“Speaking of customers,” Erin said, “remember Mr. Peepers?”
The two Moniques said they did. Erin asked if they recalled seeing him on the night of the champagne-bottle attack. Monique Jr. said yes, she was giving him a private dance at table three when the fighting broke out. She remembered it well because Jerry Killian had scurried to the main stage to see the commotion, leaving her unpaid and dancing on an empty table.
“I was pissed,” Monique Jr. said, “but he came back later and gave me a whole ten dollars.” She rolled her eyes in disdain.
“Did he say anything?” Erin asked.
“He said I had bold nipples, whatever the hell that means.”
“No, did he talk about what he saw—the fight?”
“He asked did I know the guy with the bottle, and I says no. Then he asked do I know what chivalry is, and I said sure I know what chivalry is. ‘Well,’ he goes, ‘you’ll be glad to know it’s not dead.’ And I said great, glad to hear it. Then he started on again about my nipples.”
Urbana Sprawl was impressed by the junior Monique’s detailed recollection of a three-week-old conversation; most dancers ignored the idle babble of customers.
“I always remember the shitty tippers,” Monique Jr. explained, “just like I remember the good ones.”
Erin fluffed her hair, touched up her lipstick and headed for a three-dance set in the cage. Kevin cued up one of her favourite Allman Brothers cuts, and Erin blew him a kiss. Long songs were bad for business, but occasionally she needed one to help her disconnect from the routine, drift away with the music.
Tonight she used the time to think about murder. The facts seemed to fit Sgt. Al García’s scenario: Killian was in the audience when the horny congressman sailed off the deep end. The little guy probably recognized Dilbeck, ratty mustache and all, and hatched the idea for a blackmail.
And days later he was killed …
Erin was so absorbed that she didn’t spot the customer right away. He stood below the cage, staring at her bottom, waiting for her to spin in his direction. Finally he called Erin’s name, and she danced up to the bars. He reached up and folded some money in her garter. It was a fifty-dollar bill. Erin smiled and crossed her arms over her breasts, teasingly lovestruck. Later she sat down at his table to say thanks, a strip-joint ritual when a customer gives an exceptional tip. A three- or four-minute visit was considered sufficient; any longer took precious time off the dancer’s clock. Chatty friendliness inevitably gave way to salesmanship, and experienced strippers were masters of the blend. A good table dancer could work the same customer for a half-dozen private numbers between performance sets. That was how most of them made their money; Erin was the only one who got by on stage tips alone.
This big tipper was in his mid-fifties, and dressed like a senior loan officer. He was sipping a Jack Daniel’s too carefully, and hadn’t bothered to loosen his necktie. Obviously he had plans for the evening. When Erin thanked him for the money, he reached for her hand: “If that’s how much I’ll pay just to look, imagine how much I’ll pay to touch.”
Another smoothie, Erin thought. She tried to pull away, but the man wouldn’t let go. She said, “Obviously this is your first time here.”
“How’d you know?”
“I’m guessing the Midwest—Chicago, Minneapolis?”
“St. Paul,” the man said. “You’re pretty good, honey pie.”
“Honey Pie? That’s the best you can do?” Erin wasn’t in the mood for dumb banter. It had been many months since she’d been groped by an out-of-town creep—Sweetie Pants, he’d called her. That one was from Syracuse; the hairiest arms she’d seen outside a zoo.
“Please let go,” she said to St. Paul.
“Dance for me.”
“I did.”
“Not here. I’ve got a room on the beach.” His grip was dry and firm. “A room with a sauna.”
“No, thank you.”
“For two thousand dollars?”
“I’m not worth it, believe me.” Erin dug her fingernails into the soft underside of the man’s wrist. He yelled angrily and let go. As she pushed back from the table, the man’s leg shot out and kicked her chair. Erin went over backward.
The customer’s laughter died with an epiglottal peep. Erin rose to see the man’s face pinched in the crook of Shad’s arm. The face was bloody and full of deep remorse. Shad was punching in his usual calm and methodical way, but in his expression Erin saw genuine rage, which was rare.
“That’s enough,” she told him.
Shad let the man fall, face-down. The customer rolled onto his back and blubbered something about a lawsuit.
