“Shirley’s. We ain’t open.”
The synthetic voice was so distorted Kit couldn’t tell if she was talking to a man or a woman. Suppressing a shudder incited by the thought of destroyed vocal cords, she said, “I’m trying to locate a woman named Phyllis Merryman and I’ve been told she works there as a dancer.”
“Never heard of her. Try the FBI.”
There was a click and the phone went dead. Apparently, she was going to have to go down there and look for Merry-man herself. Entering a strip joint alone was not a pleasing prospect. If Teddy lived closer, she would have asked him to go along. But he wasn’t closer. And this wasn’t the first time she’d needed him to back her up. So she did what she usually did, which was to call the NOPD vehicle-impoundment station to see if Bubba Oustellette, Grandma O’s grandson, would go with her. He answered in his usual chipper style.
“Impoundment—Bubba. Ah’ll help you if Ah can.”
“Glad to hear that, Bubba. It’s Kit Franklyn.”
“Hey, Doc Franklyn. What can Ah do you for? Hope Ah don’ have your car over here.”
“You don’t. I need a different kind of favor.”
“Jus’ between you an’ me, Ah’d rather do a favor for you than mos’ anybody Ah know. Seems like we always do some-thin’ more interestin’ than anything Ah’d do on my own. Where we goin’?”
“To a strip joint on Bourbon.” There was a long pause. “Bubba, you there?”
“Ah’m here. Ah was jus’ thinkin’ what Grandma O’d do to me if she foun’ out Ah went to a place like dat.”
“I won’t tell her.”
“She seem to fin’ out things with nobody tellin’ her.”
“If you’d rather not . . .”
“Doc Franklyn, if a man don’ help a friend when he’s asked, he ain’t any kinda man. Ah’ll take my chances with Grandma O. We gonna need da gun?”
He was referring to the large pistol he’d carried concealed in his coveralls on past excursions they’d made together. “I’m not expecting any trouble. I just didn’t want to go into a place like that by myself.”
“When we goin’?”
“Tonight . . . around eight.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Bad time?”
“Ah’m supposed to rebuild Bobby Dupree’s brakes tonight. You know Bobby?”
“No.”
“You say dis joint is on Bourbon?”
“Yes. It’s called Shirley’s Place.”
“Tell you what. Bobby lives over near Rampart, so he’s not far from Bourbon. How about Ah take a break and walk over at eight. Den, after we’re done, Ah’ll go back to work.”
“Great. See you at Shirley’s.”
After hanging up, she put one of the remaining copies of the article and one of the prints back in her bag. Then her thoughts turned to Nick Lawson, who most likely was out nosing around, trying to track down the Heartbeats, too. If she was able to find Kyle Ricks and Bill Pope, so could he. But she had mentioned Lawson’s name and described him to both men. If he should show up asking questions, wouldn’t they be leery and likely to say nothing? But maybe he wouldn’t show up. He might call and pass himself off as someone else. It wasn’t ethical, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it.
She checked the number, then pulled the phone over and called St. Francis Hospital, where she learned that Ricks had gone home. She tried him there and got no answer. She was able to reach Pope, though, at the pet store.
“Mr. Pope, this is Kit Franklyn. We spoke earlier today about the Heartbeats. That’s right. Do you remember me mentioning a man named Nick Lawson?”
Pope remembered.
“He’s a newspaper reporter who may contact you asking about the Heartbeats, and I wanted to warn you that if you discuss the case with him, it can get you in trouble with the police. He may call you and use a different name. He might say he’s a detective. To be safe, you should speak to no one else about the band.”
Assured by Pope that he did not want any trouble, Kit hung up, pleased at the impediment she’d placed in Lawson’s path but sorry she hadn’t also found Ricks.
A LITTLE BEFORE EIGHT, Kit parked in a lot near the river and hoofed it over to Bourbon Street, which, as usual, reminded her of a carnival midway, but with more flesh to sell.
“Hey, buddy, bring the little woman in for some education. Boys, you ain’t seen women till you seen ours.”
