Who is Charlie Conti? (6 page)

‘Are we going to Big Al’s now?’

‘Yes sir. Best burgers this side of the Mason-Dixon, I swear.’

America’s a pretty tolerant society, but if there’s one thing that every American insists on it’s getting you to agree that their favourite burger is the best you’ve ever tasted. I guess it’s a small price to pay for the good will you get in return. Anyhow, I liked Pete, so I thought I’d be happy to agree to whatever.

‘Lemme guess, you going to Vegas? asked Pete. Before I could reply he went on, ‘It’s not a good place if you got money troubles.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I was supposed to meet someone who was gonna help me fix all that. But I’m really on my way to visit my sister up in Maryland. Kinda road trip, I guess.’

‘Hey, take the next right.’

Big Al’s burger bar was situated in the middle of a suburban sprawl of fast-food joints, bowling alleys, gas stations and cheap motels. I parked in one of the bays opposite the bar.

‘My pa used to come here when this was a ranching community,’ said Pete. ‘Big Al’s pa started it. He was called Big Al too. That was before there was even a casino in Vegas. Hard to imagine now.’

The burger bar did look a lot older than everything around it. It was made of stained, heavy wood and there were still posts next to the raised entrance that had been gnawed by horses halfway up. I’ve seen plenty of bars which try to recreate the look of an old saloon and some do it pretty well. But they never get the smell of an old place – the smell of an open grill, old wood with a century of tobacco smoke in it and maybe a faint trace of horse shit. At least, that’s what Big Al’s smelt like, in a good way.

The place seemed pretty busy. There were a lot of guys – many of them in cowboy hats – but not many girls. Pete made his way to the bar and I followed him. On the way I noticed a couple of old ladies sitting in one of the more shadowy alcoves. One of them had white hair and the other was wearing a red shawl over her head; both were about to dig into thick, greasy burgers and there was a mountain of fries on the plate between them. They made me happy, they really did. Most of the time old people look kind of sad or kind of worried, like there’s not a lot of pleasure left in life. I guess that’s often true. That’s why it’s good to see an old lady digging into a burger.

‘Hey Al, come over here,’ said Pete who was already leaning on the bar. A thin man with a drawn, ascetic face turned round and smiled then started walking over to Pete.

‘Hiya Pete, how’s things?’

‘Al, I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine who’s just passin’ through. This is Charlie. Charlie, Big Al.’

‘How do you do, sir,’ I said, but Big Al must have seen a flicker of surprise in my face because he said, ‘Yeah, I know. My pa weighed three hundred pounds and was called Big Al. The guys started calling me Big Al back in High School, jus’ for kicks. Name kinda stuck, I guess.’ He paused for a moment before asking, ‘So, how d’you know Pete?’

‘We met at Joe’s diner,’ I said.

‘Ok. Well, you make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble tonight. She’s a fine woman, his missus, but she sure has a temper.’

I heard Pete say, ‘If that ain’t the truth.’

‘So, what can I get you?’ asked Big Al.

‘Charlie’ll have a burger. Charlie, you like bacon and cheese?’ I nodded. ‘Rare?’ I nodded again. ‘And get us a couple beers.’

Big Al’s burger really was a great burger. It was just the right size, not too thick, so that you were able to hold it and take a bite right through from top to bottom without having to dislocate your jaw like a snake. And it wasn’t too big either, so you could eat the whole thing without feeling disgusted by the thought of it afterwards. The bun and the meat were just right too, so that by the end the
bottom bit of the bun was kind of soggy from the juices of the meat, but not so soggy that it disintegrated. And the juices were good, plentiful and greasy but not too bloody, because that can be kind of gross. Even the slices of gherkin were good – small and sharp tasting, not like the huge watery ones you sometimes get. So, when I told Pete that I thought that it was the best burger I’d ever eaten, I wasn’t just being polite. And boy, it made him happy like you wouldn’t believe. We had another beer and from time to time he’d say, ‘Didn’t I tell you Big Al makes the best burgers?’ but he said it in a kind of whimsical way, so I didn’t feel I had to reply.

We had another couple of beers and Big Al’s really started to fill up and I found it pretty hard to hear what Pete was saying. I started thinking about maybe driving back to the diner to sleep in the Buick when Pete leant across and shouted in my ear, ‘Wanna go see the girls?’