“Really?” Shad said. “You wanna call your wife? I’ll bring the phone.” He nudged sharply with a boot. “Well?”
Ten minutes later, the man from St. Paul was strapped in his rented black Thunderbird. He adjusted the rearview mirror to check the condition of his nose and lips, which were swollen to the size of wax party gags.
Shad propped himself on the door of the car. “Don’t ever come back,” he advised.
“I meant no harm.”
“She look like a hooker?” Shad’s barren orb filled the window. “Answer me, bud. Did the lady look like a whore?”
The man from St. Paul was shaking. “I’m really sorry.”
Shad called Erin to the car and told the man to apologize again, which he did with all his heart.
Erin said, “You should learn some respect.”
“I’m so sorry. I swear to God.”
Shad said, “What kinda place you think this is? Does it look like a whorehouse?” The man shook his head tensely.
“This is a classy operation,” Erin chimed in. “Surely you noticed the napkins.”
The man from St. Paul drove swiftly into the Florida night. Erin put an arm around Shad’s waist. “You’re in a lousy mood tonight,” she said. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m just worried about you is all.”
“Why?”
“There’s bad people in the world, that’s why.”
She laughed. “But you’re here to protect me.”
“Right,” Shad said. First thing tomorrow he would go see Mordecai and tell him the deal was off. The stakes had gotten too damn high.
Down the street came the wail of sirens. Soon a police cruiser raced past the Tickled Pink; then an ambulance, two more police cars, another rescue truck. Shad and Erin walked to the curb to see if there was a traffic accident. Moments later they were joined by Orly, bubbling with mirth.
“There is a God!” he said.
“Now what?” Erin asked.
“Just listen.”
As if on cue, the sirens began winding down, one at a time. The flashing lights had converged a half-dozen blocks away, on the opposite side of the highway.
“Must be some wreck,” Shad said.
Orly giggled. “Ain’t no wreck. It’s the Flesh Farm!”
“What’d you do?” Shad asked. “Did you pull something?”
“Wasn’t me, it was Marvela. She just called, bawling her pretty eyeballs out.” Orly was jubilant. “She wants her old job back. Haw!”
Shad said, “Something bad happened.”
Orly grinned. “Yeah, very bad. Guy dropped dead at the table.”
Erin thought: Poor Marvela.
“And not just any guy,” Orly said. “A goddamn judge.”
Erin heard herself say: “Which judge?”
“Who cares? A dead judge is a dead judge. Those fucking Lings. I hope they’re pissing razor blades …”
Erin started down the road toward the winking blues and reds. Orly called her name but she kept walking. Traffic slowed and a few drivers honked salaciously. Erin clicked along in her tall heels, sequined G-string and black lace bra, aiming for the flashing lights, walking faster, telling herself: maybe, maybe, oh maybe Mr. Orly is right.
Maybe there is a God.
The judge considered Marvela a sleek and delicious archangel. Sh
e was the only one at Orly’s club who flirted properly. The other dancers were detached, perfunctory, even chilly; some refused to perform for him at all. The judge suspected that Erin had poisoned the others against him—they probably despised him for separating their friend from her only child. How unfair! The justification was there in the Bible, plain as day, but none of the dancers wanted to hear him explain it, no matter how heavily he tipped. Everybody had a gift, the judge would say. Everybody had a special purpose on this earth. Motherhood was one, he would say, dancing naked was another.
Being new, Marvela wasn’t aware that the judge had been unofficially ostracized. She gave him some terrific table dances, and in a matter of days he was infatuated. When she quit Orly’s club, the judge eagerly followed her to the Flesh Farm and the brave new world of friction dancing.
The distance between the clubs was half a mile, but the drive seemed to take forever. The judge found a parking spot far from the streetlights, to avoid being recognized by a passing motorist. Discretion was extremely important until he was confirmed for the federal bench. After that, he was free to recreate as he pleased; to his knowledge, no one had ever been impeached for patronizing a tittie bar.