In the window of a place specializing in staged sex orgies, she saw some black-and-white photographs of a pile of naked bodies that resembled a drunken fraternity party more than an erotic encounter.
In front of her, a black kid wearing baggy Bermuda shorts with a crotch that nearly hung on the sidewalk stepped up to one of the few men in the crowd not wearing some kind of sneaker.
“Yo, mister. Bet a dollar I know where you got them shoes.”
The way this was supposed to work was the guy would say, “It’s a bet,” then the kid would say, “You got ’em on your feet.”
In the long history of this silly scam, Kit doubted any money had ever changed hands. In this case, it ended predictably with the mark saying, “Beat it, kid.”
Bubba’s timing was perfect and she saw him approaching from the opposite direction at a pace that brought them simultaneously to Shirley’s door. As far as she was able to tell, Bubba never dressed any differently from the way he was now: brown work shoes, navy blue coveralls over a navy T-shirt, green baseball cap bearing a picture of an ocean wave showing its teeth and carrying a football. His coveralls were crisp and spotless, so he’d probably taken an extra set over to Bobby Dupree’s.
“Hey, Doc Franklyn. We both get high marks for punctuality.” He grinned, showing even white teeth through his bushy black beard. The coveralls were so loose, Kit couldn’t tell if he’d brought the gun. “You ready to go in?”
“Might as well.”
They moved toward the entrance and a seedy lout who had been leaning with one foot against the building stepped in her way. “Momma, you can dance for me anytime.”
“I’ll put it on my list,” Kit said, trying to go around him, “right below ‘cut wrists.’ ”
He moved to block her again. “They won’t let your kid in,” he said, looking at Bubba, “not even with the phony beard.”
“Get lost,” Kit said, trying once more to go around him.
He moved again to block her way, but Bubba reached into his coveralls and drew out a pistol with a long barrel that he placed on the guy’s pants at the midpoint of his zipper. “We really enjoyed talkin’ to you,” Bubba said, looking at the guy. “But it’s time now for you to leave, don’ you think?”
The guy didn’t say a word, but simply bolted for safety. Bubba put the gun away and held out his arm for Kit to proceed. They were met inside by a blonde in tiger-striped shorts and a matching halter. Her hair, which was showing about an inch of brown near her scalp, had been backcombed into a “do” resembling a stork’s nest. She said something, but Kit couldn’t hear her over the blaring sound of saxophones and rim shots. Responding to Kit’s hand cupped at her ear, she tried again.
“There’s a two drink minimum . . . each. You want a table?”
“Is Phyllis Merryman working tonight?” Kit asked.
The girl shrugged. “You want a table or not?”
Kit nodded and followed the girl into the bar’s dim interior. She led them to a tiny round table a few feet from the door.
“What are you drinking?” the girl said, leaning close.
“Rum and Coke,” Kit replied.
The girl looked at Bubba. “Root beer with a nice head on it,” he said.
While the girl went to the bar, Kit got her first good look at the place. The music came from a jukebox on an elevated shag rug–covered stage that reached halfway into the room from the right wall. There seemed to be many more tables on the other side of the stage than where she and Bubba sat. For the very adventuresome, chairs were also arranged along a narrow step-down attached to the three s
ides of the stage. Spotlights on the ceiling bathed the dancer now performing in a sensual red glow.
Kit was disappointed to see that the dancer was not Phyllis Merryman. In fact, it was stretching a point to say she was a dancer. She was dressed in a black teddy, black heels, and black net stockings. Her act consisted of a few clumsy dance steps and some pelvic action delivered while she buffed her crotch with a black scarf. For comic relief, she would occasionally throw a moon and peek at the customers from between heavy thighs that tapered quickly to skinny calves.
Kit could see only a few vague shapes at the tables on the far side of the room. The crowd was equally sparse on her side: two young guys in civvies with boot-camp haircuts at a table in the corner, a guy with slicked-down hair and a pitted neck two tables in front of them, and an old English professor type in one of the chairs at the step-down. Nobody in raincoats.
As unattractive and graceless as the dancer was, she had her audience’s rapt attention, Bubba included, proof that the way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach. The waitress arrived with four drinks and put them on the table. “Eighteen bucks.”