‘What?’ I shouted back.

‘Wanna go see the girls?’

‘What girls?’

‘Come along, I’ll show ya.’

I was kind of reticent about this after hearing about Pete’s demons, whatever they were, and being told to keep him out of trouble and all. But I didn’t want to be unfriendly, especially since he had insisted on paying the check, though I had tried to stop him. Anyway, Pete seemed pretty lively all of a sudden. He jumped up from his stool and steered me out of the bar by the shoulder before I could think up a good excuse.

Outside the night was cold and clear and sobering, a real desert night. We stopped on the veranda for a moment. I thought Pete
was admiring the thin sickle moon, thin and pale as the end of a finger nail. Then in a wistful voice he said, ‘There she is,’ and motioned to a squat building a couple hundred yards away lit by garish pink neon lights. I’d seen it when we arrived and assumed it was another bowling alley. Now it was dark I could read the neon lettering, ‘The Palace of Pleasure’, but by then Pete had already grabbed my arm and was marching me towards the entrance.

I’d been to a couple of strip clubs before, once in New York by myself and once in LA, but I didn’t enjoy either very much. I mean, I don’t really like girls who are all make-up and silicone. I just think they’re kind of fake. But sometimes you get a girl who’s really cute and wholesome and natural looking, and in fact that’s even worse. It’s corny as hell, but I kind of fell for one of the strippers in New York. She was petite and brunette and she smiled like she actually found it pretty funny that she was taking her clothes off in front of me. If I’d seen her someplace else she was the kind of girl I’d have liked to talk to, if I were feeling really brave or really drunk. But if you meet a girl like that in a strip club, I mean, there’s no way you can talk to her. I know there’s a load of guys who say they’ve gone home with strippers, and I’m sure it happens, though probably less often than guys pretend; but all I’m saying is, if you see a girl you like, the chances of anything happening are a lot smaller if you meet her in a strip club. Sure you can go have a private dance or whatever, but then you’re just like all the other guys she’s danced for. I guess that’s the other thing I don’t like about strip clubs. They’re some pretty seedy guys in there most of the time, and if you’re in there, well, I guess that makes you pretty seedy too, even if you’re not married and on a business trip and smoking a fat cigar.

As we approached the pool of light around the entrance I caught sight of the doorman. He was a pretty tall guy anyway, but on top of his head he had a beautiful undulating rockabilly pompadour. The hair itself was black and oiled and occasionally reflected the pink light of the neon sign above him. It extended a good couple of inches in front of his forehead before being swept back upon itself in a gleaming parabola. It was really something.

The doorman saw Pete and called out, ‘Hiya Pete, figured you might be here tonight. It’s not so busy – I think your table’s still free.’

We were ushered past the coat-check, into the large, dark main room. In the middle was a stage made from three interlocking circles. The intersection of the three circles was raised higher than the rest and had a silver pole rising from it. Each of the three circles also had poles rising from their centers. Pete made his way over to a table at the far side, one of only two empty ones next to the stage. There seemed to be plenty more tables towards the back, but the chairs were upholstered in black and the tables were black and the lighting was all centred on the stage, so it was pretty hard to see what was going on back there.

As we sat down the loudspeaker announced, ‘The Palace of Pleasure is proud to bring you the flower of Pensacola beach, ladies and gentleman, the one and only Cristal!’ I heard a soft swishing noise behind me and turned round to see Cristal sashay her way from a darkened doorway to the steps leading up to the stage. She was wearing a pink silk robe and pink diamanté stilettos. She climbed to the central pole and turned to face us. Her peroxide hair was impossibly bright in the spotlight that lit her from directly
above. Then she undid the pink belt of her robe and let it slide off her shoulders.

‘Oh my God,’ whispered Pete.

The fluffy pink bikini top and the pink g-string that Cristal was wearing underneath accentuated an absurd, cartoon-like figure. She had not only the largest breasts I had ever seen, but also the slimmest waist. As the music started she made her way to the front of the stage where she would occasionally squat lithely down to stroke an onlooker’s face or to accept a dollar bill into the elastic of her g-string. When she reached the part of the stage closest to our table Pete leaned across and slid another bill behind the seven or eight that were already neatly folded against her hip. She had a perfectly sculpted nose and huge collagen lips. Sparkly silver eyelash extensions cast a shadow over her eyes. She seemed to stare straight through us.