As the judge turned off the ignition, his heart hammered against birdlike ribs. He felt light-headed, but attributed the feeling to raw excitement. Before entering the steamy house of Ling, he recited a silent prayer, thanking God in advance for the blessings he was about to receive. To be able to lay hands on the beautiful Marvela, to feel her rub those velvet loins against him—these would be fantasies come true!
Sadly for the judge, they did not. Anticipation killed him moments before friction was to begin. He died with his tongue on the table, the Bible balanced on his knees. One hand was fastened to his crotch like the claw of a lobster; it remained attached throughout vigorous rescue maneuvers, including cardiopulmonary massage.
Death had taken the form of a massive cerebral hemorrhage: A significant part of the judge’s brain had more or less exploded when the prancing Marvela had draped her bustier across the crown of his head. A quick-thinking bouncer had removed the garment before paramedics showed up.
Considering the traffic, their response time was outstanding. The frantic Lings had no opportunity to move the corpse off the premises; all they could do was whimper at the mayhem. Within moments of the first policeman’s appearance, the Flesh Farm emptied as if there were a toxic gas leak. The bartenders and dancers were the last to flee.
When Erin arrived, she saw an old man stretched out on the floor. He was surrounded by young medical technicians in blue jumpsuits. One of them knelt beside the lifeless form, thumping the man’s chest in perfect time to Janet Jackson’s “Rhythm Nation,” which was playing on the club speakers. The Lings stayed well back from the scene, yammering about bad publicity, loss of revenue and a possible visit from state beverage agents.
Erin casually walked up and positioned herself between paramedics. Lifesaving efforts were winding down, along with the music. The man on the floor was plainly deceased. Erin leaned over to examine the face; he looked like the right judge, but she wasn’t certain. “Can you take off the oxygen mask?” she asked.
One of the paramedics, smitten by Erin’s attire, cheerfully obliged. He asked if she knew the victim.
“In passing,” she replied.
Marvela, who had changed into street clothes, was being interviewed by two uniformed officers and a detective. She chainsmoked furiously, tapping her ashes into a beer stein. Erin sat at the bar and waited for the cops to finish. Shad came in and joined her. He said, “You oughta see the helicopter outside.”
“Waste of fuel,” said Erin. “He’s dead as a flounder.”
“It’s not from the hospital. It’s from Channel 7.”
“No kidding?” Erin laughed darkly. “Shad, I’m enjoying this. I hate to admit it, but I am.”
“Well, the guy was a prick.”
“And such a hypocrite.”
“Maybe now you can get your girl back.”
Erin said, “That’s what I’m thinking. It’s awful, I know, under the circumstances—”
“Forget it. The man was puke.” Shad reached behind the Lings’ well-stocked bar and got two glasses. He unhooked the fountain gun and squirted each of them a Coke. Erin watched the paramedics place the dead judge on a stretcher, strapping him under a brown woolen blanket.
“My lawyer,” she said, “will be amazed.”
“So will your ex.” Shad’s lips cracked into a cold smile. “I’d love to be there when you tell him.”
“I doubt if I’ll get that pleasure,” Erin said.
When the police were done with Marvela, she came to the bar and sat with Erin. “I never even touched him,” she confided, her voice raw with disbelief. The weeping began, and Erin gave her a hug. She didn’t know Marvela well, but she could appreciate the trauma of seeing a customer keel over.
Shad hopped the bar and fixed a Dewar’s for Marvela, who continued sobbing intermittently. She said she didn’t know what happened—she’d barely gotten her top off. “I can’t believe he fucking died. Died! I wasn’t even down on his lap—”
“That’s enough,” Erin told her. “It wasn’t your fault.” She stroked Marvela’s hair, which smelled like Marlboros and mousse. Marvela’s tears dripped freely on Erin’s bare shoulder.
“Look at it another way,” Shad said. “The man died staring at pussy. There’s worse ways to go.”
Marvela was not consoled. She drained her drink and fumbled for another cigarette. “I should’ve stuck to straight modeling. Swimwear and teddies, that’s it.”
Shad held out a lighter and said, “For Christ’s sake.”
“It’s all my fault. He’s dead because of me!”
“Hush,” Erin told her. “You were only doing your job.”
