Strip Tease (17 page)

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. She 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 chain-smoked 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.”

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 Picatta 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 I-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.

Later he pinballed from table to table, thanking the paying guests for their generosity. Normally Dilbeck adored being the center of attention, but tonight the limelight was excruciating; the vision in his left eye was blurry, and both ears pounded with an invisible orchestra of steel drums. He sustained himself by silently repeating Erb’s mantra: each handshake is worth one thousand dollars.

At a far table, the congressman was greeted by a rotund fellow with flushed cheeks and jumpy rodent eyes. The man was dressed for a funeral. He said he was a lawyer, and introduced a stern female companion as his cousin. Dilbeck noticed a slight family resemblance.

“Remember me?” said the lawyer.

“Well, you certainly look familiar,” Dilbeck lied.

“San Francisco. The Mondale Express.”

“Of course, of course.” Dilbeck didn’t have the faintest recollection; he’d spent much of the convention on a barstool at Carol Doda’s topless revue. “I saw Fritz about three weeks ago,” Dilbeck improvised. “He looks absolutely fantastic.”

The lawyer invited the congressman to sit for a few minutes, but Dilbeck said no thanks, they’ve got me on a tight schedule. That’s when the lawyer handed him the photograph.

“For your album,” he said.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” said the congressman.

Dilbeck cupped his bad eye and gazed at the color print of his drunken self, swinging a bottle at a stranger’s head. Dilbeck had no distinct memory of the raunchy scene, except for the woman on the stage. It was the dancer in his dream—by God, she was real! The congressman experienced a tingle that was grossly inappropriate for the moment.

The lawyer said, “We had the photo enlarged from a slide, which I’m keeping in a very safe place.” He paused, running a finger along his upper lip. “If I may say so, sir, you look better without the mustache.”

Dilbeck smiled anemically. Erb Crandall, craning over the congressman’s shoulder, was comforted not to see his own likeness in the background of the photograph. He wondered, though, if there were other pictures in sequence—pictures of him pointing the gun, for example. Jesus, what a lousy night that was.

“It’s peculiar,” Dilbeck said, “how I don’t remember this.”

“But it’s you, isn’t it?” The lawyer gloated.

Crandall curtly demanded to see identification. Mordecai handed him a business card and said, “I’m sure you’re curious about Joyce’s interest. The fellow being assaulted is her betrothed.”

Crandall put his lips to Dilbeck’s ear. “Don’t say another word.”

“It’s all right, Erb. I honestly don’t remember.”

The lawyer went on: “You’re probably wondering about the young man’s condition. Unfortunately, the news is not good. He suffered grievous injuries in this attack.”

Dilbeck slumped. “What can I say? I’m terribly sorry.”

“Shut up,” Crandall hissed.

Joyce spoke up. “Sorry is fine and dandy, but my Paul will never be the same.”

“Severe head trauma,” the lawyer added. “That’s a champagne bottle you’ve got there. Korbel, if I’m not mistaken.”

The congressman gave the photograph to Crandall and said, “You were there, Erb. What the hell happened?”

From the corner of his eye, Crandall spotted a ragged line of well-wishers, including several prominent Rojos, moving across the ballroom toward David Lane Dilbeck. Crandall deftly concealed the dangerous photo in his tuxedo jacket, and told Mordecai to meet him upstairs in the hospitality suite.

The lawyer said, “Good, we were hoping for some privacy.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Crandall said. Then he rushed off to find Malcolm J. Moldowsky.

Strength fading, David Dilbeck managed to finish his rounds—shaking hands, feigning recognition, chuckling at lame jokes, bowing at banal flattery… and thinking only of the sleek dancer whose honor he’d so nobly defended that night at the Eager Beaver. Did she think of him, too?

Joyce paced the lobby while Mordecai met Moldowsky alone, in the hospitality suite. There were no formalities. The lawyer stated his demands; Moldowsky took a few notes. The photograph, creased by Crandall’s tuxedo, lay on the coffee table between them.

“Extortion,” Moldy said, thoughtfully.

“In my game, it’s called negotiating a settlement. Do you suppose I’m joking about filing a civil action? The picture speaks for itself, Mr. Moldowsky.”

“I disapprove of shakedowns.”

