Marked Man (9 page)

“Where are we going, Phil?”
I said as I drove us down Spring Garden Street toward the eastern edge of the city.

“I just wants you to check someone out,” he said.

“Is it her?”

“Don’t know, does I? I put out the word, quietly like you asked, and this came back my way as a possibility. Things, they are not exactly as you’d expect in one way, and then”—he laughed—“in another way they’s exactly as you’d expect.”

“Did you take a picture? I might not want her to be the one, if you get my drift. Did I tell you I have a thing about mustaches? Big, thick mustaches? I don’t like them on women. I don’t like them on men either, actually, but on women they give me the creeps.”

“Look, mate, if she’s the one whose name you got scrawled on your chest, you’ll like the looks of her, don’t be worrying about that. But I gots some other pictures, too. You want to see them first?”

“Sure.”

“All righty,” he said. “Pull over there.”

I edged the car to the side of the road, stopped behind a parked van, put it in neutral and left the engine running. Skink turned on the overhead light and took an envelope out of his suit pocket.

“There was no Chantal Adairs listed for Philly, South Jersey, or Delaware,” he said, “but I found us a few C. Adairs, with no first name given. Usually an initial instead of a first name is a lady trying not to look like a lady in the book in case a predator is stalking, you got me?
So I checked out thems that I could. Found one in Absecon, one in Horsham. Take a peek and see if a face rings a bell.”

He passed me over the first of the photographs. A color shot, a little grainy and taken from pretty far away. It wasn’t the clearest photograph, but right off I could tell that the woman in the picture was not whom I was looking for. She was older, much older, with steel gray hair that matched her walker.

“Is this a joke?” I said.

“Don’t know what you are into these days, mate, now, do I?”

“Who else?”

The next photograph was of a younger woman, hugely pregnant, holding a young child on her ample hip. She had a pretty face, though, despite her evident maternity, and I squinted to see if it was familiar.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think I ever saw her before.”

“Don’t think so neither, since her name is Catherine.”

“Then what was the point of showing me the photograph?”

“I just wanted you to know they ain’t too many of these Chantal Adairs out there. So you won’t be sniffing up your nose at who we’re seeing tonight.” He switched off the light. “Let’s get a move on.”

I popped the car in gear, pulled out from behind the van, and continued heading east.

“What do you mean,” I said, “that things aren’t exactly like I would expect?”

“Well, her name ain’t exactly what you got printed there on your chest.”

“Then exactly why are we checking her out?”

“Because it’s close enough.”

“Close enough for what?”

“For you to tell me if she’s the one. Turn there.”

I turned. “What if I don’t remember her?”

“Then maybe she’ll remember you. Okay, take a right and then go under that bridge.”

“What’s that there?” I said, nodding toward a bright neon sign.

“Where we’re headed, mate. Pull in to the lot.”

The parking lot surrounded a one-story building wedged beneath a highway bridge. The lot held pickups and high-priced sedans, the
building was painted black, the purple neon in the sign was blinking, alternately spelling out the name of the place in script and then showing a figure, a female figure, like the kind of thing you see on the mud flaps of a sixteen-wheeler. I stopped the car in the middle of the lot, felt my expectations deflate and my heart sicken. But I should never have been surprised. Whenever men head off into the limitless American night in search of true love, they more often than not end up at a strip joint.

“Club Lola?” I said, a tone of defeat in my voice.

“’At’s it, all right.”

“Isn’t this the place where that guy met the stripper he killed his wife for?”

“’At’s the one.”

“And I suppose this Chantal Adair is one of the dancers here.”

“’At’s what we’re here to find out.”

“What’s the point?” I said. “Of all the things I could have imagined for the tattoo on my chest, this is the absolute worst. What kind of loser gets drunk, ends up at a strip bar, falls in love with a stripper, and is determined to show her his undying devotion by tattooing her name on his chest?”

“We’ll find out tonight, won’t we?”

“Forget it. It’s no mystery how this story turns out.”

“You don’t want to know for sure?”

