by K. K. Beck
1. Be on time for your dance. You will be docked if you are late.
2.
3. Treat staff with respect.
4.
5. No overnight visitors.
6.
7. Door to the bar to be kept locked at all times.
8.
Jane wondered if the Tip Top was in violation of Canadian laws on bilingualism, seeing as the rules didn't appear in French as well.
Brenda opened the door. She was now wearing faded denim cut-offs, a T-shirt and sneakers. She looked completely devoid of any glamour and pleased to see Jane.
“Hi. I'm Jane da Silva.”
“I'm Brenda. Stephanie Chantal is just a stage name. We have to have 'em in this business. Come in.”
She slapped one hip and gestured expansively with the other hand. “Sorry about the surroundings. I guess they figure we have to suffer for our art,” she said with bravado. She was small and young-looking. Jane had a maternal impulse to help her pack everything up in her suitcase and yank her right out of here.
The old hotel room was worse than anything Jane had ever seen outside of a documentary about slum life. There was a chewed-up carpet, a narrow iron bed, un made, with rumpled white sheets and an army blanket, a dingy, spongy tomato red sofa that looked as if animals had gnawed off all the corners, and a Formica coffee table of fake blond wood with cigarette burns all over the surface.
The wallpaper was the same filthy yellow stuff as in the hall, but in here it was used as a scratch pad. There were a few phone numbers written on it, and some arithmetic. The floor was covered with thin coconut matting, and there was an old radiator, presumably an original fixture, painted in metallic silver. A mirror, the kind usually attached to the inside of a closet, with one corner broken off, was leaning against a wall. Through an open door she saw a dismal bathroom with a big claw-footed tub. There were some wet towels on the floor.
On the opposite wall hung a very bad sepia-colored tourist painting of Venice. An old sash window was partly open, but the place still smelled of must, Canadian cigarettes and Lysol. An old cracked manila window shade hung at half mast. Outside, there was a view of a brick wall, framed by a fire escape.
“Not real glamorous,” said Jane. “I kind of expected a dressing room with big mirrors surrounded by lights, like in the movies.”
“Ha!” said Brenda. “It's a very sleazy business. But I can make fourteen hundred a week, eh.” She was trying to sound tough and brave, but she had the same genteel accent and well-enunciated, ladylike tones Jane had come to associate with Canadian women. “Still, I'm dancing, right? I'm really interested in your article. Is it about strippers?”
“Erotic choreography,” said Jane. “I could tell you were a real dancer. Do you like the work?”
Brenda eagerly indicated the hideous sofa and sat herself down on the bed. She produced a red pack of Craven A's and lit the stubby little Canadian cigarette with a disposable lighter. “Like I said. It's fourteen hundred a week, and you just do three or four fifteen-minute sets a shift. I don't want to do it forever. I'm saving to go to Toronto and study there. And I get to dance. I'm trained for that.”
She took on a look of pinched dignity. “It's not like in the States. They pay us every week in cash. Of course, they tell Revenue Canada how much they pay us, which is a real pain, but we get decent money.
“I'd never do this in the States. There, they tuck money in your G-string and you have to do gross stuff—table dancing and sticking out your tongue and stuff.” She wrinkled up her nose. “That's why the American girls with some class put up with dodging Immigration to work here. A lot of them down there are hookers. Which is ironic, isn't it, seeing as they make them keep their underwear and that on?”
Brenda seemed eager to explain. “These guys aren't allowed to touch us. They make a move across those blinking lights and they get chucked right out. All they can do is blow on you. I hate that. They blow on you, all beery and that, but they can't touch you.”
“Is there anything you can't do onstage?” said Jane.
Brenda laughed. “A few things. We can't insert anything. And we can't get too graphic in the duos—you know, two girls. We can't both be nude at the same time.”
“Who are these guys? Do you ever go out with them?”
Brenda snorted. “Are you kidding? They're total jerks. Take a look at them. They're pretty stupid too. They ask you if you get turned on when you're out there. I'm so sure! We're basically thinking about our shopping list or something, eh.” She cocked an eyebrow.
“You're a very good dancer,” said Jane.
“Thank you,” said Brenda rather primly. “A lot of them do appreciate someone who can actually dance.”
Brenda leaned forward. “But I'm good at it. I really am. And I'm growing as an artist. I try out a lot of stuff on these jerks—not that they'd appreciate it. I mean, the fact is, what they really mostly want is to look at my cunt. But there really is a lot to be learned out there.”
“I'm not from Dance Magazine,” said Jane. “I'm sorry. But I had to find a way to talk to you.”
Brenda stiffened and started to say something, but Jane rolled right over her. “I had to come and warn you. Someone's killed Jennifer, your old roommate in Seattle. And he's probably after you.”
“Oh my God,”' said Brenda. She let her cigarette fall to the floor and put one hand against her cheek. She looked like a little child.
Jane picked up the cigarette and handed it back to her.
