Strip Tease (23 page)

Dilbeck thanked Moldowsky for the offer but said it wouldn’t solve the problem. “Love has swept me away,” he said.

“Love?” Moldy laughed acerbically.

“It’s frightening, Malcolm. Haven’t you ever felt so passionately about someone?”

“Never,” Moldowsky said, truthfully. He stuck to call girls. They spoke his language.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be all right,” Dilbeck told him. “I’ll make it to the election just fine.” He rested his glass on the arm of the chair. “Erb says Flickman wants a debate. I’m ready.”

“Ignore the little fuck,” advised Moldowsky.

Eloy Flickman was Dilbeck’s hapless opponent in the Congressional race. Under ordinary circumstances, a debate might’ve been productive, since ideologically Flickman stood slightly to the right of Attila the Hun. Among his campaign promises: televised executions of drug dealers, free sterilization of welfare mothers and a U.S. military invasion of Cuba. Even the state GOP was leery, providing the shrill appliance salesman with only nominal support.

Dilbeck said, “I could destroy him, Malcolm.”

“Why bother. He’s destroying himself.”

“I worry about that Cuban thing. It’s loony enough to catch on.”

“No debate!” Moldowsky said. He stopped pacing and planted himself in front of Dilbeck’s face. “Davey, we’ve got a more pressing matter—this goddamn stripper you’re so taken with.”

The congressman bowed his head. “What can I say? I’m no longer in control of my impulses.”

In Malcolm Moldowsky’s grand vision of the future, David Dilbeck already was a goner. The day the sugar bill moved out of committee, he was finished. A stiff. Moldy and the Rojos would get him dumped from the chairmanship. Other congressmen would be elated to assume Dilbeck’s special role; surely not all of them were so conspicuously deranged. In the meantime, Moldowsky had formed a plan. It was not without risk.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he told Dilbeck. “First you’ve got to promise: no more collecting her laundry lint and razors and her goddamn shoes. Is that understood?”

“All right. But what do I get?” The congressman sounded skeptical.

“A date.”

Dilbeck rose slowly, eyes widening. “God, you’re serious.”

“Her boss called me tonight. He said she might be up for it, if the price is nice.”

“When?” Dilbeck’s voice jumped. “You mean, right now?”

Incredible, Moldowsky thought. He’s about to come in his pants. “Tie a knot in it,” he told the congressman.

“A date, you said.”

“I’m working out the details.”

Dilbeck showed no curiosity about Moldy’s relationship with the owner of a nudie bar. He held Moldowsky by the shoulders. “If you can arrange this, honest to God—”

Moldy brushed Dilbeck’s hands away. “Then you’d behave until the election? This crazy shit’ll stop?”

“On my father’s grave, Malcolm.”

“Very funny.”

The Straw—a showman to the end—had been buried in a silk-lined septic tank. Moldowsky thought: His lunatic son should have so much class.

Dilbeck rubbed his damp palms on the knees of his jogging suit. “Malcolm, are we talking about a date date, or the other kind?”

“Meaning, do you get to screw the girl? That’s between you and her. Hell, I can’t do everything—”

“You’re right, you’re right—”

“—I can’t get it hard and put it in for you. Some things you’ve gotta do for yourself.”

The congressman was on a cloud. “My friend, you’ve got no idea what this would mean to me.” He raised his glass to Moldowsky. “Another coup, Malcolm.”

“Try miracle,” Moldy said. “A fucking miracle.”

“Your specialty!”

“Oh yeah,” Moldowsky mumbled. Rep. David Dilbeck had no inkling of the drastic steps that had already been taken to save his worthless hide.

By the 1970s, the once-dazzling underwater reefs of Miami and Fort Lauderdale were dead, poisoned by raw sewage dumped into the ocean from the toilets of swank waterfront hotels. Submerged pipes carried the filth a few hundred yards offshore, so beachgoers wouldn’t see the billowing brown spumes. It was assumed that even the most dogged tourist might think twice about snorkeling in a torrent of shit.

