Topless

by D Keith Mano

  and it slipped from my hand. Fell on the floor and broke into

  six pieces.” He laughed. I laughed. He has charmed this diocese into bewildered submission for twenty-two years. “ That’s how old my sermons are.”

  He got up and walked to the French doors that overlook the

  cathedral and the Scissorhands circus out there. I was befuddled. Concelebrate—with Saturday night’s topless receipts under my vestments. I ’ll knock the chalice over, sure as anything.

  And they’ll all know I ’m a sinner.

  “ What’s Nebraska like?” he asked.

  “ It’s like a long, enforced meditation,” I said. He laughed.

  “ You’re a bright kid,” Plunk said. “ Mac knew what he was

  doing. Must be culture shock t’come back here. Why not talk

  about that? And the drought, we hear about the drought a lot.

  Whatever you want, naturally. But the Nebraska, New York thing

  might be interesting.”

  Oh, yes. I ’d been thinking about that. Uh-huh. Just what I

  need now—to write a sermon. Keep the old rhetorical sinews in

  shape.

  “ It’s a date then?” I nodded. “ I ’ll drop Bishop Watts a note

  t’say you’re not chain snatching or smoking crack back here.”

  He shook my hand. “ Just stop by that big office down the hall—

  give Gus Manning your phone and address so he can put it in

  the sacred computer.”

  And I thanked him. And—in a total daze (I’d gotten away

  with it!)—in a total daze I walked down the hall. In a total daze

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  I came to the office door. REV. AUGUSTUS MANNING, the

  sign said.

  And in a total daze I saw that Augustus Manning was—is—

  The Man in the Floppy Hat.

  He didn’t see me. He was in profile, bent over a computer

  keyboard. I backed out like a disembodied spirit—pure ectoplasm. And ran until I got halfway across the cathedral grounds.

  From Jamaica I called in my (Ethel’s) phone number and address—using a fake midwestem accent. Manning didn’t seem to make any connection. I ’m safe for now. But, if he sees me, if

  he goes to St. Lebbeus’s on the 24th, say . . . I ’m dead meat.

  Or maybe not. My mind is whirling. It cuts both ways after

  all. Manning can’t want the Bishop to know he’s a topless bar

  devotee. I ’ve got him, he’s got me. But, most of all, I remember

  what Jako told me—how Manning dropped that shot of vodka

  on Lazarus’s open wound. Good God, what kind of man is this?

  I may be a pander and a satyr, but I don’t torture cats. This is a

  sick man.

  Sick . . . Judge not that ye be not judged.

  My time is running out. Mike Wilson is a common name,

  but Manning or someone will make the connection before long.

  This is my last chance. I could quit tomorrow, and yet I ’m—

  That was Bert. He lost his set of keys. Gnnnnnnnnng . . .

  Gotta get back to my new vocation.

  6 a.m.

  My God.

  Colavecchia and Daniels came in tonight. While I was playing chess with Joe. And I thought, Uh-oh, this is it, they’ve found Tony. My brother is dead. Their attitude toward me had

  changed, I was no longer just a useful civilian—I was something

  else.

  But it had nothing to do with Tony or Rita.

  They think Bubbles was MURDERED. She didn’t die of a

  narcotic overdose. They found strychnine in her system.

  W ho, who would com m it such a heinous crim e? My God,

  can it be? One of those damn Brazilian girls . . . OK, truth

  is, Bubbles was a bit pushy-cute. She could get on your

  nerves . . . but enough for murder? And hideous m urder,

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  too. That last excruciating convulsion, where she bit my

  mouth, that was brought on by the poison.

  Remember when Bubbles threw beer in Linese’s face?

  The cops grilled me about Pearl’s party. You might’ve thought

  we’d never met before. Who had access to the women’s locker

  room? Well, of course, everyone had access. The place was

  bedlam that night. Anybody could’ve slipped in. So we settled

  for cataloguing women—dancers and bar girls. (And I could

  only remember 9 of the onstage women—gotta check my records and call tomorrow.) But then I asked—smart ass me—who says the poison was given to Bubbles in The Car? Someone in

  Brooklyn, where she lived, might’ve had access to her bag. And

  Daniels said,

  “ You had access to her bag.’’