“I know you used her insurance. And when you did, you went to the Cox Pharmacy. You saw something, Brenda.”
“No I didn't. I didn't see anything.”
“You were reading a magazine, and a guy came in with a gun.”
“That's right. And the lady took out another gun and fired. I think she fired in the air. The guy ran out and I ran out after him. You Americans are crazy, always shooting guns. I was scared.”
“And you were scared that if you stuck around they'd find out about the insurance.”
“Well naturally. If there was an inquiry or something. But tell me about Jennifer. What happened?”
“She was strangled. Someone came into her apartment, your old apartment in the University District, and strangled her.”
“Oh my God,” said Brenda again. She crushed out her smoke in a glass ashtray and then held her stomach and bent over. After a moment she said, “I'm not sorry about the insurance, okay. I mean Jennifer never used it, and I needed it. It's terrible in the States if you haven't got insurance. I'm a diabetic, eh, and I had to cut down my insulin to make it last longer. I went into shock. I was in hospital, and Jennifer said I could use her name and Social Security number.”
“Did he drop the gun?” said Jane. She reached out a hand and touched Brenda's shoulder.
“Yes. Nobody got hurt, so I figured it didn't matter. Just a bunch of crazy Americans pulling guns on each other. But the whole thing shook me up so much I just came home.”
“I think,” said Jane, “that the lady's husband came in from the back room and shot her with the gun the kid dropped. And now he thinks you might have seen something.”
“But I didn't. I just saw the guy, a skinny kid he was, drop the damn gun and run out. And I dropped the magazine and ran away.”
Brenda began to cry. “Jennifer wasn't a bad person. She didn't even want to do the switch. She just felt sorry for me when I was in hospital. Of course, she thought anything could be cured with thoughts and that, but she still felt sorry for me. We weren't really that close or anything, but I feel so bad.
“Jennifer was kind of lonely. She thought I was a better friend than I was. I guess I used her.”
She looked back up and talked through her tears. “We had a fight about it. I came back and told her what I saw and she said we had to stop lying. But no one got hurt. I explained that to her, and she was so religious and all. She said we had to admit I wasn't her. It wasn't just the insulin and the hospital bill. I h
ad surgery on my foot too. It was a lot of money. I just took off. She got upset, but what could I do? I just wanted to get back home where you're allowed to get sick.”
She sniffed. “I could use a drink.”
“Want me to go down and get something at the bar?” said Jane.
Brenda went over to a beat-up dresser and picked up some keys with a big antique brass hotel tag on them. “There's a bottle of tequila behind the bar. It's my bottle. Bring it up, okay? The little key's for the door at the bottom of the stairs. Gosh, I don't know what to do.”
Jane wanted to help her decide what to do. And if the tequila helped, fine.
“You won't take off or anything, will you?” Jane said.
“No, I've got another dance in an hour,” Brenda answered. Then she said, “Damn, I can't believe this. I didn't see anything.”
“In this case,” said Jane, “what you didn't see can clear an innocent man—and maybe convict a guilty one.”
Chapter 35
Jane went down the stairs. They squeaked. She locked the door to the bar after her. She noticed Melanie and another young woman sitting by themselves in a corner, underneath a booth where the disc jockey held forth. The two girls were drinking and giggling. Melanie had her hair tied up in a ponytail and wore a sweatshirt. All the glamour in this business was reserved for the tiny area surrounded by blinking lights.
She looked over at the table where she'd been sitting. Johnson wasn't there. She'd thought of going over and giving him a progress report, but she was glad she didn't have to. Brenda was at a vulnerable point right now. Jane thought she could convince her to come away with her to Seattle and tell her story.
Jane was even willing to try and keep Johnson out of it. If the consequences of Brenda's insurance scam would keep her from coming back to the States to testify, she'd have to find a way to call off Johnson. If she couldn't, she realized she'd have to find a way to get Brenda there without him knowing.
She leaned across the bar. “Stephanie's tequila, please,” she said. “And a couple of glasses.”
The bartender handed it all over. “She better not overdo it,” he said snidely. “She's got another dance coming up.”
Walking back up the stairs, she realized ditching Johnson now would require finesse and nerves of steel. He'd helped her a lot. In fact, he was financing her, now that she was separated from her purse and belongings, which were still, presumably, in Cox's camper.
She bit her lip. It wasn't going to be easy. But she couldn't give up now. She'd work out some kind of deal with Johnson. There had to be a way to do it. It seemed pretty cheesy to nail someone who went into the hospital because she was trying to save money on a drug she needed to stay alive. American medicine, Jane decided, was barbaric. It had made people lie, and because of it, Cox got away with murder. Almost.
She knocked on Brenda's door. There wasn't any answer. Damn, she thought. Maybe she'd bolted. Jane pushed open the door.
Brenda was lying on the bed. On top of her, one leg across her knees to stop her from kicking, was a man, with his hands wrapped around her throat. Brenda was limp, and her face was beet red.
