Mostly I want to go because I’ll go with Susan. I like Susan. Susan is pretty even though she has a cigarette burn on the back of her right pant leg and she bites her fingernails so much two of them have been bleeding. Susan is babies and sugary and I like the way she flips her hair back when she’s being funny even though I don’t understand the joke I can tell she’s being funny and she smiles at me and lets me sit next to her and I think she must like me and that’s good because I know I like her.
9
He felt such intense revulsion that it became difficult for him to breathe. He was physically ill. He knew his face was ashen, and he feared he might soon relinquish custody over his lunch. It was so disturbing, so depraved.
Certainly he had expected to be offended. But he had no idea how bad it could be. Sexual relations were a gift given us for the perpetuation of the species, not, he thought, a commodity to be bought and sold. But here, in this Haunted Palace of a sort Poe never imagined in his most fevered dream, it was all garishly on display, everywhere he turned. He had never seen so much unclothed flesh in his entire life-and it sickened him. Everything here sickened him.
From the start he had understood that his visit to Nighthawks was one of duty, not pleasure. Vegas sex clubs were notorious, and this one had a reputation worse than most. Its dark ambience, the decorative whips and chains, bespoke a debased sensibility with a strong sadomasochistic bent, inimical to all standards of decency. Not a place for the avatar of the prophet. To begin with, there was the music-which was not at all musical. How could this electronic rap dissonance be music, which by definition is a melody played in rhythm and in counterpoint to a harmony? Where was the melody in this hip-hop mishmash? It was just sound, mindless decibels, played blaringly, unbearably loudly. And the light was blinding-silver shards glittering all about him, reflecting off the mirrored walls and the discothèque balls on the ceiling. It was a grotesque de Sade bacchanalia, all justified by suggestions that indulgence and degenerate fantasy fulfillment were salubrious for the psyche. Well, he did gainsay it, as would any decent soul with an eye on Dream-Land.
“Good evening,” said the woman at the door, who was wearing a skintight black leather bodice exposing extraordinary mammarial engineering. “I am the mistress of pain.”
“Good evening to you, madam,” he replied in his most elegant southern accent.
She rammed a riding crop under his chin. “Your heart’s desire can be yours. All you need do is ask.”
“Most obliging.” He removed the crop and stepped inside. The décor reminded him of those hideous films of the 1960s purportedly based upon the prophet’s stories. Victorian furnishings, faux marble pillars, red curtains, padded sofas and love seats. A throne at each table, such as it was. Waiters dressed in silk Italianate tunics. He almost expected to see Vincent Price emerge from behind the drapes. But in fact, the most noteworthy figures inside were women, naked or all but. He didn’t object to nudity in and of itself. But it was never meant to be distorted and turned into a weapon, much less an industry. He was surrounded by unclad women, more than a hundred of them in bikinis, G-strings, negligees, all manner of exiguous attire. Some wearing nothing more than a few carefully cantilevered scarves. None of them much older than their teens. Undulating and thrusting and rubbing and pressing. Trying to excite the worst of passions. Parading their sex for the entertainment of the unworthy.
He staggered through the narrow corridors, his mouth dry, searching for a spot with an open seat and a modicum of oxygen. The music, the smoke, the cachinnation, and the Caligulan revelry all assaulted and oppressed him. Most of the rooms had stages upon which young women removed their clothes in time to the rhythm of that relentless music. He saw one stage-he couldn’t help but look-with an uncommonly limber woman spread across the floor, twisting and writhing like a snake, hands flat, breasts pressed against the stage, her thighs locked around the head of a middle-aged man in a blue leisure suit. In some of the smaller, more private alcoves, women performed one-on-one, straddling the men’s laps, rubbing themselves against their patron’s personal areas for his despoiled gratification.
He was tempted to run outside, retrieve the axe from his truck, and bring them all to account for their crimes against decency.