“I’ve seen enough already to know the whole thing is a crushing mistake.”

“If you give up now, mate, whenever you look in the mirror, you’ll always think the worst,” said Skink. “Not about the bird but about yourself. Park the car. Let’s find out what’s what.”

“You just want an evening’s entertainment.”

“That, too, yes, and on your dime, which makes it all the sweeter.”

I could feel the bass of the music even before I reached the entrance. My general rule is to never go into a place where the bouncer is dressed entirely in black and sports a ponytail, which conveniently keeps me out of all the places that don’t want me inside, but I suppose this was an exception.

“You ever see me before?” I said to the bouncer as I paid the cover for the two of us.

Without looking up, he said, “I got a bad memory for faces.”

“But this was just a few nights ago.”

He lifted his head, sniffed like a Doberman. “If I didn’t kick you out, I didn’t know you was in. That’s the way it is. Keeps me out of the courtroom, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But was I in?”

“Like I said. And I’ll tell the wife the same thing.”

“Well,” I said, taking my change, “that is a relief.”

And off we went, into the fleshpot.

Club Lola was a wide,
spotlit room, smoke-filled, dark-walled, with scores of tables and a long bar across the far side. There was a grand stage in the middle, on which a woman with a G-string and pasties and white high heels was hanging upside down. Her legs were hooked around a shiny pole, her hands were hooked around her breasts. The music was loud, the tables were small, the chairs were plush, the dancer was licking her own breast with a long, narrow tongue. Nice family entertainment.

The joint was half full, customers sitting with strange sated looks on their faces as a pack of she-wolves in high heels and sheer bikinis, their surgically enhanced bodies adorned with bracelets and tattoos, swarmed and socialized. What is it about high heels and bikinis that sings seductive songs straight to the masculine gut? And all it took was one look at the bikini tops to know that the air conditioner was definitely on.

Skink thumbed his fedora back on his head, took a cigar out of his jacket pocket, spread his arms wide, breathed deep the foul air. “My kind of place,” he said.

“I bet,” I said.

“Classy is what I mean. It’s got ambience.”

“It’s got something, all right.”

“Oh, quit your bellyaching. Let me buys you a drink.”

“On the expense account you’ll be charging back to me?”

“Victor, mate, what do you take me for?”

“That means yes.”

“I’ll see what kind of action we can rustle up. Now, take a seat, pop a smile, and enjoy yourself.”

I sat, I smiled, but I didn’t enjoy myself. And it wasn’t just the mark of loserhood on my chest that was dampening my mood.

I know, I know, every woman believes that every man, in his secret heart, loves a strip club. But I, for one, don’t. They give me the skives, and I think I know why. Every time I enter a joint like Club Lola, I feel squirrelly about the roles available to men in the little strip-club drama.

Am I the arrogant he-man who just assumes it is his due to have beautiful women wind their naked bodies into knots for my amusement? Am I the pitiable misfit who has to pay to get this close to a woman’s bare flesh? Am I the bored husband who spends my nights getting angry at my life as I stare at the type of woman I should have married? Or, worst of all, am I the romantic sap who thinks that the dancer, there, that one, with the sweet eyes and full rack, really really likes me? No, really, she does. Really.

While I was having my existential strip-club crisis, Skink was having none of it. He knew exactly who he was and what he was doing there as he leaned back in his chair, a beer in one hand, his cigar in the other, and a dancer’s wriggling J.Lo smack in his face.

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Skink, his gap-toothed grin broad and gleaming. “Just like that. Yes. Oh, that’s just terrific.”

“Anything else you want?” said the dancer, who had introduced herself as Scarlet.

“Why don’t you turn around, sweetheart, and I’ll slip in a little something just for you.”

Scarlet did a spin, leaned forward with her back arched dramatically, pulled down the bikini top with her thumbs, and shimmied. It was all so festive, even her pasties glistened brightly, like twin disco balls.

“Is Chantal in tonight?” said Skink as he slipped a bill into the side of her G-string.

