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?”
Monique Sr. beamed. “Is there another?” She regularly spotted celebrities in the audience. Last Tuesday it was William Kunstler, the renowned attorney. A week before, Martin Balsam, the actor.
The sightings were imaginary, but none of the other dancers made an issue of it. Each had a private trick for self-motivation, some inner force that pushed her toward the stage when the music came on. For Monique Sr., the inspiration came from believing that someone famous was in the club, someone who might be impressed by her moves, someone who could whisk her away and change her life forever. Erin thought it clever of Monique Sr. to choose personalities whose names were well known, but whose faces were not exactly national emblems. Carl Perkins, for instance, was a stroke of genius. In the smoky blue shadows of the Eager Beaver, a dozen customers might resemble the legendary musician. It was a bulletproof fantasy, and Erin admired it.
“Old Carl tipped me forty bucks,” Monique Sr. was saying. “Not that he can’t afford it. He only wrote ‘Blue Suede Shoes.’”
“Great song,” said Erin, tapping the new heel in place. Monique Sr. was an encyclopedia when it came to rock ‘n’ roll.
Shad entered the dressing room without knocking. He handed Erin a wrinkled envelope, marked up with red postal ink: her most recent letter to Angela, returned as undeliverable.
Urbana Sprawl said, “Oh no.”
Erin bitterly crumpled the letter in the palm of her hand. The bastard Darrell had done it again—moved away without telling her. And taken Angie.
“No forwarding address?” Monique Sr. asked.
Erin cursed acidly. The man was such a despicable asshole. How had she ever fallen for him?
Shad said, “Take the night off, babe.”
“I can’t.” Erin whipped out her lipstick and hairbrush, and got busy in front of the mirror. “Dance, dance, dance,” she said, softly to herself.
Monique Sr. had fictitious celebrities to motivate her; Erin had Darrell Grant. The divorce judge had ordered him not to go anywhere, but it was like talking to a tomcat. Every time her ex-husband went mobile, Erin saw her legal fees go up another five grand. Finding the bastard, then serving him with new papers, cost a fortune.
“Your lucky night,” Shad told her. He held another envelope; it was crisp and lavender, with familiar block lettering. “I took the liberty,” he said.
“You opened it?”
“After what happened, yeah. You’re damn right.”
Erin said, “I told you, he’s harmless.”
“If he’s not,” said Shad, “he will be.”
Erin read the message twice:
THE PLAN IS IN MOTION. SOON MY DEVOTION TO YOU
WILL BE PROVEN. STILL AWAITING THE SMILE, AND THE
ZZ TOP.
The other dancers clamored to see the note, but Erin tucked it in her purse. “No, this one’s private.”
“One thing—he doesn’t listen so good,” Shad said. He’d warned Mr. Peepers that his attentions were unwelcome.
Erin was determined not to get her hopes up. Monique Jr. was probably right; Killian was probably trying to get in her pants, nothing more. Maybe the business with the congressman and the judge was hot air. Maybe it wasn’t. The question was, How far would Killian go to impress her?
She began brushing her hair, with long even strokes, and listened for her song on the speakers. She was due up next on stage.
Malcolm J. Moldowsky had no qualms about dealing with the owner of a mob strip joint. It was better than dealing with congressmen and senators.
At first, Orly was cagey and snide. He asked why a bigshot congressman’s office should give a rat’s ass about who hangs out at a nudie joint. But as soon as Moldowsky raised the subject of liquor licenses and the renewal thereof, Orly became a model of friendliness and cooperation. He identified the customer at table three from credit card receipts and then, when the customer returned to the club, Orly phoned promptly with the news. By that time, of course, Moldowsky knew the man’s identity. By that time the man had made contact with Congressman David Lane Dilbeck.
Still, Moldowsky was grateful for Orly’s information. It was good to know Jerry Killian’s movements.
“Nothing happened,” Orly said. “My help got there first.”
“The young lady wasn’t hurt?”
“Not at all. But the bottom line is, I can’t have some horny creepoid chasing my best dancer.”