But that was not the plan. He pressed his hand against his forehead, forcing himself to maintain focus. He had a destiny to fulfill, and he would not shirk it.
He found an empty chair wedged between two young men in matching shirts, both in the throes of lap dances. He tried to make himself comfortable, but the girls on either side constantly poked him with their stiletto heels or other protuberances. They giggled, smiled, then returned to their business. Their business.
A woman wearing a red lace teddy appeared before him. She had no concept of personal space-or perhaps she did-and stood so close to him that the tips of her fairly enormous and probably artificial breasts touched his face.
“You look as if you could use a friend.”
He tried not to stammer as he spoke. “We could all use a friend.”
“I’d like to be yours.” She had vivid red hair-not natural, he felt certain-parted in the center, and a mole strategically positioned just below her lower lip. He rather suspected that wasn’t natural, either. She appeared to be about twenty, which in this place made her a senior citizen. “Can we do business?”
“I’m looking for a girl.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’m looking for a particular girl.”
Her smile faded a few notches. “Don’t be put off by the laugh lines, Skippy. I’ll rock your boat like it’s never been rocked before.”
“I’m sure, my dear, but-”
“Just give me a chance.” She pressed a knee into his lap and leaned closer. “I know what you want.”
“I don’t believe you do.”
“Trust me.” She squeezed.
“Stop that!” His voice came out much louder than he intended as he slapped her hand away. Fortunately, the music was so thumpingly loud that even his immediate neighbors did not notice. He took several deep, cleansing breaths, trying to regain his genteel demeanor. “Listen to me. I am looking for a specific girl who works here. Her name is Lenore.”
The redhead arched an eyebrow. “You like them young, don’t you?” She pulled away. “What else is new? Give me a minute, slick.”
He waited. While he did, the young man to his left apparently reached climax, shouting and bellowing and putting a very satisfied expression on the face of the purposeful titian-haired teenager who climbed off his lap. Money changed hands, a lot of it.
And then he saw Lenore. She was an Asian girl, as he’d known, but her hair was dyed blond. Or perhaps it was a wig? She was much smaller than her predecessor, and younger. Almost a child. Poe would’ve loved her. He thought he perhaps loved her himself, in his way.
“April said you wanted me?” she said with a ruby-red pout.
“She was correct.”
“Okay, so a table dance is two hundred, all right? You want anything more, we negotiate.”
He gazed at her, the impossibly rouged cheeks, excessive bee-sting lipstick, breasts like pomegranates. She was wearing a tight red bustier with dragons embroidered on each side. She was a lovely thing, delicate as a rose blossom.
He had been right. She was the offering. And the third would fulfill the prophecy.
“This may seem odd to you, dear,” he said, oozing gentility, “but all I want to do is talk.”
“You like to watch. That’s okay, I get it.”
“No, ma’am. Listen to me carefully. I want to talk. With you.”
“Believe it or not, mister, that’s about the only thing we’re not allowed to do here. They don’t want us wasting time with conversation. And they don’t want patrons getting hung up on a particular girl and starting some kind of trouble.”
“I can pay you. Well.”
She pursed her oh-so-red lips together. “I don’t know.�
��
“Please. I’ll make it worth your time.”
She considered a few more moments. “I wouldn’t do this if it hadn’t been such a shit of a night.” Her eyes scanned the room, checking for supervisors, then scrutinizing the numbered lights on a neon sign by the door that told her where vacancies existed. “Okay, look. I can get us a couch in a semiprivate room. But it’ll be three hundred to me. And you’ll have to tip the bouncer.”
“And we can talk?”
“You can do anything you want. I’ll be working. Come on.”
She led him through the madding crowd to an alcove farther down the main hallway. After he took care of the bouncer, Lenore gave him a gentle push onto a black upholstered couch. A moment later, a woman wearing a black dominatrix outfit appeared bearing a tray with two glasses of champagne.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, charming her with his smile, “but I do not partake of strong spirits.”