  “ Me?” —I ’m a suspect. I suppose it’s just a formality, but

  now I ’m a murder suspect. Great. “ I guess,” I said.

  “ You guess? That’s what you told narcotics.”

  “ I had access to her bag—as much as anyone.”

  “ More than some.” I got peevish then.

  “ Should I use my one phone call and retain a lawyei?”

  “ Mike,” said Joe. “ They’re doing their job. They watch old

  Dragnet re-runs, they can’t help themselves. No one thinks you

  killed her—if she was killed. It could be an accident, it could

  be suicide—”

  “ You know I was super-fond of Bubbles. Everyone was—she

  was like our mascot here.”

  “ But, in fact,” said Daniels, “ in fact you were having a

  sexual relationship with her.”

  “ In fact, I wasn’t. I ’ve run into this rumor over and over.

  And I guess nothing I say will correct it. I never went t’bed with

  her. I never even made-out with her, ’ ’

  “ Bubbles,” said Joe, “ had a terrific crush on Mike. We all

  knew it. She wanted people t’think Mike and her were getting

  it on. Listen, for that matter, I had access to her stuff. Bubbles

  left her bag around everywhere.”

  “ Stop acting like Mike’s lawyer, Joe,” said Colavecchia. “ He

  can answer for himself.”

  “ Fuckyou, Cola.”

  “ Fuck you, Joe.”

  Which interchange, thank Joe, gave me time to regroup. Daniels then said, “ Can you think of anyone who might’ve had a motive?”

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  “ No. No one.”

  “ You mean this topless dancer was perfect? Nobody had a

  hard-on for her?”

  “ No one that I know of. Maybe her good spirits were a little

  forced, a little irritating. But you ask Jako, our custodian, he’s

  been crying ever since Monday. ’ ’

  ‘ ‘Did you know she was pregnant? ’ ’

  “ Yes.”

  “ W ho’s the father?”

  “ She gave me the impression it was done—so t ’speak—by

  committee. ’ ’

  “ Gave you the impression—”

  “ All right. She told me there were several candidates. She

  didn’t give nam es.”

  “ You weren’t one of them ?”

  “ Joe,” I said, “ aren’t they supposed t ’read me my rights or

  something? I mean, would you tell them I ’ve only been in New

  York three weeks. When Bubbles conceived I was 2,000 miles

  away in Nebraska.”

  “ We’re just jealous,” Colavecchia said. “ We’d like your job.

  Daniels is the only cunt I get t ’woik with. But you can be sure

  we’ll stop by t ’question you a whole lo t.”

  “ W ell,” I said, “ a
t least one good thing. At least you know

  Tony didn’t do it.”

  “ Do we?” said Daniels. “ Do we really? That’s interesting.”

  I showed them around after that. Men’s room, women’s room,

  kitchen, etc. It was a slow night and the presence of two homicide men did not lend it a finer aspect. Word soon got out—

  policial— and one of my Brazilian girls, Aleesha, panicked. (She

  thought they were from Immigration.) Aleesha simply walked

  out onto Northern Boulevard in her bra and G-string. I found

  her hiding around the comer, where the side entrance to Big

  M arty’s, the dead dry cleaning place, is, surrounded by ten-

  year-old boys who were quite impressed by her proportions.

  Aleesha wouldn’t come in. Finally I went back to pick up her

  clothing and duffle bag. I felt sorry for her—it isn’t Aleesha’s

  fault she was bom in that giant modi closet, Brazil.

  Well, Bubbles has gotten my attention at last—that muscular

  waif, that sexy clown. There was a dangerous energy around

  her—and she was a lightning rod for it. “ I ’m accident prone,”

  she once told me, ‘ ‘but never prone by accident. ’ ’ Bright and

  lost. She said a lot of amusing things that took me by surprise.