“I understand, Mr. Orly.”
“See, I got prettier girls. Longer legs, bigger tits. This one, she ain’t even a blonde. But she can dance like I don’t know what, and she’s built up a good clientele, which is what pays the freight in my business.”
“It won’t happen again,” Moldowsky assured him.
“This girl, pass her on the street and you wouldn’t look twice. But the moves she’s got, I swear to Christ.”
“Natural talent is rare,” Moldowsky said, “in my line of work, as well.”
“You understand, I can’t have guys hanging in the parking lot, waiting for the girls. Some hardass cop shows up and it’s loitering for the purpose of solicitation. I been through that before. Like you say, I got a license to think about.”
“Mr. Killian’s been having some personal problems.”
“Who doesn’t,” Orly said. “It’s a fucked-up world, no?”
“Yes, it is.” Again Moldowsky praised Orly for his assistance and discretion. “If there’s anything we can do to repay the favor, please let us know.”
“Just put in a good word,” Orly said.
A good word? For who—the Gambino family? Moldowsky smiled to himself. “Done,” he said to Orly.
“Also, my brother’s got a little trouble with the IRS. Maybe you know somebody over there.”
Nothing’s ever simple, Moldowsky thought. “I can’t promise any miracles,” he said. “But I’ll make a few calls.”
Orly thanked him, and added, “I’m not looking to give this Killian guy any trouble. I’m trying to save him some. My man Shad, he’s in a mood to break the fucker in two.”
Moldowsky said, “Mr. Killian won’t be back.”
“Whatever.”
Orly didn’t ask for details. And Moldowsky had no intention of telling him.
4
Darrell Grant had been living in a suburb called Lauderhill, which offered an exceptionally wide selection of rundown apartments. He’d rented a furnished duplex on a dead-end street where every front lawn, without exception, had an automobile on blocks. Erin wondered if it was a zoning requirement.
In front of Darrell Grant’s apartment was a rusted Buick Riviera with a holly tree sprouting from its dashboard. The license plate revealed that the car had been there since 1982, long before Darrell Grant’s arrival. Why he hadn’t moved it was no great riddle: tow trucks cost money.
The other half of Darrell’s grim duplex was occupied by two young Mormon missionaries, who greeted Erin politely as she came up the sidewalk. The missionaries were oiling their bicycles in preparation for another journey among South Florida’s sinners. Erin admired their high spirits and fortitude; it was a tough neighborhood for proselytizing.
“Have you seen Mr. Grant today?” she asked.
The missionaries said no, Mr. Grant hadn’t been around in a week or so. Erin went through the motion of knocking on the door. Darrell had taped aluminum foil over the inside windows, so nothing was visible from the front. As Erin headed toward the rear of the duplex, one of the young Mormons warned her to be careful because the yard was full of wheelchair parts.
Erin carefully stepped through an obstacle course
of rusting rims, loose spokes, brakes, frames and footrests. She surmised that the wheelchair-stealing business must be doing pretty well for Darrell Grant to abandon so much valuable inventory—that, or the cops were on his back again, forcing a hasty departure.
Typically, Darrell had left the back door of the apartment unlocked. When Erin opened it, she saw that her ex-husband truly was gone. As was his custom, he had stolen everything that wasn’t nailed down, plus several items that were. Furniture, carpets, appliances, lamps, plumbing fixtures, ceiling fans, water heater, phone jacks, even the toilet tank was missing. Darrell Grant was nothing if not a master scavenger; he had painstakingly pried the tiles off the kitchen floor. Erin couldn’t believe there was a big market for second-hand linoleum, but it was possible that Darrell was ahead of the curve. The commerce of stolen property wasn’t immune to recessionary trends.
Darrell had cleaned out every room except one: Angie’s bedroom. Erin gasped when she walked in.
The walls were bare except for a dozen old nails and a heart-shaped mirror. The floor was strewn with broken dolls: beheaded Barbies, dismembered Muppets, eviscerated Cabbage Patch Kids. The dolls had something in common: each had been a gift to Angela from Erin.