The waitress stared at him. “It’s just champagne.”
He wagged a finger. “Nonetheless. Spirits destroyed the prophet, you know.”
The waitress and Lenore exchanged a look, then a shrug. The waitress disappeared.
Lenore reached behind herself and snapped open the bustier.
“Just a moment,” he said, holding out a hand. “You don’t need to do that. I want to talk.”
“No doubt.” She pushed his hand away and crawled onto his lap. Her bare breasts tickled his nose.
“I mean it!” he said, holding her back. “This is not-”
“Do you want me to lose my job?”
He relaxed. Even in a semiprivate room, the night must have a thousand eyes. “At least give a man a chance to breathe, would you?”
Lenore giggled. “Whatever.” Her hips began to sway.
“That’s not necessary, either.”
“Got to please the client.”
“Rest assured you will receive my highest encomiums.”
“Just relax,” she said, stroking the back of his neck. “We have to look as if we’re doing proper business. Even if we’re not. Believe me, girls who don’t follow the rules don’t last long here. And I’ve got a living to make.”
“Some living. A girl your age. Performing lap dances for strangers.”
“I don’t do lap dances,” she replied. She squeezed her thighs together, tightening her grip on his groin. “I do friction dances. It’s my specialty.”
He felt his internal temperature rising.
“Now what is it you wanted to talk about, you stud?” she growled in his ear, her hips grinding. She was eager and energetic but not that practiced. “Don’t I interest you even a little?”
“This isn’t-isn’t-”
“I know what to do.” Her hand found the zippered fly of his trousers.
He knocked her hand away. “Stop!” This was becoming too intense, too potentially awkward. “I want to go somewhere private.”
“We are somewhere private.”
“Someplace else. Away from here. Someplace we can do… more than this. You know what I mean.”
“I don’t know if I think that’s a good idea…”
“Please. Vouchsafe me this one cherished boon.”
She peered at him with a harsh eye.”If we leave the club, I’ll be out for the entire evening.”
“Yes.”
“You’d have to compensate me for the loss. Me and the management.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? We’re talking, like, three thousand dollars here.”
“I can do that.”
She gave him a long look. “I can’t pretend it wouldn’t be good for me. Bring my average up. You’re sure?” She hesitated only the merest of moments. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Most munificent of you.”
“Let me clock out and get my coat.” She stopped just before she left the room. “You’re sure? You’re serious about this?”
He nodded, smiling pleasantly. “Dead serious.”
I was pumped. For the first time since I got out of the hospital I was actually feeling somewhat good. I might not have the case solved, but I’d had some breakthroughs-the eyewitness, and now the decoded messages. My first steps in the psychologically right direction.
I decided to treat myself. Dinner at Elmer’s. Not a million-course buffet, not fancy French cuisine. No elaborate décor. No décor at all, really. Just good old American down-home comfort food, ribs and chicken-fried steak served straight, at a very affordable price. Once upon a time, Vegas was famous for places like this, for their ninety-nine-cent all-you-can-eat shrimp and buck-ninety-nine filet mignon. Nowadays, the big resorts hired Michelin-quality chefs to entice people to pay for the prestige of a ridiculously overpriced meal in a room with minor French impressionist paintings. Wolfgang Puck had four restaurants here, for Pete’s sake.
Elmer’s was much more to my liking. It had a lot of sentimental value. David and I used to come here on our anniversary. I hadn’t been back since he died, and hadn’t wanted to. But I had a sense now that I was ready.
I felt like Dolly Levi after a long absence. I smiled at the maître d’, a freckle-faced kid engaged in a losing battle with acne. “Party of one, please. I’d like a table-”
“By the window. With a view of the skyline.” He grinned. “Good to see you again, Miss Pulaski.”
I was floored. “What a memory you must have.”
“Not at all. You’re one of our most regular customers.”