“She’s in back,” said Scarlet. While she talked, she worked her shimmy as efficiently as a bank clerk counting bills.

“Can you send her over?”

“What, this isn’t good enough for you?”

“Too good,” said Skink. “You stick around much longer, my head is going to burst into flame.” He slipped in another bill. “Be a honey and send over Chantal.”

As Scarlet gathered up the cash and sauntered off toward the curtain beside the bar, Skink turned to me, his grin still in place. “This is why I became a PI.”

“It’s nice for you that you found your calling.”

“You recognize anyone?”

I looked around at the women wandering the floor, talking to strange men or dancing on the stages in shifts, some good-looking, some great, all nearly naked, the sight of their bodies as available as the channels on a television set.

“Not a one,” I said.

“How about her?” said Skink, gesturing toward a tall brunette who was walking toward us.

“I don’t think so.”

“You sure?”

“Her, I’d have remembered.”

And I would have, too. She was like Fantasy Woman Version 2.0, new and improved, now with even longer legs and less clothing than before. What with her red heels, her thin hips, her high firm breasts, pale skin, green G-string, blue eyes, a mouth just irregular enough to trap your eye and get you thinking, it actually hurt to gaze upon her. It was as if she embodied in the flesh all the possibilities of your life that had never come true. No matter what doubts I might have had before about my role in that club, her very beauty defined it with utter definitiveness: She was what I could never have, I was the pathetic loser who had paid to stare.

“Hello, boys,” she said in a silvery voice as she placed her right high heel on the little round table between our chairs. A red rose was tattooed on her ankle. “My name’s Chantal.”

She bent forward at the waist and then back in some twisty ballet move. The line in her calf tensed. I leaned close to smell the flower. I could see a scuff within the gleam of her high heel, and I had the strange urge to polish it with my tongue. Her black hair was straight
and glossy, and when it whipped close to my nose I smelled lilac, in a field, with bees buzzing. Or was that just my blood?

It doesn’t take much to break down my defenses, does it?

“Did you boys ask to see me?” she said.

“Uh, yes,” said Skink in a suddenly weak voice. “Yes, we did.”

She kept to her slow twisting, leaning her upper body over Skink as she said, “And what’s your name?”

“Phil,” he said. “The name’s, uh, Phil.”

“Just like that cute little groundhog,” she said. “And you look like him, too, with that gap in your teeth. So what can I do for you, uh, Phil?” Her voice dripped with a promise more languid than lascivious. “What do you like?”

“Oh, I like everything,” said Skink, “yes, I do.” He shook his head, gathered himself. “But we’re not here for me. We’re here for my friend,” he said, jabbing his thumb toward me.

“Oh,” she said, “is this a bachelor party?”

“Of a sort,” said Skink, “seeing as we’re both bachelors.”

With her foot still on the table, she faced away from me, showing off a tattooed shepherd’s crook on her lower back, and then leaned backward, farther and farther, until her spine bent like a bow and her hands reached the far armrest of my chair. There was a white dove tattooed on her right shoulder. Her face was inches from mine.

“Hi,” she said in that Tiffany voice as her body bent and surged to the rhythm of the music. “I’m Chantal.”

The place suddenly grew hot, as if a furnace had sprung on.

“Hi, Chantal,” I said.

“Do you like pinball? I like pinball, how the shiny little balls bounce around crazily. Just the way your eyes are bouncing around right now.”

“Are they?”

“Oh, yes. Be careful not to tilt.” She laughed, a sweet little girl’s laugh. “And what’s your name, honey?”

“Don’t you recognize me?” I said.

A blankness washed across her face as she examined me before she forced a professional smile onto that gorgeous mouth. “Of course,” she said. “How are you? It’s so good to see you again. Thanks for coming back.”

“You’ve never seen me before, have you?”

“No, I have, really. You’re so sweet, and so good-looking, how could I not remember?”

“Then what’s my name?” I said.

“Your name?”