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  I shoulda treated her better. But that’s me—even when I ’m being

  “ moral,” I hurt people.

  I can’t get Manning out of my mind—that image of him pouring vodka on Lazarus. Of course, I can’t even remember if Manning was around on Pearl’s birthday. But my suspicion is

  nothing more than my fear projected. I ’m afraid of Manning—

  and I want him (a priest) to be more corrupt than I am. The

  more corrupt he is, the smaller the threat he is to my cover.

  But, after all, why should it surprise anyone—I mean, that

  there is a murderer amongst us? The Car exists in a twilight

  land—just on the thinnest edge of human civility. A border

  crossing. People come and go from here to their depravity. And

  in the crossing and recrossing Bubbles got snuffed out.

  Maybe they’re right—maybe I did do it. I dream terrible

  things.

  I ’m going to hide this journal from now on.

  Bert sat on a barstool and broke it. But he is the only one

  among us presumed innocent.

  Lord God, I am steeped in my sinfiilness. I can’t remember

  when last my heart was comfortable. I have no assurance in me

  now.

  Lord God, I ’m afraid to consider You—because now You are

  the God of judgment to me, not the God of grace and forgiveness. I ’m in a dusky place and unrepentant. I ’m stepping over.

  Protect me. Teach me.

  Yes.

  My prayers are too glib, I know it.

  FRIDAY, JULY 15

  Afternoon

  Eight-line item about Bubbles in the Post: my name—praise

  Him—not mentioned. Pearl, on the other hand, is miffed. The

  article said only, “ an employee’s birthday party.” Ah, the vicissitudes of N.Y. celebrity.

  In fact, Pearl has been, shall we say, unforthcoming with me

  of late. I get quizzical, even hostile glances from her. These I

  attribute to Pearl’s own sense of guilt. I just KNOW she couldn’t

  resist telling the cops that Bubbles was seminude in my apart-

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  ment. Some sense of decency kept her from blowing the whistle

  about my vocation—but, if the right moment arrives, Pearl will

  barter my soul for a paragraph on Page Six. Ethel, of course,

  would squeeze Pearl’s head as though it were a loofah. And that

  may keep her quiet.

  Rita and Bubbles—and Tony. Everyone except Ethel (and me)

  seems to think there is some connection. But how could that be?

  Rita and Tony were intimate—Bubbles hardly knew him. The

  methods of execution have been totally different. The first was

  angry, male, physical—strangulation. It required great strength.

  The second was clever, female, secretive. An ambush, not a

  confrontation.

  Yet Daniels wouldn’t exempt Tony from consideration. What

  are we supposed to think? That Tony murdered Rita, went into

  hiding, then emerged on Monday—to enter The Car, disguised

  maybe as a drunken teamster, and slip strychnine into Bubbles’s

  orange juice?

  Uh-huh.

  Moreover, unless Daniels thinks Tony is a psychopathic serial

  killer, there was no motive. Well, for killing Rita, maybe. Maybe

  Rita had something on Tony. Maybe Rita was going to tell Ethel.

  There are reasons, I suppose. But none of those reasons would

  apply to Bubbles as well. (Unless Bubbles knew something about

  Rita’s murder—No, Mike. Your wheels are spinning. That

  doesn’t make sense. Start again.)

  What do these murders—and Tony’s disappearance—have in

  common? They hurt The Car. Girls won’t dance for us if they’re

  afraid of being poisoned. Tony made The Car numero uno on

  Northern Boulevard. So who profits? Linese and his shareholders profit if Tony is out of the picture.

  And Bubbles, Connie tells me, used to dance for Linese at

  Rabies.

  Furthermore (this I also learned from Connie), Linese has a

  piece of Spotlight—which is the first or second largest topless-

  dancer agency in New York. It operates out of one seedy office—

  couch and telephone—on 22nd Street near Sixth Avenue. But,

  Connie says, appearances deceive. Like everything else in this

  business.

