The waitress found me and leaned over the table as she swept up the change and the old foam. She wore hot pants, a small halter top over large breasts and a look of terminal boredom.
“Want a menu?”
“No, just a beer.”
“Schlitz is on tap.”
“No. I’ll take a Bud.” I don’t even trust the taps. Not that they’d pollute the beer, just that they’d forget to put any beer at all in the system. The stuff is so watered it doubles as the sprinkler system for fires. I figure that anything that enters in a sealed bottle is a best bet.
A red spotlight came on over the stage and the entertainment began. A girl made her way to the stage. She climbed the staircase and daintily squatted with her knees together like some lush, overripe stork or heron and put down her drink. She sprinkled some baby powder on stage and scuffed her platform shoes in it. She unclasped her gown and let it slide down her arms and she draped it across the top stair. Nude except for pasties and G-string, she stood for a moment in silence with everyone’s eyes on her, waiting for the music to begin. She stared at her infinitely reflected image in the mirrored walls. I wondered if she thought she was looking at all her tomorrows. I doubt it.
When I was eighteen this was a thrill. I know the girls haven’t changed so I guess the change is me. I can barely stay awake in a topless bar and I have to watch what I drink. It’s not cool to fall asleep and snore at ringside. I’ve wandered through enough bars, massage parlors and hot-sheet motels looking for dreamers that I’ve had plenty of time to understand why the thrill is gone. A topless bar is no different from Disneyland, it’s just selling a different illusion. The problem is that it takes a great deal of energy to sustain an illusion for a roomful of strangers twenty minutes of every hour for eight hours a day, six days a week. The illusion is that your dancing is a form of foreplay and that you are dancing for each man alone. This requires uninhibited sexuality and great physical energy. If you can dance or are attractive, so much the better. A girl who could do this would be a genius of sorts. Instead you get the zombies who can’t hide that they’re just doing a fifteen-dollar-an-hour job. They’re about as exciting to watch as somebody electrocuting a piece of top round. They climb up on the stage and move lifelessly, their empty, glazed eyes locked on themselves in the mirror. They aren’t really on stage at all.
Then there’s the good old girls who may have the energy or be able to dance lively but they can’t accept the idea that they’re selling an illusion of personal lust for each and every guy. So they tell jokes and talk to the guys. It’s just like watching your sister, nothing to it. They try to bleach all the sex out of the experience as if you were judging the Shirley Temple look-alike tap dancing contest. Every once in a great long while there’s a girl who knows what she’s being paid to do—or maybe she doesn’t—and for a little while she has the energy, the passion. If she’s attractive and can move well it’s still the experience you had at eighteen. She’s a magician for a short time and you are the trick. Perhaps this is why hookers call sex a trick—they’re the magicians conjuring an illusion. I’ve never found one I could discuss this with. At least not for free.
I watched the first girl for a song or two, but I could feel an arhythmia setting in and went back to my beer. The second girl was everybody’s sister. I was beginning to get terrified of the idea of eight hours in this bar watching this “show.” I knew that by 2 A.M. I’d be declared brain dead. I had not seen my mystery boy come in. I hoped he’d show before my kidneys got up to leave. I was beyond nursing my beer. It was decomposing on me between sips.
The third girl walked up to the stage. She was built like some new breed of poultry: all breast and no back. She slipped off her gown and locked her arms overhead. She suddenly flexed her pectorals and her breasts jumped. She did a deep knee bend, which in five-inch heels is no mean feat, and came up, rippling her stomach and pelvis. The music began, something about “life in the fast lane” and she went to work. She swung her hips and ass from side to side, a metronome gone mad, and then did a deep squat. She bent over and pulled her tangled hair up from behind and wagged her tail at me, or so I felt. She stirred her pelvis clockwise and back again. She did a high kick and then a slow descent, as if sliding down an imaginary fire pole. She did a deep back bend, running her hands up the insides of her thighs, then across her belly. I watched her for a while as she made her way in a slow circular course during the song. She was meeting everyone’s eyes boldly and turning so as to give everyone a chance to believe she only had eyes for them. When she got to me I locked eyes with her, raised my beer in tribute and let a smile escape across my face. She winked and continued to turn as she danced.