“I-you mean, before-”
“On the seventh, every month. It’s your anniversary date, right?”
“Well, yes, it was, but-”
“And you never miss a month. Very admirable.”
My neck stiffened. “But-I haven’t been here for more than a year.”
He blinked, still smiling. “You were just in last month.”
“I-was?”
“And the month before that. And the month before that.”
“But-I don’t…”
“Shall I have the bartender bring you your favorite?” He winked. “Or maybe we should save time and have him bring you a pitcher.”
My stomach felt like lead.
“When you’re finished, let me know. I’ll call you a cab.” He winked again. “I think that’s best, don’t you?”
The elation I’d felt before deflated like a collapsed artery. The gnawing in my gut, the panicky, breathless, acidic sensation reasserted itself. “All of a sudden, I-I’m not feeling well. Maybe I’ll skip dinner.”
I stumbled out of the restaurant, knowing damn well that I was not skipping dinner. Only mutating its form.
“Where are we going?” she asked as they made their way to his truck. She had pulled a white embroidered wrap-a kimono, perhaps?-around herself to cover her virtual nudity.
They arrived at the pickup. He opened the passenger side door for her. “Huh. I didn’t figure you for a pickup man.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. Thought you were more the Lexus type.”
He closed her door securely, then walked around to the other side. “I find my truck very practical. And reliable.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s right. Mind if I turn on the radio?”
He winced, ever so slightly. “Would it be more music such as what they play in your workplace?”
“Guess you’re pretty tired of that, huh?”
He smiled. “I don’t mean to be bilious with you. But one must have standards.” He looked over his shoulder, making sure the path behind him was clear. “That noise does not even qualify to be called music. It is an assault on the eardrums.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t play it so loud. But it helps with the dancing. And it creates a party atmosphere. Most of the girls are so stoned they don’t hear it anyway.” She glanced down at the seat. “What’s this?”
She had found the axe which he had left lying on the floor beneath the glove compartment.
&n
bsp; “That’s… just what it appears to be. I have some stumps on my property that require removal.”
“Oh.” She handed it to him. “Creepy.” She slid into the seat. “Do you have one of those new places out in Grover Mills? I’ve heard those are-” She stopped again. “Now what’s this?”
Edgar turned. His eyeballs bulged as he realized what she had found. “Don’t-”
“There’s something rattling around in there.” She picked up a shoe box he had left under the seat. “I think it may be broken.”
She opened the box.
And screamed.
The box fell out of her hands and all of sweet Annabel’s teeth, all thirty-two of them, caked with blood, flew across the cab of the pickup.
“Oh, my God,” Lenore said, pressing her hands against her mouth.
“I can explain,” he said rapidly. “I’m a dentist and-”
“I heard about that girl-” She pushed open the passenger side door. “I’m getting out of here.”
He grabbed her arm. “Please don’t.”
“Look, keep your money. I’m leaving.”
“But I can explain.”
“Let me go!” She brought her fist down on his arm, as hard as she could. It was all he could do to hang on.
“Give me one more chance.”
“I’m not giving you anything, you pervert.” She sank her teeth into his wrist.
“Oww!” She’d hurt him, broken skin.
She scooted toward the door, but he managed to grab her shoulders and yank her back. The kimono slipped, exposing her. “Stop this immediately!”
“You stop, asshole.” She rolled back, bringing her legs around and kicking him in the face. He slammed back against the driver’s-side door.
She was already upright and moving toward the open door. With a sudden lunge, he sprang forward and grabbed her by the neck, then flung her head against the dash.
She was slowed, but not unconscious. “I’ll scream…,” she mumbled.
“No, you won’t.” He snatched a loaded syringe out of the glove compartment and jabbed it into her neck. “Sweet dreams, Lenore.”
It took more than a moment for him to regain his composure. Perhaps the insufferable music was a blessing after all, he noted, since it ensured that no one inside could possibly hear anything that happened out here.
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