The Corpse Wore Pasties

by Jonny Porkpie

  But now that I thought about it, there was one person who’d seen Victoria before that. The woman who was in the bathroom when the rest of us went backstage. The woman who had emerged from that bathroom just in time to see Victoria Vice walk in the front door of Topkapi: Eva Desire.

  CHAPTER 6

  As I walked away from Cherries’ building, I scrolled through the address book on my phone—Bambi, Brassy, Bunny, Cherries, Clams, Cookie, Creamy, Dirty, Filthy, Knockers, La Femme, Monkey, Precious, Peekaboo, Ruby, Tigger!, Tim (and so forth and so on; as Officer Brooklyn observed, we are an industry of interesting names). But Desire wasn’t amongst them, at least not on my phone. As I feared, Eva and I had never exchanged numbers.

  But I knew someone who had it. A woman I had overheard, just a few days ago, booking Eva for a gig.

  Which meant I was going to have to do something I really didn’t want to do.

  I was going to have to call home again.

  “Are you having fun playing detective?” asked Filthy.

  “I’m not playing detective,” I said. “I’m just asking questions.”

  “If you’re a good boy and come home, I’ll buy you a magnifying glass and you can investigate the cats.”

  “I need to talk to Eva.”

  “Eva Desire?”

  “Yes, Eva Desire.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “I didn’t think she was.”

  “She might be here.”

  “But she’s not.”

  “No.”

  “Do you have her phone number?”

  “Yes, but...ohhhh. Too bad.”

  “What?”

  “She won’t answer.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s got a gig right now.”

  “In the afternoon? Who does a burlesque show in the afternoon?”

  “Not a burlesque show. It’s another job. One at which she is unable to answer her phone.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to talk to her, and I need to do it sooner rather than later. If I can’t call her, I’ll stop by her work—maybe she’ll be able to squeeze in a few minutes to talk to me.”

  “Yeah, maybe she’ll be able to squeeze you in,” Filthy said. She sounded more amused than the statement seemed to warrant.

  “Can you, Filthy, without additional commentary, please just tell me where Eva works?”

  “If you go ‘undercover’ with her, I want pictures.”

  “Oh, for—where the hell does she work?”

  Filthy told me.

  I tried LuLu again on the walk across town. Even though she was due back tomorrow evening, I was hoping to talk to her before she returned, to prepare her for the onslaught that awaited. I got her voicemail again. “Seriously, Lu,” I said, “I need to talk to you. Immediately. Call me. It’s really, really important.”

  Dozens of blocks, several avenues, two beefy security guys, and a good portion of the contents of my wallet later, I found myself looking up at Eva Desire. The cost of the beer in my hand—part of the drink minimum required on entry, in addition to the cover charge, which accounted for the anemic state of my billfold—would have purchased me a liter of the cheap whiskey we keep at home. But never mind. It was the cost of doing business, or whatever it was I was doing. Because Eva’s “other job” was in one of those institutions one could frequent if one preferred a little more raunch, a little less irony, and a lot more physical contact with one’s nudity than one is offered at a burlesque show.

  “Eva!” I said. Eva is one of the few people I know who uses the same name for every endeavor. She’s Eva Desire on the burlesque stage, Eva Desire in the byline of her articles for Lick magazine, Eva Desire topless at the strip club, and Eva Desire in the credits of that film she made, which Filthy insisted we add to our DVD collection. It was a pretty good movie, actually. A little short on plot, but...

  Eva winked at me, wrapped her legs around the pole with which she had been dancing, and bent over backwards until we were nose-to-nose and she was thighs-, ass-, and shoulderblade-to-pole. Her nose, unlike mine, was upside down. Which meant that it was in the same state as the rest of her.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Porky. What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” she said.

  “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “Do I look like I have a minute to talk?” The guy across from me slid a twenty into Eva’s thong. She winked at me.

  “When do you get off work?” I asked.

