What the hell: she dances just for Ray.
Maybe it's the wine. He suddenly seems awfully goodlooking. He looks awfully good looking at her.
He slides a twenty onto the stage, so she gets down on her hands and knees and leans over him as she undoes the last strap on her gown. The song ends just as it falls open. She gathers it in and goes backstage.
Another sip of wine. When she comes out for the second song she's wearing only the G-string and heels. She finds Ray again, but this time she thinks she'll make him beg a little. She dances at the other end of the stage, where she finds herself moving faster and faster, touching herself with hands that—strangely—seem to belong to someone else.
Princess starts doing some weird hula. Where'd this come from? The sparse crowd begins to hoot in appreciation. She lets herself go in a way she never does, spreading herself wide, arching herself off the floor.
Suddenly she realizes the song is over and she is still dancing. She blinks and focuses on the faces floating by the stage. Oops, got a little carried away, she says. She recovers and gets herself backstage.
Maxine, the Vietnamese girl who follows her, is doing some blow. Jesus, she says, sniffing. What am I supposed to do after that? Jam a zucchini up my thing?
Probably the only thing you haven't had up your thing, Princess says sweetly. (Maxine fucks the customers for money. Not that Princess gave a shit, but it makes things harder for the rest of them.)
She wraps her teddy around her and goes out to pick up the tips.
Ray is gone. Something she said, probably.
When she picks up tips, however, she finds a fifty sitting there with the twenty.
▼
Next morning she gets a call around ten—before she is even awake—asking if she'll fill in for Vanity. What happened to Vanity?
She hasn't shown up and all I get is her machine.
I'll be in at three.
Make it one.
Three. She hangs up. Into the shower maybe five minutes, the phone rings again. Dripping wet, she answers it: Fuck you, I'll be there at two...
Sharon, it's your mother.
Oh. Hi. They haven't talked in two months. I thought that was my boss.
Funny way to talk to your boss. We worry about you.
Mom, I'm doing fine.
Where are you working?
I'm dancing, all right?
Not that place—
Mom, it's just a job. She never fucked guys from the club, except maybe three times. And then not for money, just for, you know. How's Dad?
Better now. He started to golf again.
Good. I mean, that's great.
Do you have enough money?
Yes. I mean, who's ever got enough. But I'm doing fine. She was only a month behind in the rent, which was all right because the super liked watching her catching rays by the pool. A couple of good nights—maybe a busload of Marines on their way to Basic—and she might even get ahead.
You can come home, you know. You can start over.
Home to Illinois. Thanks, Mom, I gotta go. I'll call you.
Dripping wet.
▼
By three she has danced two sets and made thirteen dollars. Still better than asking would you like fries with that, but not much.
Just as she is headed back to the stage for her third dance, Ray comes in.
This is unusual. He was here last night at eight, so he probably doesn't work nights. He's here now at three, which means he isn't working normal days. She wonders if he's got the scent. But if he thinks she's easy to get down on all fours, why did he leave?
She plays it cool. Hi, stranger. Let him make the move.
Sorry about last night, he said.
Don't be sorry. That was a nice tip.
You probably thought I didn't like you.
Should I?
I realized I was late for something.
Church, probably.
Another take. Yeah.
Crystal will get you a drink or whatever. I'm on. And she thinks he is even better looking in daytime.
That face is just what she needs to get through this dance. It reminds her of the year she spent playing Cinderella at Disney World, which is why she chose Princess as her dance name. She was only able to get through the four hundred shows—each exactly like the other—by playing to a face in the crowd.
It works for the other guys, too. She can tell without counting she's made twice as much in tips and caught everyone's attention.
She comes offstage and finds Tiffany crying. What's wrong?
Vanity, she says.
What about her?
She's dead.
What happened to her? Princess demands, but Tiffany is trying too hard to hook up her stockings and garters while wiping her eyes to be coherent. Princess goes looking for Rick.
Samantha and Crystal and Brittany are sitting at the bar wiping away tears. Rick is hanging up the phone. There's no music playing and the customers—maybe a dozen—are starting to wonder what the hell's going on.
Rick says he says they found her in a ditch out near Lockhart. She'd been raped and strangled.
Oh god, Crystal says, crossing herself.
Did she go with anyone from here? Princess asks. She feels bad about Vanity, but she wants to know if she should feel sympathy or fear.
I didn't see it, Rick says.
Somebody waiting for her?
Hey, I walk all of you out and wait until you drive away. What happens after that is your business.
Fuck you, Princess tells him, suddenly angry, you sound like the wiseguys who run this place. And she walks away, blindly heading for Ray. It isn't until she sits down that she realizes she's wearing her shoes and nothing else.
I collected your tips for you, he says, handing her seventeen dollars.
Thanks. Then she tells him about Vanity.
Were you friends? he asks.
None of us are friends, she says, still angry, thinking of how she found out Heather was fucking Gary for weeks when they were still together. Heather had just laughed.
Sometimes Princess thinks all of the others are a different species, like they have a club and she isn't a member. And no one who knows will ever tell.
The music starts up. Madonna. Tiffany comes out.
This is kind of creepy, Ray says, standing up. You won't be offended if I get out of here.