Decades of rancid outfall eventually killed the delicate corals and drove the glittering fish away. The reefs became gray escarpments, barren and manifestly untropical. Drift-boat captains and dive-shop operators complained of losing customers to the Florida Keys and the Bahamas, where the water was still clear enough to see one’s hand in front of one’s face. A few South Florida coastal cities took modest measures to reduce the offshore pollution, but the reefs failed to regenerate; once dead, coral tends to stay that way.

Biologists theorized that it was possible to attract fish without real coral, and thus was born the concept of “artificial reefs,” which was neither as exotic nor as high-tech as it sounded. Artificial reefs were created by sinking old ships; once nestled on the bottom, the ghost hulks attracted schools of baitfish which in turn attracted barracudas, jack crevalles, sharks, groupers and snappers. The drift boats and scuba captains were happy, as they no longer had to travel forty miles to find an actual fish to show their customers.

From a public-relations standpoint, the artificial reef program was a grand success—a sort of living junkyard of the deep. For once, human practices of waste disposal could be passed off legitimately as a benefit to the environment. Every few months another derelict freighter would be towed offshore and blown up with dynamite. Local TV stations swarmed the event, as it gave them an opportunity to use their expensive helicopters for something other than traffic reports. Predictably, the highly publicized demolitions became a regular South Florida tourist attraction, attended by hundreds of boaters who cheered wildly as the rusty vessels exploded and disappeared under the waves.

On the morning of October second, an eighty-six-foot Guatemalan banana boat called the Princess Pia was towed from Port Everglades to a pre-selected site off the Fort Lauderdale coast. The Princess Pia had been salvaged meticulously from the inside out: gone were the melted twin diesels, the corroded navigational gear, the radio electronics, the bilge pumps, the ropes, the hoses, the pipes, the fixtures, the hatch covers, the windshield, even the anchor—every item of value had been stripped from the boat. What remained essentially was a bare hull, degreased to minimize the purple slick that inevitably would form when the Pia went down.

The preparation of the ship had taken nearly a month, and was supervised by a Coast Guard inspector, a Broward County environmental engineer and an agent from the U.S. Customs Service, which had seized the vessel fourteen months earlier. Once the Customs agent was satisfied that the Princess Pia had no more hidden cargo compartments and carried no more hidden hashish, he signed off on the project. The Coast Guard inspector and the county environmental expert walked through the old heap one last time on the evening of October first Much later, both men would testify that, except for the explosives, the Pia was empty that night; specifically, the aft hold was bare.

A single guard, hired by the demolition company, was posted at the ship’s mooring to prevent the dynamite from being stolen from the hull. The guard kept watch dutifully until approximately three in the morning, when a group of friendly stevedores invited him aboard a Japanese lumber barge to play cards and watch pornographic videotapes. In all, the Princess Pia was unguarded for at least three and possibly five hours, depending on whose testimony one believed.

This much was undisputed: At dawn the next day, two tugs hauled the Pia out to sea on a falling tide. Three Florida Marine Patrol boats and a Coast Guard cruiser led the way, positioning themselves between the celebratory armada and the dynamite-laden freighter. The site for the new artificial reef was only three miles offshore, but it took a full hour for the Princess Pia to get there. The ocean was choppy, with northeast winds kicking to twenty knots; the tug captains kept a cautious pace.

By 9 a.m., the Pia was tethered in place, bow facing into the breeze. The police boats raced in widening arcs, clearing a buffer zone. At precisely 10 a.m., a radio signal detonated twin explosions in the ship’s hull and stern. Tall blasts of dirty smoke rose from each end, and the ship listed dramatically starboard. She sunk in nine minutes flat. Boaters clapped and howled and sounded air horns.

Nobody suspected that there was a 1991 Lincoln Continental chained to the beams of the aft cargo hold. Nobody knew, until much later, what was in it.

