by Stephen Frey
“I’ll be fine,” he yells back, breaking into a trot as if he’s afraid we’ll chase after him.
I watch until he moves beneath the glow of an overhead streetlight and disappears around the corner of the building. I’m surprised that he reacted the way he did. I thought he would have been leading the charge inside.
“It’s just you and me now, pal,” Vincent says, pulling me toward the door again, “and I’m kind of glad about that.”
The Two O’Clock Club is incredible. The women are wearing almost nothing, and they’re all gorgeous. I mean gorgeous. And they all have these kind of bored expressions on their faces, like it’s no big deal to be walking around nude in front of all these men.
The large main room is furnished with plush chairs and tables and has watercolors of nude women on the walls. There’s a long bar on one side of the place, and a wide stage on the other with several silver poles a couple of inches in diameter rising twenty feet from the stage’s shiny black tiles all the way to the ceiling. There must be fifty men seated at the tables watching three women in various states of undress writhe around up there. As I’m watching, one of the women onstage jumps up and swings herself around and around on the pole to the far left, balancing herself with one foot and one hand while her long blond hair flows behind her.
The blue light makes everything white seem very bright. There’s a guy standing at the long bar wearing a white shirt, dark pants, and white sneakers. When he picks up his drink and saunters back to his table I can’t see his legs very well, but his shirt and shoes glow like neon.
When he sits down at his table there’s a woman waiting for him and she’s dressed in nothing but a skimpy bikini. She grabs the glass from him, takes a long drink, then raises the glass to his lips. Then she places the glass down on the table, drops to her knees, spreads his legs, moves in between them, and seductively removes the bikini top so her breasts spill out on his lap. She grinds them into him for a few moments, then stands, turns around, and sits back on his lap, grinding some more and steadying herself by clasping his thighs. When my eyes become accustomed to the dim light, I see that there are twenty or thirty girls giving these same kinds of private performances all around the place.
“This way,” Vincent calls above the music, distracting me from what’s going on in the main room. He waves toward a dark corridor. “We don’t want to waste time out here. This is nothing. Wait ’til you see what goes on in the Champagne Room.”
As I follow Vincent, I notice rows of pictures on the hallway wall—photographs of women performing onstage or at the tables, as well as signed black-and-white head shots of the dancers. They’re all incredibly beautiful. There isn’t an average-looking girl on the wall, and it’s amazing to me. Why would they choose to do this? Isn’t there a way to make a decent living without them having to compromise themselves in front of a pack of animals? It has to be about more than money.
Suddenly I stop short, and it’s as if every ounce of breath has been sucked from my lungs. I stumble back, away from the wall of photographs, until I can go no farther because I hit the opposite wall. For a few moments I bend over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath, praying that this is a nightmare and I’m going to wake up. I shut my eyes tightly, hoping the grinding music and the catcalls from down the corridor will fade to nothing—but they don’t.
Slowly I rise up and lurch toward one specific picture hanging on the wall. It’s a woman onstage. She’s grabbing one of the silver poles with both hands, nothing on her body but a gold chain belt that doesn’t even hide her navel. I take another look and there can be no denying it. The woman in the photograph is Melanie.
In the picture, men around the stage are cheering and she’s smiling that same gorgeous smile she gave me at our wedding right after college and said good-bye to only a few weeks ago. Melanie up on the stage for the animals to enjoy. This is where the crumpled tens and twenties on her bureau came from. And the rolls of bills in the basement. This is where she was at night when I thought she was working in Frank Taylor’s law office.
I look slowly to my left and Vincent is staring at me, an anxious expression on his face. He must know what I’ve seen.
CHAPTER 13
Vincent and I sit next to each other in the back of the limousine, staring straight ahead into the darkness. He told the driver to get out and stay out until otherwise instructed, so we’re alone. Through the tinted window I can see the guy leaning back against the brick wall next to the back entrance of the Two O’Clock Club, puffing on a cigarette, oblivious to the cesspool of emotion I’m drowning in. I thought I had been able to come to grips with Melanie’s death. I thought I had been able to accept what had happened and go on with my life. But the despair is back, and it’s worse than before.
“You all right, Augustus?”
We’ve been sitting here for five minutes in total silence. “No.”
“I’m sorry you saw that photograph. Really sorry. I swear I didn’t know it was there. I wouldn’t have brought you here tonight if I had. You know that.”
I don’t respond. I don’t know how to respond. For some period of time Melanie led a double life. She was an exotic dancer. A stripper. All along I thought it was Frank Taylor distracting her, but now I find out there was more. Much more. How am I supposed to respond?
“Talk to me, Augustus,” Vincent pleads. “You’ve got to talk to me.”
The worst part is that I’ll never be able to ask Melanie about it. I’ll never be able to find out why she’d want to hurt me like this. Maybe Vincent and the women Melanie worked with at the club will be able to shed some light on what was going on, but anything they tell me will be secondhand. I’ll never know if they’re telling me the truth, or just giving me some sugar-coated version they think will be less painful.