Cristal returned to the central pole and Pete said, ‘Ain’t that the most perfect creature you ever saw?’ I looked across to see whether he was waiting for an answer but he was staring intently at Cristal. There was something strange about his expression: his concentration was total and yet at the same time there was a certain far-away look in his eye. You really had to see it yourself – it’s hard to explain.

A few minutes later Pete placed a five-dollar bill on the stage in front of us. I ordered a couple more beers from the waitress, increasingly aware of my dwindling resources. When I turned back around I saw that Cristal had her knees on the stage and her hands on the arms of Pete’s chair; she was swinging her enormous breasts just above his nose. Then she turned round so that her peroxide curls fell across his face. Looking at Pete I was struck by
the absence of desire in his features. His expression was one of beatific contentment. As if to confirm this he leaned across and said, ‘It’s wonderful. So perfect but you can’t touch,’ then he fell back again and stared in adoration at the peroxide curls.

It made me think that maybe the urges that drive men to strip clubs are not necessarily seedy. Or at least, maybe there is a small part of it that doesn’t have to be. Watching Pete I realized that in some way his pleasure was the pleasure of being granted a glimpse of a more perfect world: a world of breasts that defy gravity and hair that does not pretend to be real. It is a world of pure fantasy and Pete seemed happy, not despite the fact that he couldn’t touch, but precisely because he couldn’t touch. Maybe he loved Cristal like some adults love fairy tales, because they are always out of reach.

I felt a warm pressure against my hand and, looking up, I saw that a beautiful black girl had sat down on the arm of my chair. ‘You feelin’ lonely, sugar?’ she asked.

‘I’m doin’ ok, thanks,’ I replied.

‘What’s wrong? You afraid of chocolate pussy?’

‘No, I’m just good, thank you.’

I’ve got to say, she looked kind of pissed. Then the loudspeaker came on again and announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, now for our own home-grown belle…’ and I heard Pete saying into my ear, ‘Lemme buy you a dance.’

‘I appreciate it Pete, really I do, but it’s not –’

Pete had already leaned across and placed a ten-dollar bill on the stage. I leaned forward to pass the bill back to Pete but he looked so hurt that I replaced it and thanked him. The new stripper had
her back to us but she must have been popular because there were a load of ten-dollar bills on the stage. At the same time I felt the black girl’s hand in the hair at the back of my head.

‘Sugar, I’ll give you a dance like you never had before.’

Grateful for the excuse I said, ‘I’d love to but my friend just bought me a dance.’

‘Your loss honey.’ Then she got up, which was a relief because my hand was getting cramps from the pressure of her sitting on it. I started massaging it with my other hand but just at that moment I felt the whip of hair in my face. The new girl had her back to me and was inching towards me with her hands on the cushioned armrests of my chair and her feet still on the stage. She was flicking her hair left and right. Then she turned so that now she was on all fours with her two knees on the two armrests of the chair and her hands holding the railing at the front of the stage. She began wiggling her ass in front of my face.

I’ve had a couple of lap dances before but I never enjoyed them. I don’t like the thought that the stripper is acting all sexy but in reality just counting off the seconds until her set’s over. That’s bullshit. And also, I didn’t know what to do. I know that sounds kind of dumb, but it’s true. I mean, do you just stare at the girl’s ass? Do you look her in the eye? Do you smile? Will she get offended if you don’t seem aroused enough? Will she think you’re an animal if you only stare at her tits? I asked Ray about it once and he said, ‘Just be yourself,’ but that wasn’t much help because it’s not really me to have a girl on my lap that I’ve never spoken to and who’s acting a role neither of us believe in.

The girl slid back onto the stage then swivelled round so she was
facing me and placed her feet on the arms of the chair. I noticed the indentation in the middle of her white g-string. Looking up, I recognized Stella. It was a shock.

I heard Pete’s voice in my ear, ‘She’s the girl from the diner. I told you she was hot.’

I nodded. My heart was beating. She hadn’t looked at my face yet. In fact, she seemed kind of on auto-pilot. Her expression was weirdly blank, totally different from the amused, arch look of the afternoon. Only when she started to lean forward to hang her breasts over my face did she recognize me. She froze for a second and her expression went from surprise to anger. She leaned closer and whispered in my ear, ‘Fuckin’ asshole.’