Erin remained baffled by the success of the nude wrestling exhibitions, which had become a red-hot fad in upscale strip joints. There was nothing erotic about grappling with a topless woman in a vat of cold vegetables, although the sodden realization came too late for most customers. By the time the bell rang, few were able to climb from the ring without assistance. The young bankers appeared especially whipped after their sessions with Urbana Sprawl.

Working table to table, Erin paid little attention to the comic slaughter in the wrestling pit. She was thinking about politics, which suddenly had touched her life in a dramatic way. Erin couldn’t remember the last time she’d stood in a voting booth. Campaigns bored her. Every politician wore the same horse-shit smile and gave the same horseshit speech. Erin was amazed that anyone would believe a word. She recalled being stricken by severe intestinal cramps while trying to watch the Bush-Dukakis debates.

Agent Cleary, bless his buttoned-down heart, used to scold her for being so cynical. On election day he’d lecture the office staff, telling them that democracy is futile without “an informed and participatory electorate.” He’d say that people get exactly the land of government they deserve, and those who won’t vote have no grounds to complain. He was right, Erin thought. This is what I get for not paying attention. Thieves like David Lane Dilbeck couldn’t get elected dog-catcher without the gross apathy of the masses.

And this is my punishment, Erin thought. I’ve got to date the asshole.

Al Garcia had laid out the situation in his maddeningly laconic way. Erin, who was seldom shocked at the depth of human sordidness, found herself stunned by what she heard: Jerry Killian had been murdered over sugar. The lovestruck little nerd was killed because he’d threatened the career of a crooked congressman. According to Garcia, the congressman’s principal contribution to the governing of the republic was to direct jillions of dollars in aid to the sugar cartels. Poor Mr. Peepers jeopardized that arrangement, so he was swatted as dead as a fly.

Garcia said he wanted to catch the killers before they came looking for Erin. She said that was an excellent idea, and agreed to help in any way possible. Self-preservation was the main motivation; guilt was another. Erin couldn’t forget that it was her sexy dancing that had fatally infatuated Jerry Killian.

Men were so helpless, she thought, so easily charmed. Monique Jr. was right: they’d do anything for it. Anything.

That’s what Erin’s mother didn’t understand about yuppie strip clubs: it wasn’t the women who were being used and degraded, it was the men. Her mother thought these places were meat markets, and indeed they were, the meat being the customers. Experienced dancers always kept one eye on the front door, scouting for the next mark. If you knew your stuff, you could work a guy all night and get every last dollar out of his wallet. You didn’t have to blow him or screw him or even act like you might. A girlish smile, a sisterly hug, a few minutes of private conversation—Urbana Sprawl said it was the easiest money in the world, if you could get past being naked.

Because men were so easily charmed. That was a fact.

But Erin was apprehensive about the congressman. He wouldn’t be shy and polite like Killian and the other regulars. No, Dilbeck would be pushy and crude and probably kinky. Al Garcia warned her to be prepared.

“You think he’s the one who took my razor?”

“Ask him,” Garcia had said.

Fear wasn’t the worst part for Erin; the worst part was sending Angela away. It was the sensible move, because certainly Angle couldn’t stay in the new apartment—couldn’t stay anywhere near her mother—until the danger was over. Erin felt terrible about it. She didn’t like being alone again. She dreaded the silent afternoons, the dinners for one. Angie was safe, and at least Darrell Grant wouldn’t find her. But still…

“Hey, babes.”

A hand clamped on Erin’s leg. She snapped back to reality—Urbana rolling in the creamed corn, Aerosmith blaring on the speakers, her own bra and G-string in a lacey mound between the Michelob bottles at her feet. Three young bankers sat at the table, trying to appear cool and unimpressed. The drunkest of them kept snapping Erin’s garter, where the cash tips were folded. She asked him to stop but he didn’t. She brushed his hand off her leg and spun a circle on the table, making evasion part of the dance; when she stopped spinning, the banker’s hand returned, crawling like a mantis up her thigh. Erin looked across the room for Shad, but couldn’t see him.