“You can’t just sit there and say noth—”
“What do you know about all of this?” I snap, my voice shaking. It’s Vincent’s turn to go silent. “You’re obviously a regular at this place.”
“I don’t come here that often. Once a month maybe.”
“When those two guys opened the back door, they all but saluted you.”
“I know the owner. They’ve been told to treat me right when I show up.”
“So what else do you know?”
“I really don’t—”
“Vincent!” If Melanie was willing to take her clothes off in front of men at a place like the Two O’Clock Club, she might have been willing to do other things. Worse things. “Tell me what you know!” The driver glances toward the limousine—he must have heard me yell even though all the windows are closed—but I don’t give a rat’s ass. “Tell me, dammit!”
It hits me that the Two O’Clock Club could somehow be related to Melanie’s death. It isn’t that far from the alley where her body was found. Maybe one of the club’s regulars developed a fatal attraction to her as he watched her dance. The kind of monster you hear about on television. Maybe he finally got up the nerve to ask her out on a date after he paid her for a private dance, and when she turned him down he was so bitter he tracked her down and murdered her. I let my face fall into my hands. Or maybe she accepted the offer and when they were alone things got out of hand. Maybe being rough excited him, and he couldn’t stop himself. When he was finished he dumped her body in the alley and disappeared into the night. It’s horrible to have to consider these things.
“It’s not what you think,” Vincent says.
“How do you know what I think?”
“You think Melanie and I were having an affair,” he says. “I know you do.”
“Were you?”
“No,” he answers firmly. “Melanie and I never slept together. That’s the truth.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because for twenty years I’ve always been loyal to you. I’ve always tried to help. What about the loan? What about the ten million you’re gonna be managing soon? I’ve always had your best interests at hear
t. Down deep, you know that. You know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
I swallow hard. Reggie wanted to know if Melanie had ever performed for me. I thought it was an odd question but now I wonder. Reggie seemed to know a lot of things. Like my father’s true story. He knew where I worked and I’m convinced he already knew about the insurance policy. Maybe somehow he knew she was working here too.
And maybe Vincent’s more involved in everything than he’s letting on.
“How did Melanie come to start working at the Two O’Clock Club?” I ask, my voice dropping to a whisper. “When did it happen?” I’m not convinced by Vincent’s denial of anything. His sexual appetite is enormous, especially when he’s been drinking, and I don’t believe for a second he would have been able to resist Melanie if she had come on to him. No matter how much he tells me he’d never do anything to hurt me. “Tell me.”
Vincent takes a deep breath. “One afternoon last fall, Melanie and I ran into each other on the Mall. She was taking a walk at lunch, and we bumped into each other in front of the Smithsonian.”
“And?”
“And we got a bite to eat at an outdoor café on Seventeenth Street. It was all very innocent.”
“Go on.”
“We talked about normal stuff. You know, the weather, my job, her job. Then all of a sudden she starts telling me about how you guys are broke. How you’re scraping to make ends meet, but it isn’t working and you’re falling further and further behind each month. But I already know that, right? I’ve already gotten the five grand for you, but I don’t say anything to her about that because I know you don’t want me to tell her.” Vincent rubs his eyes, like he’s got a headache and he wishes he could be anywhere else. “Then Mel says she’s thinking about taking a second job at night. She’s going to do word processing for a big law firm downtown to make nine bucks an hour. She says her boss knows a partner at the big firm and is arranging the whole thing.” Vincent rubs his eyes again, harder, then exhales loudly.
I turn on the seat toward him. “And?”
He leans back and stretches his neck, as if it’s stiff. He’s stalling.
“Vincent.”
“I told her I knew of a place where a woman with a body like hers could make a helluva lot more than nine bucks an hour.”
“What? Jesus Christ!”
Vincent clenches his fists. “I was joking, for God’s sake,” he says quickly. “How could I have been so stupid?”
“Exactly.”
“I didn’t think she’d take me seriously, Augustus. I was just kidding with her because I could see how much she hated the thought of sitting at a desk, word processing until midnight. But she asked me what I meant. She wouldn’t let it go.”
“And?”
“And I told her.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth. That some of the girls at this club make three to four hundred dollars on weekend nights. All cash.”
“I can’t believe you did this.”
“She wanted me to bring her down here that night, but I wouldn’t,” Vincent continues, as if that initial refusal somehow absolves him of any major guilt. “I mean, she wanted to do it right away. There was no hesitation on her part. In fact, she told me she’d always had a fantasy about being an exotic dancer.” Vincent’s chin drops slowly to his chest. “Like I said, I told her I was joking about the whole thing. She pestered me about it all through the rest of lunch, but I still wouldn’t do it. And I didn’t tell her the name of the place so she couldn’t come down here on her own.”
“Then how the hell did she end up here?”
“She kept calling me, Augustus. She begged me. She said Christmas was coming and she wanted to be able to buy nice things for her family and something very special for you, but she didn’t have the money. She said it was tearing her apart. She swore to me that she’d only do it until she had the money she needed, and that would be it.”
