Topless

by D Keith Mano

  state that rendered her almost incoherent. But Costanza’s bitterness toward me lost nothing in translation. I had meant to attend Tanya’s funeral on Friday. But I dropped that idea after hearing

  Costanza’s recorded message. She wanted a dramatic mano-a-

  mano. I wouldn’t oblige her.

  Just after ten a.m ., to my bewilderment, Ethel called. She

  was all action. Weintraub had put pressure on the police department—as of noon The Car could recommence its normal commerce in nudity. Pearl was there. A carpet guy was there,

  and Ethel had hired a Pinkerton man for the front door. When

  would Mr. Mike arrive?

  “ Ethel. I mean . . . Tanya isn’t even buried yet.”

  “ I know,” she said. “ I know how you feel. But you’ve gotta

  overcome that. She died at «The Car—but it isn’t as if you or I

  killed her. Right? Leonard or the Gaucho must’ve ordered it.

  Maybe that dicksucker, Linese, I don’t discount him. They

  wanna bankrupt us. They want us not t’reopen. You’re letting

  them win, Mike. You’re letting the murderers w in.”

  “ Ethel. There are people with TV cameras outside my apartment. Someone from the diocese is gonna recognize m e.”

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  Ethel was silent for a moment. Then, with her terrific resilience (when it came to other people’s setbacks), she said, “ Don’t you think it’s already too late?’’

  “ Ethel,” I said. Then it was my turn to be silent.

  “ I ’m sorry,” she said, “ I ’ve fucked your life up, haven’t I?”

  “ Royally. Completely.” There was anger in my voice: I left

  it there.

  “ I ’ll make it up t’you. Somehow, someday, I ’ll make it up

  to you, Mike. Right now we’re in a war we didn’t choose, and

  we’re losing. Tony wouldn’t’ve given up. He would’ve fought.”

  “ We can’t start at noon. I have no dancers. I ’m not even sure

  I can get anyone. After all, two women have already died on

  that stage.”

  “ People need money, Mike. Double the nut you’re paying.”

  “ Five o’clock. We can’t start at noon. I ’ll put together a five-

  to-twelve shift.”

  “ You’re the boss,” Ethel said.

  I went up to the roof and, like Spider Man, I jumped across

  a narrow but (yaaagh!) five-story-tall airshaft and out through

  an apartment building on the block behind mine. By cab to The

  Car—-where I began phoning dancers: who were, on the whole,

  not afraid. Rather, the TV cameras outside on Northern Boulevard made them leery. (Most dancers hide their source of income from Mom and Dad or the grandmother who brought them up.) Also, they thought The Car would be like a stag party at

  Frank E. Campbell’s—not well attended. I doubled the nut and

  offered my services as an escort. One girl actually said, “ With

  you? No thanks, the subway is safer.”

  Finally I got the Silicone Sisters, who would’ve danced topless at the Jonestown massacre and who had hated Tanya anyway. I got Chinga. I got Glenda (on promise of reinstatement).

  And, of course, I got Berry. I wish, in retrospect, that I hadn’t.

  But I did.

  The pessimists were wrong (and Ethel, with her entrepreneur’s sense, was spot on). At 5 p.m., the front door caved in.

  Men (and women) ploughed through, trampling Bert. Ethel’s

  Pinkerton guy, hired to give the impression of safety, became

  like the doorman at Limelight. At one point he was actually

  accepting $5 and $10 bills to let customers in. But there was no

  room: I had to keep Pearl until 2 a.m. working with Connie.

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  Men were lined three and four deep against the wall. Drinks got

  passed from hand to hand—the barmaids couldn’t move.

  I had done what Ethel wanted. Sales were up. We had just

  pulled in a miraculous draught of suckers. All it had taken was

  two murders. And my vocation.

  Around 11 p.m ., as I was humping beer cases from the basement with Jako (we actually ran out of beer), Bert yelled at me,

  “ There’s a girl here wantsta audition.”

  “ It’s too crowded,” I said. “ Tell her tomorrow afternoon.”

  He left, I went back down, came up, and Bert said,

  “ She insists.”

  “ Insist back.”

  “ Says she’s come all the way from Nebraska.”

  It was Kay.

  She looked good—good. Kay was wearing jeans and a blouse.

  Her blond hair had been drawn back under a baseball cap (she

  felt uncomfortable as a female there). Unfortunately Kay also

  had a silk warm-up jacket on. It said UNIVERSITY OF NE­

  BRASKA across the back.

  “ You look great,” I said. I plunged my wrists into the ice

  sink behind the bar. I thought I was going to pass out.

  “ You look aw ful,” she said. “ I hate the mustache.”

  “ It’s my disguise,” I said.

  “ W here’s the linguini and the veal piccata? Don’t you think

  I deserve an explanation?”

  “ You deserve more than that,” I said. Kay turned away, toward the stage. Her eyes had begun to glisten.