“No!” shouted Jane. She rushed at him, and he turned to look at her. It was George Cox. He let go of Brenda.
Jane dropped the glasses and held the tequila bottle with two hands over her head.
He jumped off the bed and stood looking at her for a second, then, with a quick movement into the pocket of his windbreaker, he produced the knife.
He stood there in a half crouch with the knife in his hand, a burly old man standing there like a teenage street fighter. But he didn't come any closer.
She knew he had her. The tequila bottle wasn't any match for the knife. Even if she managed to bring it down on his head, she was sure she wouldn't be able to knock him out like in the movies.
“Keep quiet,” he said. “Or I'll cut you up like I cut up your tires.”
She should have screamed by now. But would anyone hear her? From downstairs the rock music bounced. They wouldn't hear a thing down there. And the walls in these old buildings were so thick.
“You thought I drowned, didn't you?” she said, taking a step backward. It was the wrong move. He stepped forward.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a movement on the bed. Brenda had raised one knee. She was alive. Jane didn't dare take her eyes off Cox, though.
Then Brenda sputtered and coughed.
He turned to look at her and Jane rushed forward with the bottle. She wasn't tall enough to hit him on the top of the head. She brought it down with all her force right above his ear.
He let out a yowl and staggered away a little.
Brenda started to scream as loud as she could. She was a terrific screamer. He jumped back on top of her with the knife in his hand and slammed his elbow into her chest, as if to brace himself. Then he laid the blade against her throat.
She wriggled and got her teeth around his hand and bit so hard she drew blood.
“Hang on, Brenda,” Jane said. “Keep biting.”
Jane prepared to lay into him with the bottle, but the knife was still too close to Brenda's throat. She dropped the bottle and picked up one of Brenda's turquoise spike-heeled shoes in her left hand. She wanted her right hand free.
She used it to grab the collar of his jacket and climbed up on his back, getting the leverage she needed to bring the spiked heel down hard on his hand. Now there were three of them, bundled up on the bed together, Brenda at the very bottom. He screamed a little and his fingers loosened.
She worked on the gash on his forehead with the spike while she peeled off his fingers from the knife. Brenda was still biting.
“I got it, I got it,” she said between breaths. All three of them were huffing and puffing with exertion. She kept the shoe in one hand and she had the knife firmly in her other one. She knew she could do it. She could cut him with that knife. She had to find the right spot. It had to hurt him. If she sliced his arm it wouldn't work. And it had to be fast.
She sliced at his neck, trying to find the soft spot at the base of his throat. She saw a line of blood appear in the blade's wake on his sunburned, crepey neck with its sheen of white stubble.
With a huge roar he pulled himself away from Brenda and threw Jane off him. Clutching his throat, he staggered away.
Brenda started screaming again.
“Keep screaming,” shouted Jane. It was a horrible, raspy scream. He'd probably damaged her throat throttling her.
He lurched toward the window and fell over the ledge onto the fire escape.
Jane gave him a final push, then slashed at his hands with the knife.
She heard him half falling, half climbing down the metal rungs. It reminded her of her own descent down the wall of the Devil's Bath.
“We've got to get help,” she said to Brenda, who had now swung her legs off the bed. Her face was less red. Now it was pink. She was rubbing her throat and spitting.
“I got his damn blood in my mouth,” she said. “Jesus. I'm coming with you. I can't stay here alone.”
They clattered down the stairs, Brenda leaning on her and sobbing gently. Halfway down, they met the bar-tender with the black ponytail. He looked stern. “What's all the screaming? What the hell are you guys doing? Is this some kind of a cat fight or what?” he said.
“She's been attacked,” said Jane. “The guy got away, out the fire escape.”
She handed Brenda over to him and ran through the bar. Johnson was still gone. “Call the police,” she shouted to the waitress. “Someone tried to kill Brenda—Stephanie. He went down the fire escape.”
The waitress dropped her tray and Jane kept going, outside the door, into the sunshine, around the building and into an alley.
She hoped to find him collapsed at the bottom of the steps. She'd jump up and down on him until the police came. Too bad she wasn't wearing five-inch spikes, but she still had, she realized, one shoe and the knife in her hands.
What she s
aw there made her hysterical with happiness.
Steven Johnson had Cox slammed up toward his camper. He was kicking his feet back, and he had him in some kind of hold.
He wasn't struggling at all, but Johnson had him clamped down hard, his face, chin up, smashed against the camper.
“The Mounties are on their way,” said Jane. She heard sirens in the distance.
“That amateur act was so pathetic, I decided to take a look around here for Cox's vehicle. It was right here in the alley. I was about to slice up his tires for him, when he fell down here at my feet.”
“I'm bleeding,” whimpered Cox.
Johnson smiled at Jane and gave Cox's arm an extra little wrench. “Did you do all that damage?” said Johnson. He looked down at her hands. “With a fish knife and a hooker pump? Nice work.”