Then he burped the elastic.”

Killian’s ears turned red.

“The point is,” Erin said, “nothing a man does can shock me. I have an ex-husband who carves his initials into other people’s scalps. Is your congressman that much fun?”