My “very special” gift from Melanie last Christmas was a plain sweater from JCPenney that was too small. She said she was going to return it when it didn’t fit, but she never did. “So you brought her here?”
Vincent nods, regretfully. “Yes,” he admits, his voice barely audible. “Like I told you, I know the guy who owns the club pretty well and he agreed to let her go onstage. He was skeptical when I told him she had no experience, but he owed me a favor.” Vincent’s eyes take on a distant look, and he shakes his head slowly. “It was a Tuesday night so there weren’t many people here. They always start new girls on weeknights in case they get stage fright or aren’t very good. But she had the guys drooling right away. I mean, they were in awe. She made two hundred bucks that night and she knew she could do even better.” He clears his throat. “She enjoyed it. You could tell. She was a natural.”
“You watched?”
“She asked me to come that first night because she was nervous.”
“You watched her?” I ask again, incredulous. “You watched her perform?”
“I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”
“My God.”
“I tried to make her stop, Augustus. I swear to you. I reminded her in January that she had promised to quit after Christmas, but she wouldn’t listen. She was addicted to the thrill and the money. She kept on coming. I threatened to tell you, but she didn’t care.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I yell, ready to drag Vincent from the limo and beat him senseless. “Why?”
“I couldn’t,” he says. “I couldn’t hurt you that way.” He coughs, trying to hide his emotion. “I knew you’d think I had let you down, and I couldn’t handle that. Please forgive me, Augustus. Please.”
I look out the window at the driver who’s still puffing on his cigarette, oblivious to my pain. I want to blame Vincent for everything, but I can’t. And it isn’t his plea for mercy that makes me change my mind about beating him to a bloody pulp. It’s the horrible realization that the blame for all of this could just as easily be heaped on my shoulders. If I had been a success and made enough money, maybe Melanie would never have considered her double life. If I had been a better provider, then she wouldn’t have needed the cash.
And no one forced Melanie up on that stage. Ultimately, it was her decision to show her body to men she didn’t know. Maybe in the end it had little to do with the money anyway. Maybe it was about something else.
I feel Vincent’s hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m really sorry.”
CHAPTER 14
I’m not a naive man, so how could I have gone so long without discovering what Melanie was doing? The clues were right there for me to see. Late nights two or three times a week. Crumpled cash on her bureau in the morning. Exotic perfumes. Lacy lingerie hidden deep in her bedroom closet.
I’ve always heard that if you’re playing poker and you haven’t figured out who the sucker at the table is after the first few hands, you’re the sucker. I suppose Melanie, Vincent, Frank Taylor, and I were all playing a form of poker, and I turned out to be the sucker. But it feels more like we were playing Russian roulette, and I took the bullet. Of course, it was Melanie who paid the ultimate price.
I had rationalized her behavior by convincing myself that our relationship was just going through a stage that would eventually pass, but I didn’t delude myself completely. In those dark moments late at night, when the phone at her office just rang and rang, I figured she must have been having an affair. But I was certain her lover was Frank Taylor. Like some jilted teenager who’d had his cheerleader girlfriend stolen away by a teammate, I did away with him dozens of times in my imagination to try to satisfy the rage, jealousy, and hatred that filled me. But of course the fantasies never satisfied me.
I should probably hate Vincent too. He’s probably nothing but a damn liar and was having sex with Melanie all along. After all, he introduced her to a place where she took off her clothes for money. He probably watched her onstage lots of times, maybe even requested some of tho
se same intimate performances I saw going on at the tables around the stage last night. But I’ll never know for certain what went on between them because he’ll never come clean with me. He’ll swear to me until the day he dies that nothing was going on.
On nights Melanie was out late she would call most of the time to let me know when she was about to leave the office—usually around midnight. She’d call to tell me that she’d just about finished whatever menial tasks Taylor had assigned her that evening and that she’d see me in about an hour. She’d be sweet and say how much she missed me. Sometimes, especially at first, I’d mention the fact that I’d tried to call her several times during the evening. She’d explain that she had been away from her desk copying something or working in a file room, and that was why she hadn’t been able to hear the phone. Now I know the truth.
When she finally made it home, she would head straight to the bathroom without a word and draw a hot bath. When she came out, she would crawl into bed, turn off the light, and roll away from me. I would caress her shoulder and try to talk to her about my unanswered calls to her office. She would tell me that she was just trying to do her part to help our financial situation, and ask how I could question her loyalty. Then she’d say she was dead tired and needed sleep, and she’d push my hand away from her warm skin. Toward the end, even on nights when she made it home at a normal time, she’d pick a fight about something trivial as soon as she walked in the door. She shut me out, until I felt completely isolated.
I thought about installing caller ID so I could check the number she was calling from on nights she was out late, but that was when my rationalization kicked in. I told myself we couldn’t afford things that weren’t absolutely necessary, including caller ID. Maybe down deep I didn’t really want to know where she was.
Vincent and I said nothing at all to each other last night during the half-hour drive from the Two O’Clock Club to Bedford. Not even good-bye when the limousine pulled up alongside my car. An evening that had begun so well ended in disaster.