“That’s enough,” she told the banker.

The next thing she felt was his tongue. He was licking vertically from ankle to knee, long, sloppy Popsicle licks.

Erin snatched the man’s hair and lifted his head. “You behave,” she said sharply. But he wouldn’t.

That morning, a small item had appeared on page 6-D of the Fort Lauderdale Sun Sentinel, under the headline: BAR TO PROBE MISSING LAWYER. The four-paragraph story said the Florida Bar was investigating whether a lawyer named Mordecai had looted his client trust account and fled the country. The article said the man had not been seen for several days, and was believed to have flown to the Bahamas with an unnamed female companion.

Sgt. Al Garcia clipped the story and put it with his homicide paperwork in his briefcase. Then he drove to a street corner in Liberty City, where two crack dealers had done the planet a tremendous favor by killing each other in a pre-dawn shootout. Witnesses were as scarce as mourners, but Garcia took out his notebook and went to work.

Another man who clipped the Sun Sentinel item was Erb Crandall, sitting in the lobby of the Sunshine Fidelity Savings Bank on Gait Ocean Mile. Crandall was about to commit a minor crime for major stakes. He was about to forge a false name on a vault-room ledger, and use a stolen key to open a stranger’s safe-deposit box. Crandall was searching for a Kodak color slide that Malcolm Moldowsky urgently sought to possess. The slide was the original photograph of Congressman David Lane Dilbeck assaulting Paul Guber with a champagne bottle on the stage of the Eager Beaver lounge. Erb Crandall’s plan to obtain the incriminating picture began smoothly in the vault room. He signed a well-practiced version of Mordecai’s name to the ledger, and handed the key to the clerk. The clerk pulled the steel box from the wall and unlocked it. He led Erb Crandall to a windowless cubicle and left him alone.

When Crandall opened the lid, he found no Kodak slide.

Mordecai’s box had been cleaned out. In the bottom, face up, lay only a business card:

Sgt. Alberto Garcia

Metropolitan Dade County Police

Homicide Division (305) 471-1900

Erb Crandall’s fingers were shaking as he carried the safe-deposit box to the clerk’s desk. It was all he could do not to run from the bank.

That evening, over dinner, Sgt. Al Garcia took out the news clipping and read it again. He was impressed that anyone would go to the trouble of framing a lawyer who most likely was dead. The trust account ruse was very nifty.

Andy asked: “Al, did you catch ‘em yet? The guys who killed that man in the river?”

“Not yet,” Garcia said. The boy talked about the floater all the time; it was the highlight of the family vacation.

“Any suspects?”

“No, Andy. It’s a tough one.”

Donna said: “That’s enough, both of you. Remember our rule.”

The rule was: no talk of dead bodies at supper. Al’s work was to be discussed only after the dishes were cleared.

“Sorry, Mom,” Andy said.

Lynne, the little girl, asked if they could go to Sea World next summer. She wanted to see some turtles and sharks. Andy said he’d rather go back to Montana and hunt for clues.

Donna chased the children from the table and brought her husband a pot of coffee. He said, “Look what I’ve gotten you all into.”

“It’s all right. She seems like a nice person.”

“Of course she’s a nice person. Next question: how come she’s working at a nudie bar? Right?”

Donna shrugged. “It’s no great mystery. Have a slice of pie.”

Garcia was intrigued. “Could you do that—take off your clothes in front of all those drunken strangers?”

“If I had to,” Donna said. “For the kids.”

“Jesus, there’s only about a million other jobs. The girl’s not stupid. She can type seventy words a minute.”

“You said she owes her lawyer.”

“Yeah,” Garcia said. “Who doesn’t?”

“So maybe she wants a nest egg. Where’s the crime in that?”

“You’re right, sweetheart.”

“I like her.”

“Me, too,” he said. “But it’s the job that’s got her into so much damn trouble.”