  “That’s the sort of question, Porky, that could get you kicked out of a place like this. Seriously, though, I’m on until four A.M., and then I’m going home to sleep. If this is a chat that needs to happen before tomorrow afternoon, you’re gonna have to buy a girl a dance.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  She grabbed the pole with one hand, slid her legs down until her ass touched the ground, and stood up. “It’s a date, Porky,” she said. “You’ll be the first stop when I’m making my rounds.”

  She whirled around and put a stiletto heel on the shoulder of the guy across the way.

  Twenty minutes (and another hit on my dwindling bankroll) later, Eva was leading me by the belt loop over to one of the vinyl benches that lined the wall of this fine establishment. She sat me down. As a new song started, she untied her top, dropped it on the seat, and began to grind her hips in my direction.

  “Eva, you really don’t have to do that.”

  “You paid for it, Porky.”

  “All I want to do is ask you some questions.”

  “The questions I’ll answer for free. But you bought a dance. I’m not going to rip you off.”

  “Really—” I began, but Eva interrupted me. In the interests of propriety, I won’t say exactly how she accomplished that.

  (I know what you’re thinking. Propriety? Don’t get me wrong—I see friends, acquaintances, and coworkers naked all the time. There’s nothing awkward about that. But it is with slightly less frequency that they dance with me as their only audience, and in a manner that brings their mostly naked bodies in frequent contact with my own, clothed though it may be. It created a situation that was slightly more—how shall I put this?—friendly than I was perhaps completely comfortable with. To avoid sharing that discomfort, I won’t describe the rest of Eva’s lap dance, and instead will report only the meat—sorry, the substance—of our conversation.)

  “Just relax, Porky. It’s okay, loosen those shoulders—this isn’t torture. For that you’ll have to talk to Jillian.” I tried to relax. She wasn’t making it easy. “So,” she said, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Victoria,” I said.

  “Ah.” She dug her fingernails into my thigh, just for a moment. Then she got gentle again. I asked her what happened between the two of them. She lowered her voice so the people around us couldn’t hear the anger in it, and as the lap dance continued, told me her whole sad story.

  When Eva first moved to Philadelphia, Victoria was the one who took a chance and booked her sightunseen. That gig led to bookings from other producers in the area. Victoria put Eva in a few more shows, too, and they became friendly. Eventually, when Eva had made a name for herself in town, a bar owner friend of hers asked if she’d like to run a weekly burlesque show at his place.

  “Well,” said Eva, “there were no weekly burlesque shows in Philly back then, just a few monthlies. But before I said yes, I made courtesy calls to all the local producers who’d booked me. I didn’t want to step on any toes.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Nobody had a problem with it except Victoria. “

  “Exactly. How could you betray me like this? How could you steal this gig out from under me? I didn’t want any trouble, and I did kinda feel I owed Victoria something for getting me into the local scene in the first place, so I was ready to call the whole thing off. But then Victoria proposed that I take the offer, but with her on board as a full partner. That sounded fine to m
e at the time, working with a more experienced producer and all. So I said yes.”

  “How soon before you regretted it?”

  “Almost immediately. I had to do everything. I came up with the name of the show: ‘The Grand Coquette.’ I made the postcards, I wrote the press releases—but when the press called in response to one of those releases, guess who gave the interview? Victoria’s idea of co-producing a show was to take half of the money and most of the credit but do none of the work. Claimed that lending her name, experience and talent to the show was contribution enough. I stuck it out for a few months, but then—well, people didn’t talk about it a lot around me, because they knew I was doing a show with her, but eventually I started hearing the rumblings on the grapevine...”

  “About the stolen numbers?”

  “Exactly. And then I heard that some of those rumblings included me in the mix. That was the last straw. I’m not working with a plagiarist who’s going to drag my name down with hers. I’ve been called a lot of things, Porky, and most of them have been accurate, but I don’t goddamn steal numbers and I never will. So I told her it was time to go our separate ways.