I tried to figure how to get her attention without becoming memorable. The one sure way to get a girl to talk to you is to slip her some money between dances to show how much you think of her. If the “chemistry” is right she may sit with you between sets. I figured that, being paid at fifteen dollars an hour for her time, a five spot would show I was serious but not crazy. I finished my beer and took out a five, rolled it up and put it in the mouth of the bottle. She smiled and slowly licked her lips. I was mesmerized, a mouse dancing with a rattlesnake. Bending over, she picked the bottle up and rubbed it between her breasts. She put the bill in her mouth, slowly sucking it out of the bottle while twitching her butt at the other men. She stood up, folded the bill and slowly put it in her G-string between her legs, rubbing it from side to side. I could hear it singing “Nearer My God to Thee.” She winked at me again and went back to work.
I enjoyed the rest of her set and waited to see whether I’d scored or not. I had to remind myself that as much as I admired her talents she was selling illusions and I was buying hard, cold reality. In that area she could help me a lot or she could hurt me a lot.
She picked up her drink, slipped on her gown and made her way to my table.
She didn’t bother to ask if she could sit. She lit her cigarette and said, “I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“No, and believe me, it’s my loss, honey. You’re something else.”
“My name’s Jackie. What’s yours?”
“My name’s Sam. Sam Thornton.”
I wanted her and I didn’t. She was exciting but that would wear off pretty quickly. I knew that because I had followed my impulses before. Sex is not magic. As good as it can be, as soon as it’s over the world comes roaring right back at you unchanged. I know this. I’d chased long legs and big breasts for too long and had precious little to show for it. Accepting it was still not easy.
I’d push a little to get a name on my mystery boy, but not too much. If nothing came, I could always come back and wait for him to show. She was a perfect cover for my being a regular. I was smitten.
“You’re the best dancer I’ve ever seen, let me tell you.”
She smiled graciously.
“What other nights do you dance here?”
“Fridays and weekends. The other days I work at the Watering Hole.”
She slowly drew a pattern on my forearm with her nails. It was getting hard to keep on track.
“Is that the one in the motel?” The place had asbestos sheets to handle the turnover. The manager only wrote half the bookings in his ledger. If the IRS knew he’d have to answer a lot of questions. If his boss found out he wouldn’t get to answer any.
“Yeah. I dance and tend a little bar.”
“When do you get off here?” I didn’t know what I wanted her to say.
“One o’clock. But listen, man, I’m a wreck when I leave here. I just want to go home, soak my feet and hit the sack.”
“How about if I catch you after a day shift?” I guess I wanted a yes. I wasn’t sure I liked that.
“Okay. I’d like that. I’m on day shift Tuesday at the Hole. I get off at six.” She started to slide her chair back. I reached across and put my hand on her arm and whispered, “I’m looking for a guy who hangs out here. He wears a lion’s head earring, tatto
o of a dancing girl. He handles some things I’m interested in. You know him?”
A razor’s edge came into her eyes. She looked at me as if a fog had lifted and the prince really was a toad. She pulled away ever so slightly and avoided my eyes. Stubbing out her cigarette, she said, “No, I don’t, but if I see him how can I get in touch with you?”
“My number’s 555-0088. Listen, I’ll see you Tuesday, huh?”
“Yeah, sure. Listen, I got to hit the head, straighten up. I’m on again in ten minutes.”
“Great.” She headed straight back to the bathrooms. I watched her set and then got up and left.
I went out into the cold night air. Wheels were turning. I was getting reactions. The next step would not be up to me but I would be ready. I’d wait a day for a contact and then go back to the bar to see if my wandering boy had come home.