Bubba’s hand went for his wallet, but Kit stopped him and put a twenty on the girl’s tray.
Not finding the entertainment as riveting as the other customers did, Kit examined the place more thoroughly. The bar was against the wall to her left, so customers walking by outside would see only that as they looked in. At the far end of the bar was something she had not noticed earlier, a long swing suspended from the ceiling. In the swing, on her stomach, was a nude girl, her buns reflected in an angled mirror above her. She was not visible from the doorway because she was behind a black shade. It was difficult to see her face, but Kit concluded finally that this was not Phyllis Merryman, either.
In the dim corner on the opposite side of the room, Kit could see another girl performing at one of the tables. She idly watched that part of the room until the dancer seemed to drop from sight. Not wanting to imagine what was going on, she turned her attention back to the stage, where the girl with the heavy thighs was down to her G-string.
The dancer bent over and wiggled her shoulders, but she had such small breasts, it was largely wasted motion. As the music ended, she threw one final moon for the road and left the stage by some steps along the back wall, covering herself with a short silk pajama top.
From the moment Kit had entered, she’d felt self-conscious and ill at ease, part of her discomfort coming from the music, which was too loud for human ears. In its absence, though, she felt worse, as though the shrubbery she’d been hiding behind had suddenly been snatched away. Bubba’s face was very pink and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. He took a long swig of his drink, which not only didn’t have a head on it but, Kit suspected, was most likely not even root beer.
Another girl made her way onstage. She put a coin in the jukebox and the awkward silence in the room was banished by a raunchy guitar. This one was a better dancer and had a better body, but she was not Phyllis Merryman.
About six feet from the end of the stage, toward the bar, there was a brass pole that ended at the top in a brass circle that made the whole thing resemble a coatrack. Where the first girl had largely ignored it, it was an integral part of this one’s routine and she lavished it with attention, mostly with her legs.
Abruptly, the first girl appeared in front of Kit. She parted her pajama top and thrust out her leg, showing a ruff of folded money tucked into her garter. Based on what Kit had seen of her talents, she suspected the girl had salted the garter herself.
Firmly believing that mediocrity should not be rewarded and feeling very funny about putting money in another woman’s underwear, she did both, mentally adding the two dollars to the twenty for the drinks and five for parking. Twenty-seven bucks and so far she hadn’t even seen Phyllis Merryman.
The girl moved over to Bubba and showed him her leg. He fumbled in his wallet, took out a one, and hesitated, apparently afraid to tuck it into her garter. Anxious to finish her rounds, the girl snatched it from his fingers and moved to the next table.
Onstage, the girl had undone her bra and was holding it in place with one hand while she swung around the pole with the other. Kit had never put much stock in psychic phenomena, but she could actually feel the collective anticipation of the men present, whose numbers had been significantly augmented in the last minute or two.
Finally, after some more teasing, the girl threw the bra to the side. It was a bad move. For what appeared to be firm and high was actually loose and low. Still, Kit sensed no disappointment in the room. Apparently, if it was bare, it was good.
The music ended and the girl left the stage, covering herself as the first one had. Looking past two men being seated at the table in front of her, Kit saw the girl begin to work the tables on the other side of the room. Bubba got another dollar ready.
The customer base had expanded so fast, it seemed as though a bus had dropped off its load right outside. This increased activity made Kit feel much less self-conscious during the entertainment interlude. After a short wait, the next dancer took the stage and fed the jukebox. Dressed in a red teddy with red net stockings and red heels, she was blond and gorgeous, with perfect legs and the sinuous grace of a real dancer. The years had definitely been good to Phyllis Merryman.
For a few minutes, she danced without removing anything. Then she slowly took off the teddy. By now, the place was nearly full and every chair at the step-down was taken. She did a few more steps and turns, then slinked to the brass pole and rubbed on it. Before Kit realized what was happening, Phyllis was hanging upside down by her legs from the brass ring at the top of the pole. She’d gotten up there so gracefully, Kit felt like applauding. But since no one else did, she didn’t, either.