  “Fine, she says—but since we started the Grand Coquette together, I can’t use the name. Which is bullshit, of course, I came up with it all by myself, but you know what? Life’s too short. So I change it. We’re good, right? We’ll just make it a clean break and stay out of each other’s way. Nope. She actually calls the venue and tries to get them to cancel the show. When she discovers the owner is a friend of mine and isn’t falling for her crap, Victoria goes around telling everyone it’s been canceled. Posts it online and everything.”

  “And you have to start building an audience from scratch?”

  “Pretty much. But she’s not done yet. A few weeks later, a sign goes up in the window of a bar across the street. Coming next month, it says, the return of Victoria Vice’s ‘Coquette La Grand!’ Coquette La Grand, Porky! Aside from everything else, it’s illiterate in two different languages.”

  “No one ever said she was smart,” I observed.

  “I confronted her about it. You know what she said? ‘I don’t see why you’re so upset. It’s not the same name at all.’ Now I had two choices: Either wallow in the mud and fight at her level, or let it go and keep my self-respect. So I let it go. Good riddance. I have better things to do. But then—

  “Then the article comes out. Written by someone that I know for a fact Victoria is banging. It claims to be an article about burlesque in Philadelphia but really it’s just a puff piece about her. And it includes a history of ‘Coquette La Grand’ in which Victoria takes complete credit for the months we produced the show together, claims she decided to move the show across the street because the first bar wasn’t up to her standards, and refers to me as her ‘stage manager’ who’s ‘angry because I had to let the poor girl go.’ ”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “My friend who owned the first bar offered to write a letter to the editor, but I said to hell with it.” Eva had her hands on my shoulders and was grinding angrily, taking out her frustration and resentment on my lap. With each thrust, my head banged into the vinyl behind me. “I told him, let the bitch have the name,” Eva said. “Let the bitch have the show. Let the bitch have the entire city of brotherly love, for all I care. I got the hell out of town. Had to go into debt to make the move—why else would I be working the Thursday afternoon shift at this craphole? But I get to New York, score some bookings, start rebuilding my rep, and everything’s going pretty well...and then...” Eva’s voice trailed off. She took a deep breath, and when she looked at me again there was a fire in her eyes that made me a little bit nervous. “Then she walks into that goddamn bar last night. I got out of her life, she could at least have the decency to stay out of mine. But no. She can’t just let it go. She has to keep shoving it—In! My! Face!”

  Eva, I had to assume, had some classical theater training—Shakespearean, most likely—that was informing her current performance. How else could one explain that she was (as Hamlet had suggested) suiting the action to her words, the words to her action?

  “So you didn’t know she was going to be in the show last night?” I asked, when I was able to.

  Eva raised an eyebrow. “Please,” she said.

  “And when you saw her walk in, you were ready to kill her?”

  Eva dropped to the bench, straddling my lap. She pressed her chest against mine, and leaned in close. Her lips brushed my cheek, and I could feel her breath in my ear.

  “Porky, honey, baby, sweetheart, be careful what you accuse me of, especially in here,” she whispered. “You could be on the sidewalk and bleeding in five seconds. All I have to do is nod at that security guy. Get me?”

  “Gotcha.”

  “And anyway,” she said as she slid back to resume the dance. “I’m the type of gal who wouldn’t hurt a fly.” The word ‘fly,’ of course, has several meanings. As a noun, in the context of the idiomatic expression she had just used, the insect was indicated. Her hands, however, were embracing another interpretation. Was she just doing it for appearances, in case the boss was watching, or was Eva deliberately trying to distract me?

  “I wasn’t accusing you,” I said. “It’s just that you’re the only one who saw Victoria before she walked into the dressing room. If something happened in the bar before she came backstage, you’re the only one who might have seen it.”

  “Sorry, Porky. I came out of the bathroom, saw Victoria walking in, grabbed my bag from the alcove and ran backstage to let everyone know she was there. It was less than a second.”