I drove home wondering if Samantha would come over. I wanted to talk to her, to touch her. When I got in I cleared my service and got her message. I called her place. No answer. I stripped, showered and called my service. Nothing yet. I called Arnie.
“Arnie, Leo here. I think I have some work for you. Are you interested?”
“Tell me about it.”
“Remember I told you about that missing kid case I’ve got. Well, my reading of the guy she was last with is that while he may not be Charles Manson, he’s no gentleman. He sure didn’t bring little Randi Benson home after they shared chocolate sodas. I’m hoping for a meeting. It’ll probably be a setup and I’ll want you there for backup. If the meet is amicable just tail him.”
“When is all this going to go down?”
“Don’t know. Can you be on standby?”
“Yeah. If that changes I’ll call you.”
“Fine.”
I sat down at my desk and hunt and pecked out a report to Benson. I called him. No answer there either. Okay world, you don’t want to hear from me. Fine! I gave Samantha another chance. She flunked. I turned in.
Chapter 10
In the morning I called my service. No messages. I read the paper while I ate a bagel with cream cheese and had a cup of coffee. That done, I called Benson.
“Hello, Mr. Benson. This is Leo Haggerty. I’ve got a lead on your daughter.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Friday night she left the shopping center with a boy. I have a description, no name, and a lead to a place where he hangs out. I made it clear I’m looking for him and I’m hoping to meet him soon. Maybe today. If he’s still with your daughter I’ll get back to you tonight with her. If not, then I’ll use him to lead me to the next step. I’m getting closer. That’s the best I can say.”
“Jesus! Shit! What’s she doing out there with this punk? You find her, Haggerty. I want her back here. Let me know as soon as you know where she is, you hear?”
“Yeah, I’ll keep you posted.” Benson seemed to believe that his orders would make things happen. His anxiety turned quickly to anger and demands.
I called Samantha. It rang three times and I was ready to hang up when she answered.
“Hello,” she said in a sleep-thickened voice.
“Samantha, this is Leo. How are you?”
“Fine. I’m just waking up though, so I may not be too lucid.”
“I got your message last night. What’s up?”
“Oh, I was calling to see if I could drive by with those books I was telling you about.”
“Hmmm. Good question. Things are starting to heat up on this case I’ve got and I may be out of touch for a while. How about I call you when I know I’ll be free and we can get together?”
Silence. Here we go again. Occupational Hazard number 41: finding a woman who’ll settle for being a between-cases relationship. I had to admit I was getting tired of that myself. I wasn’t sure I was ready for anything else, though.
“Sam, look, remember I said I kept irregular hours. Well, this is them.” Nothing. I went on. “What are you thinking? Can we talk about this?”
“What I’m thinking,” she said in measured tones, “is that I’m recalibrating my interest in you too. The guns scare me but I thought some more about that. I want things safe but not dull. I admit it. Maybe you can’t have it both ways. Okay. But second fiddle is not a role I’m comfortable with when I’m with a man. If that’s all there is I’m not sure how much I want to put into this. That’s what I’m thinking right now.”
I could feel this relationship slipping away from me like so many others. Always the same sticking points. Before I’d always been secretly relieved that they were ending. I’d just go on moving through an endless field of women. They were still out there. I was finally getting tired of always moving on. Maybe I was ready to find out what it took to settle down. To wake up knowing where you stood every day.
“I’m not sure what it is I’ve got to offer a woman. I’m not even sure anymore what I need from them. I do know I’d love to find out with you. It may still be second fiddle to my work. But for the first time in my life I’m not sure that’s the way I want it. What do you say we just keep at this and not write it off over the phone?”
“I wasn’t writing this off, just rethinking how much to put into it, that’s all.”
“I’ll call you when I can. You call me when you want. If we can get together I’d like that. A lot. Hold on to the books. I will get them from you. Okay?”
“Yeah, it’s okay.” She stopped for a second. “Leo, be careful, damn you.” Then she hung up the phone.
I set down the receiver feeling like 400 pounds were sitting on my throat.