In that position, Phyllis removed her bra, revealing modestly sized, firm breasts that would likely remain just as perky when they were right side up. Somehow, she got down without an awkward moment, moved toward the bar, and stepped onto the fringe of table ringing the stage.
Suddenly, her feet were sliding in opposite directions along the narrow table and she dropped easily into a split that ended with her crotch on the Formica. Even the Romanian judge would have had to give her a ten.
She crossed her arms and caressed her back with her fingers, making eye contact with the men on each side. One guy got up the courage to tuck a bill under her G-string. This set off a rush of other dim bulbs with the same idea.
Kit was sure there was no way for Phyllis to get out of that position without breaking the mood, but she did—by rolling up onto the stage, where she crawled on her knees around to Kit’s side of the room, tossing her hair to the beat. Then, as smoothly as she’d gotten up onto the brass ring, she was on her back, her splayed legs thrown over her head, her pelvis thrusting to the music. It seemed to Kit that the room was getting very warm.
Phyllis began to work just her pelvic muscles, producing a pulsing heartbeat in her crotch that fluttered the dollar bill that had appeared under that part of her G-string. This had a hypnotic effect on all the men along that side of the step-down and they sat as though they were lifelike castings, their eyes all focused on the same spot. Bubba looked as though he might not fall over if you pulled his chair out from under him. From a psychological point of view, Kit found this uniformity of response quite remarkable. It was also disgusting.
Phyllis’s location left those on the other side of the room with nothing to look at it, save maybe the soles of her shoes if they stood up. Understanding this, she shifted back onto her knees after barely a minute and took herself directly in front of the English professor, rendering him and his colleagues deaf and dumb with the same exercise. A few minutes more for the far side of the room and she was back on her feet for a final twirl center stage that ended with her feet together, hands on her knees, head turned toward the bar, a kiss on her lips. She finished exactly on the last note with a backward kick of one foot, turning on the other so she could head
for the steps. Amid a lot of whistling and foot stomping, she collected her bra and teddy, covered herself with a top, and began to circulate, gathering the tips she much deserved.
Phyllis was replaced by the girl with the bad body. Kit imagined this would clear the room, but it didn’t, everyone apparently waiting for a visit from Phyllis. For some reason, she got to Kit’s table before the previous dancer.
“You were very good,” Kit said over the music. “Is there a place where we can talk?”
Phyllis took the card Kit offered, read it, and returned it. “When I finish circulating, I’ve got a table dance in the back. After that, we can go to my dressing room.” She moved over to Bubba, took his cap off, and replaced it with the bill pointing backward. She plucked the two dollars he was holding from his fingers and moved on.
Since most of the crowd had seen Phyllis, the girl onstage did not fare as well this time as before and there was a lot of disinterest. Occasionally, Kit would check the dark table where Phyllis was working to make sure she hadn’t ducked out.
Finally, the music ended and Phyllis came out of the darkness and headed for a doorway with a rest-room sign over it in the rear, back by the end of the bar. She paused there and motioned for Kit with her head.
“Bubba, I’ll be right back.”
By calling it, “my dressing room,” Phyllis had overstated the case on two counts. Not only was it the only dressing room but it also doubled as the ladies’ john. The ceiling had been lowered with lattice panels that, like all the walls and the two toilet stalls in the far corner, were painted black. Extending from the toilet stalls to the right corner was a bank of gray metal lockers with the name of the current occupant scrawled on a strip of white adhesive tape above each door. Near the floor, the paint on the lockers had bubbled and flaked as though they’d been splashed by a caustic chemical.
It was likely the depressing color as much as the absence of windows that made the air in the room seem as though it had already been inhaled and expelled hundreds of times. Kit tried to breathe as little of it as possible. On the wall opposite the door, there was a full-length mirror without some of its silver backing, so that when Kit looked at herself in it, half her face and one foot was missing. Beside the mirror, there was a poster for Virginia Slims—“You’ve come a long way, baby.” Across the girl’s face, someone had written, “Then why am I here?”
New Orleans Requiem Page 14