  Figure each girl gets an average nut of $70 per night (not

  counting tips). Ten percent ($7) of that nut goes to Spotlight.

  Doesn’t sound like much. But figure. Spotlight provides dancers

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  for 80 bars (out of 300 or so)—in New York, Westchester, especially Jersey. (In Jersey girls make a bigger nut, AND they dance with their tops on—you figure it.) So . . . do the math.

  $7 per girl, times 50 girls a week, times 80 bars, times 52 weeks

  a year—calculator. About $1,456,000. Not counting stag parties

  and strip-a-grams. Good money. All of which is well deserved

  by anyone who deals with topless screwballs 365 days a year.

  We, however, are the equivalent of a non-union house. Our

  women are scabs, so to say—and good-looking ones at that. If

  Linese were to take over The Car—well, not only would he get

  rid of competition on the boulevard, but Spotlight would take

  our bookings. Which are worth about $20,000 a year in commissions. And salaries would be driven down from Queens Plaza to Flushing.

  It makes sense.

  But so, I have to admit, does the drug angle. I remember,

  that night when Chinga and Changa went berserk, how Leonard

  grabbed Roxanne brutally by the pubic hair. He has rage enough

  to strangle a woman. And now it comes to me what Nancy

  Cortez meant: Rita had a sexual relationship with Leonard, but

  “ that was another kind of thing.” Maybe a sexual relationship

  based on drug dependency. It makes sense. So Leonard is supplying drugs to Rita and Bubbles, and maybe they fall behind in their dues and so Leonard . . .

  But what about Tony? Was he involved in the cocaine traffic,

  too? Jesus, Mike, don’t go b
lind, deaf and dumb on me—what’s

  the answer? Could Leonard turn The Car into a junkie’s Quik-Stop

  without Tbny’s knowledge? Be serious, /knew Leonard was dealing after two weeks. But maybe Leonard didn’t start dealing until Ibny disappeared. Is that why my brother was made to vanish?

  No matter what the circumstances, no matter who the killer—

  Leonard, Linese, the Gaucho, Freddy, Joe Solomon, Lars-Erik,

  some TV set hijacker, ME—my brother and benefactor, my

  surrogate father, Tony is dead. I can’t keep lying to myself. And

  I realize—no matter how cool or callous he may have made

  himself—at the moment of extinction Tony must’ve been terrified. Did he die angry, bitter, full of ripened evil, unrepentant?

  Yes—most likely he did. I know now that my brother had enemies. That people, in turn, were frightened of him. That something illegal was probably going on. And that my brother, my big brother, was a desperate man.

  God damn.

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  * * *

  There’s another motive, one I avoid thinking about, though

  it’s ubiquitous here: the sex thing, I mean. Leonard was having

  some kind of affair with Rita. And then Tony seduced her.

  (Maybe she seduced him.) Sex makes men ugly. I see it in Daniels’s eye—he envies me my position at The Car. He has made it hard on me because of that. The truth is: sex can never be

  underestimated. I heard one girl say to another this afternoon,

  “ Well, I ’m only attracted to him physically. ” Only? Only? Only

  the primal chemistry driving an entire genus of apes along.

  Like Norm Hohol said night before last. (Norm is a strange,

  decadent little man.) There was this foxy chick on stage: not

  curvaceous, not big-breasted, but deer-like, awkward and shy

  in a purposeful way, like she could be a prep school cheerleader.

  Janice. Actually I think she’s 24. But Janice wears loafers and a

  plaid skirt with a big safety pin. Very effective. In fact, the

  sexiest outfits are those which most nearly approximate normal

  underclothing. Feathers and G-strings with little neon lights in

  them (there are such things) may be cute, but they say, This Is

  An Act. I ’m Wearing A Costume. With Janice you feel like a

  15-year-old peeping Tom.

  So Norm is sitting next to me at the bar when, all at once, he

  breaks into a lyrical reverie. “ Lookit those breasts,” he says.