Only if you don't take me along, Princess says.
▼
For a while she wonders if it's worth it. He is not a jump starter. Which is pretty much okay: neither is she.
Once they kiss on the couch for a while he begins to take charge, which she likes. He slips off her top, quite calmly unhooking her bra. As advertised, she tells him. They look even better here, he says, examining them. Feeling them. She feels him, and is already glad she brought him home.
Taking his hand, she pulls him off the couch and guides him down the hall. Bedroom for you, she says, bathroom for me. Don't start without me.
His crisp white shirt falls to the floor. His back is smooth, muscled. She slips in the diaphragm and, pleased with her own prudence, hides one of Gary's rubbers in her hand.
Into the bedroom. He has lowered the blinds and pulled back the sheets. Now he stands there naked before her. Shouldn't we have music, he says? To be absolutely fair? Her turn to miss a beat. Oh! You should be wearing shoes.
Then she kisses him, pressing herself against his chest. He finds the rubber in her hand. Do I need this? he asks.
Your option, she tells him. Slipping under the sheets. I'm protected.
He lowers himself to her side and touches her. She sees that he's uncut, a new one for her. Unscarred in any way, come to think of it. Unlike Gary.
Her legs move apart and then he is moving above her. Inside her. For a moment Princess wonders who he is. Then her knees come up. His hands cup her. Like dancing, one, two, one, two... Gary would finish at this point... but Ray still moves. Yes, she says. Yes, she feels,
pulling him closer. One, one, one. Oh god, she says.
▼
She says oh god two more times in the bedroom, and once on the couch in the living room, when he was supposed to be getting dressed. Between three and four she asks him what he does. Besides fuck, she means.
Travel, I guess.
Moving on? she says. Her fingernail walks up his cock. You could be very popular around here.
Maybe I'll stay.
She wants to know more, but the fingernail does the trick, and then she's not interested.
She chases him out by six, then locks the door. She feels so good she can't decide whether to sleep or eat.
On the dresser she finds two hundreds.
▼
She has a nightmare, waking up at three in the morning convinced Ray is the guy who torched the Clown Room and killed Vanity. Knowing it's crazy, she checks the locks.
In the mail the next morning—Fed Ex from her mother—is a ticket from Orlando to Chicago.
She wants to call her mother and tell her to fuck off. She wants to tell Ray—nice cock and all—to fuck off. But she thinks if she talks to her mother for more than five minutes, she'll wind up going home. It's been five years. She is not what she wants to be.
And she has no idea how to find Ray.
Princess puts tickets and cash in her purse and goes to the Club.
▼
On the board with the schedule is a note about a memorial service for Janet Lynn Holstrom aka Vanity on Monday.
In the rest of the Club it's business as usual. A Saturday night, the heart of the weekend. On Saturday night Princess can make at least as much as Ray gave her.
By seven o'clock the place is jammed, wall to wall truckers, engineers, even college boys. Nine girls are working and all of them are doing okay.
Twice Princess thinks she sees Ray in the crowd. With the lighting and the sheer numbers blocking the view, it's hard to tell. Not that she cares, really.
While she is sitting backstage smoking a cigarette with Jewel, Maxine comes in from her dance, and she's freaked.
Somebody grab you?
Not that that would freak Maxine out. She just shakes her head. Look at this, she says. And she holds out a hundred.
So you got a fan, Jewel says. Hope he has another one.
I saw this guy a couple of days ago, Maxine says. Thursday afternoon. With Vanity.
How do you know it's the same guy?
I did a couple of table dances for him. He's not like most of these other guys, he's always wearing a nice white shirt...
Princess wants to know where.
On the right side, near the rings.
Princess peaks around the curtain. He's not more than ten feet away. He sure looks like Ray—
But it isn't. His hair is darker. The eyes are brown. He could almost be Maxine's half-brother.
She is surprised at how relieved she is.
Jewel goes out to dance. Princess goes out to waitress.
▼
Wondering if the guy by the rings is really a Ted Bundy-type killer, or just somebody who wandered in here like Ray, Princess tries to work her way toward him. From behind him, while he examines Jewel's boobs, she says need another? Even though his drink is maybe half gone.
He turns and suddenly his hair is lighter and his eyes are blue, and it is Ray after all.
Hi, he says, as if nothing had ever happened.
Princess is already fumbling in her stash. She puts two hundreds on the tray and sets them before Ray. You forgot your change, she says, then pushes herself away.
She winds up crying in the ladies' room. She can't decide whether it's fear or embarrassment. Either way it sucks.
Then Ray comes in behind her.
You can't come in here, is all she can say.
Rick the bouncer is already pounding on the door. Ray is holding out his hands and saying I want to talk.
Princess sighs. Everything's fine! That will hold Rick for two minutes, she tells Ray. Time enough for a very quick blowjob, or were you interested in something else?
Why'd you give the money back?
Why do you think?
I don't know. I thought you needed money.
Everybody needs money. But I'm not a hooker! Is that so fucking hard for you to understand? She is beyond tears now. I slept with you because I liked you.
You don't belong here.
Tell me about it.
You should leave.