That was Darrell Grant’s way. Weak in the verbal skills, he was inclined to express himself with displays of idiotic violence.
Erin’s heart pounded in anger. She envisioned Darrell in their daughter’s room, methodically separating the dolls from Angela’s other toys, then attacking with a steak knife or pruning shears or God knows what … and leaving the mirror up so he could watch his own performance.
No! Erin thought. That wasn’t the reason for the mirror. He’d left it for Erin, so she could see herself at the moment of discovery, could see the shock on her own face when she found what he’d done in Angle’s bedroom. Could see herself crying.
But she didn’t cry.
Touching nothing, she backed out of the room. Then she hurried outside and asked the friendly Mormons if she could borrow a camera.
Darrell Grant’s sister lived in a trailer park thirty miles south of Miami. She shared a doublewide with a man who worked nights as a security guard at the Turkey Point nuclear power plant. The guard’s name was Alberto Alonso. He greeted Erin warmly at the front door. The fact she was a professional stripper made him absolutely giddy.
“Come in, come in!” Alberto sang out. He opened his arms and attempted a hug; more of a lunge, actually. Erin deftly skirted his grasp.
“Where is Rita?” she asked.
“Out with the cubs,” Alberto said. “Lupa’s new litter—you want to come look? We got an albino.”
“Maybe later,” Erin said. Lupa was the family pet, a fifty-fifty cross between a German shepherd and a wild Mt. McKinley timber wolf. At regular intervals, Rita bred Lupa with other wolves. She was able to sell the cubs for three hundred dollars each, sometimes more. It was the newest rage in macho dogs, since pit bulls had gone out of fashion.
“Six babies,” Alberto reported, “and the only male is albino. You should see the size of his balls!”
Erin said, “You must be very proud.”
“I’m trying to get the power company interested.”
“In what?”
“Wolf dogs, what else?” Alberto’s grin revealed many crooked gaps. Erin didn’t know how anyone could invest full confidence in a security guard with so many teeth missing.
“Think about it,” Alberto was saying. “Packs of wolves patrolling the perimeter. There goes your terrorist threat. There goes your sabotage.”
The screen door opened and Rita charged in. “Al, how many times I tole you—they ain’t no guard dogs. They don’t got the disposition for it.”
She wore a housedress, thong slippers, a catcher’s mask, and canvas logging gloves that went up to the elbows. The sight of her reminded Erin that none of Darrell’s siblings had grown up to be remotely normal or well-adjusted. In the Grant family, procreation had become a game of genetic roulette.
“Hello, Rita,” said Erin.
“Oh. Hi there.” Rita took off the catcher’s mask, revealing a nasty track of fresh stitches from the midpoint of her forehead to the bridge of her nose. “Lupa,” she explained. “She damn jumpy around those cubs.”
Alberto said, “Erin, honey, how about a drink?”
“Water would be fine.”
“No, I mean a drink.”
Rita said, “Make that two.”
“Just water,” Erin said. “I can’t stay long.”
Alberto was plainly disappointed. He shuffled to the refrigerator and began grappling with an ice tray. Rita tugged off the logging gloves and said, “Well, this is quite a surprise.”
Erin said, “It’s about Darrell. He’s gone again.”
“Now don’t get all worked up.”
“You know where he is?”
“No, ma’am, I do not.” Rita lowered herself onto a black Naugahyde sofa, which hissed beneath her weight. She said, “You still workin’ at that tittie place?”
Rita wasn’t going to be easy; playing dumb was her life’s work. Alberto was the weaker link.
“I hear the money is good,” Rita remarked. “But it damn well ought to be.”
Erin said, “When’s the last time you talked to your brother?”
“Lord, I’m sure I don’t remember.”
Alberto reappeared with water for Erin and a bourbon for Rita, both served in Fred Flintstone jelly jars. Out of the blue, Alberto said, “What about private parties? Some of the boys at the plant were asking. They were talking about getting a banquet room at the Ramada.”