Mordecai shrugged. “Other attorneys would’ve sued first, then offered to settle. Of course a lawsuit instantly puts the matter in the public eye. Considering Mr. Dilbeck’s position, I assumed he wished to avoid the publicity.”

“Thanks for being so damn considerate.” Moldowsky got up and fixed himself a drink. His eyes flickered toward the incriminating photo of The Honorable David Lane Dilbeck—homicidal, out-of-control, crazed by lust. It would make quite a splash on the front page of the newspapers.

The lawyer said, “I’ll understand if you need some time. It must be quite a shock.”

“Not really,” Moldy said. “The man’s name is Paul Jonathan Guber. He spent five days at Broward General with cuts, bruises and a mild concussion. He’s doing just fine now, but I guess that’s beside the point. Right?”

Mordecai was stunned into a momentary silence. After a few seconds, he said, “Am I to assume that you called the hospital out of concern for my client’s health?”

Malcolm Moldowsky tapped his polished fingernails on the side of his glass. “We look out for the congressman,” he said. Erb Crandall had been keeping tabs on young Mr. Guber since the night of the assault.

“I’m impressed,” said Mordecai. “However, your interest in my client’s medical condition could be perceived as an acknowledgment of responsibility. A jury might be curious to know why Mr. Dilbeck never voluntarily came forward. So might the State Attorney.”

Moldy was amused. “Who do you think you’re dealing with?”

“That’s what I came to find out. I was hoping for a civilized discussion.” Mordecai rose and smoothed the wrinkles from his suit. “I’ll be at the courthouse first thing in the morning. Prepare the congressman for the worst.”

Moldowsky said, “Sit down, hotshot.”

“No, sir. I’ve said my piece.”

“Three million is too high.”

“Really?” Now it was Mordecai’s turn to be amused. “Do you know what Sweetheart Sugar grossed last year?”

Moldy made a sucking noise through his front teeth. In slow motion he placed his glass on the table. The lawyer remained smug. He wished that Joyce could see him in action, cutting the nuts off the big boys.

Moldowsky said, “You know a man named Jerry Killian?”

The lawyer said he’d never heard of him. Moldy could tell he was being truthful. Leave it to Dilbeck to get blackmailed twice for the same fuckup—three times, if you counted the mystery woman who phoned his Washington office.

“I need to know who else is involved.”

Mordecai said, “My clients are Joyce and Paul.” He didn’t mention that Paul Guber, having disassociated himself from the scheme, would never be told about the money. Nor did Mordecai reveal that a modest slice of the settlement would be shared with a violent bouncer named Shad.

“The check,” the lawyer said, “should be made out to my firm’s trust account.”

“A check?” Malcolm Moldowsky laughed harshly.

“Surely you don’t intend to pay in cash.”

“No. Wire transfer.”

“From overseas?”

“Nassau,” Moldy said. “Possibly the Caymans. Is that a problem?”

“Not as long as it’s U.S. dollars.” The lawyer fancied himself the portrait of slick.

Moldowsky said, “Three million won’t fly. Try two-point-five.”

“You’re playing games, Mr. Moldowsky. We both know the price of sugar, and how it stays so high.”

“Don’t push your luck, hotshot. According to my information, Paul Guber is completely recovered.”

“Never know about the human brain,” Mordecai mused. “One day the man could be fine. The next day it’s intensive care.”

“Oh, you’re a pistol.”

“The prospect of a trial would be most stressful for the young man and his bride-to-be. I’d recommend some long-term counseling.”

Moldy flicked a hand in the air. “Cut the bullshit. I’ll talk to some people and get back with you.”

“Of course.”

“In the meantime, have a chat with Joyce. Explain the importance of confidentiality.”

“Don’t worry,” Mordecai said, “she’s a smart lady.”

And soon to be a rich one.

The Rojos’ boat was called the Sweetheart Deal. It was ninety feet long, made in the Netherlands. All three staterooms had wet bars and Dolby sound.

The yacht was docked at Turnberry Isle, on the Intracoastal Waterway. By the time Moldowsky arrived, it was almost two in the morning. The elder Rojos, Joaquin and Willie, offered a cup of Cuban coffee to their guest. Moldy didn’t need it; he was wide awake. Two young women were taking a bubble bath in the Jacuzzi. Christopher was passed out on the carpet, next to a spotted ocelet in an emerald-studded collar. The wild cat groomed its paws and rumbled.