Thank you. I'll give that some thought. She goes for the door, but he puts out an arm to block her.
Oh, now you're a big tough guy. Gonna drag me out to the swamp like Vanity? I don't need the bouncer, I'll tear your fucking eyes out—
I didn't hurt Vanity, he says. This place hurt her. Night life hurt her.
He sounds more like a maniac than ever. She wants to scream, but the door opens. It's Jewel. Well, she says with a little grin, I didn't know it was so busy. Mind if I pee?
She goes to a stall. As Jewel—big, blond, green-eyed—passes Ray his face changes. His hair lightens, his complexion pales, his eyes go green. But only as long as he looks at Jewel. When the door closes and he looks at Princess, he's got blue eyes again.
Oh my god, she says.
He says nothing, but she remembers how he looked like Maxine when he watched Maxine, and how right now he looks like her.
No wonder he seemed so familiar. So safe.
For the first time in years she believes in the devil.
The toilet flushes and Jewel comes out, snapping her G-string into place. I'll just leave you two lovebirds alone. And she goes out.
Who the fuck are you?
A messenger, he says.
What's the message?
Fire, he says. Fire in the night.
You did the Clown Room.
And he doesn't deny it. Do you really love the night life? he asks.
Then she sees his eyes aren't blue or green or brown, they're pure gold. Pure fire. Is this where you want to stay? Tell me now.
No, she says. No. I want to go home.
Then go.
And there in the bathroom a hot wind blows.
Princess opens the door. Maxine is on the stage, naked, hanging on the rings. N.W.A. blasts on the speakers. All of it in slow motion. Slower.
She feels the heat boiling out of the room behind her. Sees the light on each face that she passes. They are starting to react, to turn and blister.
She is lifted by a roar.
She flies through the door into the parking lot, scraping her knees on the asphalt.
Her heels sink in the tar. She kicks off her shoes and runs.
Bare-breasted, wearing only her G-string and purse, she finds herself inside her car. She fumbles a key into the lock, and pulls away, knowing she can not look back.
In the rearview mirror she sees a pillar of flame where the Club used to be.
▼
No one who knows will ever tell.
A Stain Upon Her Honor by John Edward Ames
The same thing happens every year—I promise myself I am only going to buy stories for the Borderlands series that are innovative and wildly original, etc., etc.... and then somebody comes along and sends me a story that is so wonderfully written, or has so much style and grace that I fall for the sheer quality of the writing, and find myself making excuses for the familiarity of the plot or thematic material more traditional than I usually buy. So it is with "A Stain Upon Her Honor" which, on first reading, dazzled me with its language but put me off with a storyline that treads close to the edge of being at best, imitative "splatter" writing, and at worst, blatant misogyny. I had to read it again, convincing myself of its worth, and even had its author retool the ending. For whatever reasons, he agreed, and the results follow herewith.
They say the man who drinks black coffee will rule Ireland. Therefore, I am going to tell you in plain, undiluted language why I killed a woman solely because there was a stain in her underwear.
But
first you must understand: I did not hate her, and I do not hate you.
Hatred implies a measure of emotional involvement with others of which I am utterly incapable. I do despise you because that is effortless, and I would perhaps kill you, too, should our vectors cross, because the kill done well is pure and glorious and leaves my man-gland hard and throbbing with excited blood. But I certainly do not hate you. Do not flatter yourself on that score. To me you are a mere bubble blown by a baby, a lump of slag on launch pad.
You must understand: I am a poet of the most remarkable and unusual sensibilities. I do not look where other men look. While the crowd is watching a beautiful woman or a mincing Clydesdale, I will stare at a rumpled Kleenex, at a cigarette burning in an ashtray. I am sensitive to the smell of old dust and menstrual blood. I pity the rich, scorn the homeless, and fervently believe that Humpty Dumpty was pushed.
You must understand: Do not let that dumb flywheel of reading habit force the weight of my words below their true meaning.
As a poet, I know the rules, of course. I know all the tired prosaic baggage which comprises the conventions of terror: about the "sheared-copper odor of blood," about the obsessed mind which returns to a problem "like a tongue to a broken tooth"—yes, even about "Jesus H. Christ" Himself and all the other verbal rituals writers have concocted to insulate themselves and their readers from that genuine shudder and bristle of true fear, fair and undisguised.
To you, such herd melodies are sweet. But I will not bother with this insipid dreck. After all, I'm the one who examined a pair of panties and then committed murder.
▼
It was not the mere fact of the stain which impelled me to kill her, of course. Indeed, women leak all the time—they (you should pardon the pun) give generously at the orifice. But herein lies the essential problem: Satan can enter any of the seven openings of the body, and he has a natural predilection for the nether portals.
No, you must understand: it was the quality of the stain which mattered, not its mere being. A certain telltale shape, a nuance of color, particular and subtle signs which my extraordinary sensibilities and poetical training have prepared me to apprehend. To those of you who express a fastidious disgust at my iconoclasm: why do you look so curiously into the toilet before you flush, or examine the glutinous green contents of your handkerchief after you blow your nose? What is it you hope to glimpse, what dark, terrible, beautiful secret of your own unfathomable mortality?
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