“I don’t do private parties,” Erin told him. “I dance at the club. That’s it.”
“What about the other girls?”
“You’d have to ask them, Alberto.”
Rita said, “He’s been up to your place. What’s the name again?”
“The Eager Beaver,” said Alberto, helpfully.
Rita furrowed her brow. “I thought it was the Flesh Farm.”
Alberto said, “No, that’s another one.”
“Well, anyhoo, he’s seen you dance.”
“Really?” Erin didn’t like the idea of Alberto tiptoeing into the club, sneaking a peek. She could picture him giving a full report to the guys down at Turkey Point. It was pathetic, really. Erin was the closest thing to a celebrity that Alberto would ever know.
“I hope it was a good show,” she said sweetly. “I hope you got your money’s worth.”
“Gawd.” Rita lit a cigarette. “It’s all he talked about for weeks after. You’d think he ain’t never seen pubic hairs before.”
Alberto Alonso reddened, finally. Erin said, “You should’ve told me you were coming. I would’ve sent some champagne to the table.”
“Are you kidding? Pink champagne?”
A howling commotion erupted in the backyard. Rita grabbed the catcher’s mask and hurried out the screen door.
“Careful now!” Alberto shouted after her.
Erin motioned him to sit down. “We don’t get to visit much anymore,” she said.
“Well, the divorce and all.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends,” Erin said.
“I’d like that,” said Alberto. He scooted the chair closer. “Friends it is. You and me!” His breathing had become audibly heavy, and his eyebrows looked moist.
Erin didn’t often see men sweating from their eyebrows. “There’s two sides to every story,” she went on. “Darrell had his faults.”
“Now that’s a fact. He is no saint.”
From outside, they heard Rita shouting curses at the wolf dog. Then came a chilling feral scream.
“Damn,” Alberto said. “Another cat, I’ll bet.”
Erin lightly touched his knee. “I need to find Darrell. It’s very important.”
“He moved away, Erin.”
“I know that.”
“Don’t worry, honey.” Alberto flopped a fat moist hand up
on hers. Clumsily he tried to intertwine fingers, but Erin pulled away.
“Where is he, Alberto?”
“Rita would kill me.”
“It’s my daughter we’re talking about.”
Alberto nervously glanced toward the screen door. “Look, he calls here a couple three times a week. Needing money, per the usual. But I’m not sure where he’s at.” Alberto attempted another hand-holding, but Erin shook him off.
“Anything would be a help,” she said. “State, county, whatever. I’ll settle for an area code.”
Alberto said, “Rita’s the one he talks to, not me. Darrell never told me anything about anything. He don’t trust law enforcement, period.”
It was a reach for Alberto Alonso to classify himself as law enforcement, but Erin let it slide. Alberto’s job applications had been rejected by every municipal police department in the southeastern United States. Though he had the heart of a lawman, he did not have the acceptable psychological profile. “Squirrelly” was the term most commonly heard when Alberto’s file came up for consideration.
He told Erin: “Don’t worry, I’m sure Angie’s fine.”
“She’s not fine, Alberto. She’s with that fuckhead ex-husband of mine.”
Alberto was shocked into silence. Outside, the chaos in the backyard abated suddenly. Rita poked her head in the screen door. “Where’s the damn shovel?”
Alberto said, “I thought it was with the rakes.”
“Well, it ain’t!” The door slammed.
Erin asked Alberto for some aspirin.
“You got a headache?”
“A killer,” she said.
“Poor thing.” He stood up and cupped her face in his hands. “You feel hot, honey.”
“Alberto, it’s not a fever. It’s a headache.”
“I’ll get you some Bayers. Be right back.” He went to the bathroom and began searching the cabinet. “I got Advil!” he called out. “Tylenols. Anacins. Excedrin PMs. You prefer tablets or them new gel-caps?”
Alberto returned to the living room with an armful of pills, powders and capsules. Rita was there, settling into the Naugahyde, sucking fiercely on a cigarette. Erin was gone.