16
Rita and Alberto Alonso agreed to keep Angela while Darrell Grant drove a load of stolen wheelchairs to St. Augustine. Alberto was fond of the girl, but Rita preferred the company of canines; Lupas pups were getting big and frisky. Darrell Grant told his sister to keep Angie inside the trailer, away from the damn wolves. Rita asked where was the kid’s toys, and Darrell said there wasn’t room in the van for no toys. Alberto said don’t worry, there’s plenty around here for a girl to play with. He brought out a bag of golf balls and dumped them on the floor. Angela amused herself as best she could.
Alberto slept all day while Rita spent much of the time in the yard with the animals. Angela was fascinated by her aunt’s eccentric appearance—catcher’s mask, cigarette, logger mitts, baggy housedress. The little girl sat for hours at the window, watching Rita work with her high-strung pets. Once, alone in the trailer, Angela picked up the phone and dialed her mother’s number, which she had memorized. There was no answer, but Angela let it ring for twenty-five minutes. Rita came inside and pitched a fit. She snatched the telephone and placed it on top of the refrigerator, out of the little girl’s reach.
Darrell Grant was glad to leave town, even for a short time. Free of parental responsibility, he no longer had to be discreet about gobbling speed, upon which he was increasingly reliant. The drugs gave him the nerve to steal, and the guile to lie about it. They also helped him cope with Merkin and Picatta, who hassled him relentlessly. The detectives were vicious nags, always after hot tips. Darrell didn’t mind snitching on other criminals, especially since the alternative was prison, but sometimes there simply was nothing to snitch. Merkin and Picatta didn’t seem to understand that many crooks were chronically lazy; weeks, even months might pass between crime sprees. Yet the detectives were always demanding fresh stats and warm bodies. If there were no serious felonies afoot, they expected Darrell Grant to hit the streets and get the ball rolling.
The trouble was, Darrell didn’t have time to hang out with dirtbags. Dealing wheelchairs was a fulltime gig. The St. Augustine run, for instance, promised to net three grand—a nursing home was waiting, C.O.D. Then Merkin and Pica
tta called, harping at him to go see some Cuban bartender in frigging Hallandale who might or might not be dealing kilos. Darrell Grant needed to think fast, and that’s where the speed saved his ass. It helped him remember the name of Tommy Tinker, the heroin man. Darrell knew how much the cops in South Florida loved a scag case. Not only was it a refreshing change of pace from crackheads, it was a guaranteed commendation, usually officer-of-the-month. So Darrell pitched Tommy Tinker as the Number One Heroin Dealer east of 1-95, and told Merkin and Picatta exactly where on Sunrise Boulevard they could find him.
“Grams or ounces?” Picatta asked.
“Ounces,” Darrell Grant said quickly, “but he don’t sell to white guys. Otherwise I’d be happy to make the score.”
And off went the two detectives in search of a black snitch, while Darrell made tracks for St. Augustine. He was passing the Vero Beach city limits when his brain decelerated just enough to remember that Tommy Tinker had been fatally firebombed in New Orleans back in 1987. Darrell Grant experienced a brief flush of panic, but at no time considered turning back or making a call. He popped three more beauties, and stepped on the pedal. Soon the van was racing as fast as his heart, and life seemed fine.
The congressman rallied in time for the gala fund-raiser. He was able to dress without assistance, shave with a dull blade and comb his own hair. Tan makeup camouflaged the bruise, which had shrunken to a greenish marble in the center of his brow.
Erb Crandall drove him to the hotel, and hung near his side throughout the evening. The dinner was well-attended and the speeches flattering. The most effusive testimonial came from Senator Moynihan, who’d never met David Dilbeck and was therefore unencumbered by sour memories.
After dessert, Dilbeck himself rose to the podium and managed to speak for eleven minutes without repeating himself. He was careful to lavish absurd praise on colleagues whose votes were crucial to renewing the price supports for domestic sugar. Dilbeck inwardly prayed that his remarks would begin to thaw the ill feelings—after all, how often did such small-timers get compared to the Roosevelts and Kennedys! Erb Crandall said the other congressmen seemed genuinely moved. Dilbeck hoped so, since he’d practically gagged on the compliments he’d dished out.