“No, honey, it’s the men.” Donna cut a piece of apple pie and put it on a plate. “So what does she look like, Al?”

“You saw her.” He teased with a long pause. “Oh, you mean with her clothes off? Tell you the truth, I didn’t notice.”

Donna smiled. “You are a pitiful liar. Eat your dessert.”

The phone rang. Donna didn’t bother to get up. Only cops called at dinner time. Garcia went in the kitchen to take it. He looked grim when he came back.

“That was the Broward sheriff’s office,” he said.

“They still don’t want the case?”

“I knew they wouldn’t.” Garcia sat down heavily. “Hell, I can’t even get that cowpoke coroner to say Killian’s death was a homicide. Meanwhile I got no weapons, no witnesses and no suspects.”

He took a large bite of pie. “I don’t blame BSO for taking a pass.” Another huge bite. “Least they were decent about it. I mean, they didn’t laugh too hard.”

Donna said, “Slow down. You’ll choke to death.”

“It’s good pie.”

“Not that good. Now tell me what else is wrong.”

“I end up on a speaker phone with two brain-dead detectives. See, the girl’s ex was a C.I. for Broward robbery.” Garcia didn’t need to translate police jargon for Donna. She’d learned plenty from her first husband, the dope dealer.

“The ex is still an informant?”

Garcia, chewing mechanically: “Nope, they cut him loose after he got busted for grand theft up the coast.”

Donna shook her head. “I don’t get it. If the ex got arrested, isn’t that good news for Erin?”

“Oh, great news,” Garcia said, wiping his mouth, “if they’d managed to keep the bastard in jail.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope, he escaped. From a county hospital! Stole a wheel-chair and rolled out the fucking door!”

Donna told her husband to keep his voice down. “We’ve got company,” she reminded him. “Where’s your cigar?”

“Wait, there’s more.” Garcia slashed the air with both hands. “The girl’s ex-husband—the kid’s father—he’s not only mean, he’s not only violent, he’s got a frigging drug problem. Isn’t that a hoot!”

Andy dashed into the dining room and asked what Al was hollering about.

“Work,” Donna said. “What else.”

Andy clambered up on Garcia’s lap. “Maybe you need another vacation.”

Donna turned away, smothering a laugh. “So everybody’s a smartass,” Garcia said, tickling the boy until he howled.

Shad was at the bar in the main lounge. He was distracted by a management problem.

Orly had connived to hire Lorelei, the fabulous python princess, away from the Ling brothers. Tonight was to be her first stage performance at the Tickled Pink, but she’d arrived in puffy-eyed hysterics. Orly could not decipher the problem, and delivered the distraught dancer to Shad, who was on break, reading a large-type edition of The Plague by Albert Camus. The book made Shad feel slightly better about living in South Florida.

He was interrupted by Lorelei’s convulsive sobs. Her snake was missing, and she suspected the vengeful Lings of abduction. When Orly was informed, he ordered Shad to find another snake for his new star. Shad noted there were no all-night reptile stores in the neighborhood. Unfortunately, Lorelei refused to dance without Bubba, which is what she called her nine-foot Burmese python.

“She says they’re a team,” Shad reported. “She says the snake is trained.”

Orly crumpled an empty can of Dr. Pepper and lobbed it grenade-style behind the bar. “First, there’s no such thing as a trained snake, OK? And Item B, did you see the fucking marquee? LORELEI in great big letters—I got customers drove all the way from Miami. Tell her she’s got ten minutes to get her boobs on stage.”

Shad glanced toward the hallway, where the weeping python princess now huddled in grief. “She’ll need more than ten minutes,” he said. “She looks like hell.”

Orly cursed and hacked and massaged his nostrils. “You don’t know anyone with a goddamn snake?”

“Not a big snake,” Shad said. “I know some guys who breed diamondbacks.”

“Sweet Christ Almighty.”

“They’re not much good for dancing.”