  “Why did you think that she was going to be in the audience, and not performing?”

  “Because there’s no way in hell anyone would actually book her. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.”

  “Didn’t the suitcase tip you off?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her bag. Her gig bag.”

  “What about it?”

  “People don’t usually bring a gig bag with them to watch a show.”

  “I don’t think she had a bag.”

  “Say that again.”

  “When she walked in the door, I’m pretty sure she didn’t have any bag with her.”

  “How sure is pretty sure?”

  Eva shrugged.

  “But you saw her walk into the dressing room with it, right?”

  Eva shrugged again, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. Right, no, of course I did.”

  “So where did she get the bag from? If she—”

  The song ended before I finished the question. Eva stood up and backed away. “Time’s up. Sorry, Porky. Any more questions, you gotta buy another dance, baby.”

  I grabbed Eva’s wrist. “Wait,” I said.

  “Porky, don’t, they’ll—”

  “Was she looking for someone as she walked in? Did anyone in the bar—?”

  “You need to—”

  Whatever she was about to say, I didn’t get to hear the rest of it. Something wrapped itself around my wrist and started squeezing. My hand was yanked off Eva’s arm and twisted behind my back. I heard Eva protesting, but before she had time to explain anything to the bouncer I felt stale air whipping across my face as it rapidly approached the sidewalk.

  I picked myself up and retrieved my porkpie from the street. The bouncer stood with his arms crossed at the door to the club. When I looked at him, he just looked back, but the message was clear. I touched the brim of my hat to let him know we were still friends, brushed myself off, and headed for the subway.

  The collision with the pavement had knocked something loose in my brain. Or maybe into place. What I’d figured out was this: If Eva was telling the truth—and it seemed like she was—I now knew, or at least was pretty sure, that Victoria’s gig bag had arrived at Topkapi before she had. And, for that matter, before I had.

  So had one of the performers.

  And, thanks to the flier that had been shoved into my ha
nd before the Dreamland show, I knew exactly where that particular performer would be later tonight.

  CHAPTER 7

  So why was I running across a bridge in the middle of the night? Well, if you’ve ever lived in Brooklyn, you’re probably expecting a crack about the dismal service on the F Train, so consider it made. The rest of you won’t have any idea what that last sentence means, but trust me; it’s hilarious. (Unless you’re reading this while waiting for a subway at the Second Avenue Station at 3:00 a.m. In that case, it’s just plain depressing.)

  The smells coming out of Danny’s Deep-Fry were either delicious or disgusting, and I wasn’t sure which yet. I suspected that, even if it were the former, prolonged exposure to the scent would quickly convert it to the latter. And since I was about to walk into the place, prolonged exposure was unavoidable. The dive bar & grill was located on one of those side streets near City Hall which—since most of Manhattan south of TriBeCa clears out after the post-work drinking hour—is not a great neighborhood for nightlife. But intrepid yet inexperienced entrepreneurs keep opening bars, trying, failing, and selling their businesses to the next group of intrepid yet inexperienced entrepreneurs. This particular destined-to-close venture appeared, at street level, to be a simple downmarket BBQ joint, the kind that (in the right part of the country) would be surprisingly good eatin’ despite the decor. In the financial district of Manhattan it was more likely to be surprisingly greasy. At best. It claimed to also be a performance space, and cited as evidence of that fact a stage in a basement that had all the grace and charm of an Elk’s Club rec room in South Jersey.

  Exactly the sort of place in which Angelina Blood would never be caught dead, let alone perform. But Krash played in a heavy metal band, which for obvious reasons took whatever gigs it could get. And in those first romantic months of a relationship—a state, based on their behavior last night, that I was guessing they were in—you support your significant other in any way you can. Which meant that when I walked down those stairs I was treated to the sight of Angelina, with her raven-black hair, nails, clothing, and eyes, delightfully situated against a red-and-white checkered vinyl tablecloth and the wood-paneled basement walls of Danny’s Deep-Fry.