She pushed herself off my chair and slowly straightened her long torso. She took her lovely shoe off the table, stepped back, stared at me for a moment like I was crazy, looked at Skink, then again at me.

“Is it Bob?” she said.

The humiliation of it all brought me back to my senses. I straightened my pants, stood up, closed my jacket as best I could. “Let’s go, Phil.”

“Wait just a second,” said Skink. “No need to rush away when things is just getting interesting. Do us a favor, sweetheart, and tell us your name?”

“I told you already,” she said, her voice suddenly not so silvery.

“But you only told us half. Chantal what?”

“Just Chantal,” she said. “We only have first names here. Like Cher. And Beyoncé.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Just like. And I suppose Chantal’s your real name.”

“Sure,” she said with a light laugh. “Just like Desirée is Desirée’s real name and Scarlet is Scarlet’s real name. And don’t even get me started on Lola herself.”

“Lola, huh?” said Skink. “Who is she really?”

Chantal leaned forward toward Skink, lowered her voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “Sid,” she said.

Skink burst out in appreciative laughter.

“What’s this all about?” she said. “Why are you asking so many questions? Are you guys cops?”

“Do we look like cops?” I said.

“He does,” she said, indicating Skink. “You look more like a high school guidance counselor.”

“We’re looking for someone,” said Skink, “and we thought you might be her.”

“Am I?”

“No,” I said. “You’re not. We’re sorry to take up your time.”

“So who is it you guys are looking for?”

“A girl name of Chantal,” said Skink. “Just like you.”

“Chantal who?”

“Chantal Adair.”

She stared at us for a long moment, stared at us like we were specters from another world who were shimmering in and out of her reality. “Are you kidding me?”

“Why?” said Skink. “You know her?”

“Look,” she said, backing away and crossing her arms over her chest. “I have to dance, okay. It’s my turn on the stage.”

“Are you her?” I said.

“The farthest thing,” she said.

“But you do know her.”

I took a step forward, gently put a hand on her wrist. She looked down at my hand, then up at my face.

“What’s your game?” she said.

“We’re just looking for a dame, is all,” said Skink.

“Well, if you’re looking for her, you’ll be looking for a long time,” she said. “Chantal Adair was my sister. But she disappeared two years before I was born.”

She smiled tightly, put her hand on my chest and pushed me away before she turned around and walked toward the bar. She leaned over it, arms still crossed, looking as if she had stomach cramps. She began talking to the bartender, talking about us, we could tell, because he was glancing our way. He gave her a drink, she downed it quickly.

“I guess she’s not the one,” I said.

“Worth a tattoo if she is, mate. Got to give her that.”

“Yeah, but the name isn’t hers.”

“Her real name’s Monica, Monica Adair,” said Skink. “But it seemed worth a shot, what with the fake dance name and the real last name both matching the tattoo.”

“Yeah, I suppose. It’s a little weird, though, don’t you think, using her missing sister’s name to dance to?”

“She’s a stripper, which explains a lot. I knew a girl out in Tucson—”

“I bet you did,” I said, “but I don’t really want to hear about it right now. I’m going home.”

“I think I’ll stay around a bit longer.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Research, mate.”

“Your enthusiasm for the job is heartwarming.”

“I got a second possibility on the tattoo front. Since this didn’t pan out, I’ll set up that one.”

“Another strip joint?”

“Nah, something a little more technical. I got me a guy what—”

Skink stopped in midsentence, which was a rare and wondrous feat. I followed his gaze, to see what had interrupted his chain of thought. It was Monica Adair, coming back our way, a strange smile on her face. She walked right up to me and put her hand on my arm.

“You never told me your name,” she said to me.

“Victor,” I said.

“Are you leaving, Victor? So soon?”

“I have to get home. Big day tomorrow. Big day.”

“I’m up next on the stage, but then I can get out a little early. Sid owes me. Are you hungry?”

“It’s kind of late, don’t you think?”

“Oh, Victor, it’s never too late to eat. And if you want, while we eat, we can talk about my sister.”