I spent the rest of the day looking for Randi Benson in all the conventional ways. I talked to Cindy Fosburg’s older sister who told me that Cindy was in the juvenile detention center in Fairfax and had been for almost a week. No help there. I wandered in and out of every topless bar on the corridor looking for a guy with a tattooed bicep and a lion’s head earring. No such luck. I talked to every speed shop mechanic I could find about a jacked up blue car with an air scoop. Nothing.
At six I packed it in and went home. I’d just walked in and was holding a cold bottle of beer to my forehead when the call came in.
“Haggerty,” a flat voice said. “I know you been asking for me. Meet me at the Princess Cinema. You know the fuck film joint. Be there for the 7:30 show. Come while the lights are on. Sit in the seat next to the aisle one, next-to-the-last row, left side and keep both hands on the back of the seat in front of you.”
I called Arnie. “We got a bite, the Princess Cinema. Be there lights on, a specific seat, hands in view. What happened to honor among thieves? He wants me next-to-last row, a seat from the aisle. Why don’t you sit at the other end of the row in front of me. Come ten minutes early to the 7:30 show. I’ll sit with my feet under the seat in front of me. Okay? Any questions?”
“Yeah, just one.”
“What?”
“What’s playing?”
“I don’t know. Look it up in coming attractions.”
“That’s terrible, Leo. See you there.”
I began to get ready for my date. I flipped my wallet out on the desk. I didn’t want any ID on me when this went down. I dressed all in black and checked my gun. I was carrying the Colt .45 now that Arnie had modified it. I slipped it cocked and locked into my shoulder holster. I went to my dresser and got my backup piece, a Beretta and its holster. Sitting on the bed I strapped the holster onto my left ankle. I stood up and adjusted it and pulled my black slacks down over it. I checked myself in the mirror: the well-dressed pigeon goes out on the town.
Chapter 11
I went down to my car and headed over to the theater. A porno theater is a good place for a meet. It’s full of lonely guys wishing their wives or somebody would do what that girl on the screen was doing and they’re guilty as hell about that. So they sit with their heads locked, eyes front, sure that their mother is searching the aisles for them. They’re all playing with themselves or trying not to. To look at another guy, espe
cially one at work, is tacky to say the least. So a guy making funny noises, like you do when you’re swallowing your teeth, is the last person anybody is going to look at.
I pulled into the lot and looked at the theater. The feature was called Tail Pipe. I hoped Arnie wasn’t going to be bored. The theater was located between a Vietnamese restaurant and an ABC store.
I locked my car and walked across the lot to the theater. A skinny blonde with streaked hair and bad teeth told me through a cigarette haze that Tail Pipe would begin in about five minutes and it was three dollars. I paid my way and went in. There was a sprinkling of guys, eyes front, listening to the inane Muzak. I saw the seat I was to take. As I walked to it I saw Arnie slumped over, looking almost asleep at the other end of the aisle in front of me. I sat down and slid my feet under the seat in front of me. I extended my arms and put my hands on the back of the seat in front of me. I figured he’d wait in the dark for a few minutes to get his night vision. The lights went out and the screen lit up.
The movie began. Behind the credits on the screen, a blonde woman grasped a penis with her hand. Her scarlet nails were two inches long. They encircled the shaft like a parrot’s claw. She eyed the cock hungrily and dove on it, her head bobbing with the ferocity of a starving bird wrestling with the last worm on earth. The camera panned back and this scene became a movie scene being viewed by an assorted group of men and women.
I waited eyes front. Nobody sat next to me. My arms were getting stiff. A good move on his part. If this was a joke, I was going to be very pissed. I presumed he was somewhere nearby watching me. How long he was going to wait was up to him. I decided to sit through the flick and leave if no one showed.
As in most of these movies, the plot seemed to move toward the creation of some giant flesh engine composed mostly of pumping piston rods and varied intake valves. Its operation seemed to produce little else than a shuddering in place and a groaning exhaust. Simple but effective.
All the Old Bargains Page 6