  “ They aren’t even pretty,” she said. “ I thought they’d be

  prettier than that. ”

  ‘‘They’re just human. ’’

  “ Oh, and you’re doing missionary work with the hum ans.”

  “ Nothing so noble as that,” I said.

  But I couldn’t hear my own voice. The pulse in my throat was

  too loud. Talk about women’s intuition (helped along by the

  NEBRASKA jacket). At just that instant Berry and Kay locked

  glances. Berry, on stage, wasn’t dancing. Her hands were on

  her hips—all provocation. And Kay had caught on. She, too,

  put hands on hips. Then, suddenly, Berry cupped her bare breasts

  in her hands, lifted them and—to challenge, to trump Kay, so

  to speak—ran her tongue over both nipples. Then Berry danced

  away.

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  Kay pushed through the crowd, out of The Car and, I thought,

  out of my life as well. When I reached the sidewalk she was

  gone.

  Berry began to drink—she didn’t like liquor, but it gave her

  sure access to her emotions. She sat with a good-looking off-

  duty cop, and hung her tits over his arm to irritate me. Then she

  sat with, of all people, Manning and ran a forefinger up his

  thigh. Manning was so discomfited he almost blew vodka

  through his nose. Berry was looking terrific: high emotion or

  spite can do that to a woman. And it didn’t hurt that she was

  scarfing up more than $100 an hour.

  Berry passed me on the way up for her 1 a.m. gig. I touched

  her shoulder, reaching through a three-man conversation to do

  so. And she said,

  “ Fuck off.”

  “ Berry—”

  “ Fuck off.” The three men were silent. Nothing is more

  engrossing than someone else’s intimate hassle.

  “ Listen—”

  “ You brought your grain-fed porker in here t’inspect me,

  dintcha? With her oh so superior attitude. How’s she make a

  living—counting 3 x 5 cards in a little box?”

  “ I didn’t even know she was in New York—and you better

  cut down on the booze.”

  “ I ’m drinking to your
health. That it should end. Skoal.”

  Berry pushed through the trio of men, giving each an incidental

  free feel. Then she poked my vest pocket. “ You better not be

  thinking of ditching me, that’s all. I don’t ditch. Hey, how is it

  t’have sex with a corncob up your ass?”

  And, ladies and gentlemen—up she went, all smiles, to dance.

  I was mortified. And worried out of my cruet. The three men

  couldn’t help staring at me. Finally one, a big, fat, chirpy guy,

  said—with great respect—

  “ Excuse me, sir. Are you actually going t’bed with that beautiful creature? No offense meant. I just wanna live my life vicariously through you.”

  “ Peaii—” I called out. “ A round of drinks for these three

  guys. On m e.”

  It was a schizophrenic night. The crowd experienced gigantic

  mood swings. And I—I alternated, from guilt about Tanya and

  Bubbles, to delight at all the money we were raking in. From

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  fear of discovery, to relief. From annoyance with Bert—in that

  mob his turtleshell rendered him absolutely immobile—to manic

  amusement. To astonishment when, passing Pearl behind the

  bar, I felt a gun inside her short waitress jacket. I said,

  “ Have you got a license for that?”

  “ Yes, I d o ,” Pearl said, “ and I ’ll pierce your ears at fifty

  feet, mess with me. I ’m not gonna be the third murder here,

  Mike. Understand?” I understood. Pearl, too, suspected me.

  But, most of all, I pinged from Kay to Berry, and pong, back

  to Kay again. Disloyalties in love are more than just immoral.

  They impair joy. Self-disgust is externalized—and lodges conveniently in the wronged one. Steeped in Berry, I had begun disqualifying Kay. I had a stake in her faults, for they seemed

  to excuse me. Now, having seen Kay again, I was reminded—

  not only of her charm and goodness (and, yes, beauty)—but of

  Lekachman and the slow, inexorable progress of the church year.

  Advent and Easter and Trinity Sunday and Kay.

  I wanted her back, but my rights, I knew, had been suspended. And by then I was scared of Berry.

  FRIDAY, JULY 22

  Ethel rang up to tell me that Kay had just called her. It was

  9 a.m . Kay was staying at the Travelers Motel near LaGuardia.

  (She had asked Ethel if Tony really owned The Smoking Caras though, maybe, I had faked my brother’s disappearance as an excuse to leave Nebraska and follow the skin trade.)

  “ I told Kay you did it all for me and the kids.”

  “ Thanks—”

  “ It didn’t seem t’impress h er.”

  “ Kay has a strong sense of what’s right and what’s wrong.

  After the last month I find that refreshing.”

  “ She loves you a lo t.”

  “ That’s what I ’m afraid of. She likes t ’deny herself pleasure

  because it feels good. ’ ’

  “ D ’you still want her?”

  “ Yes. But—”

  ‘ ‘—you’re having an affair with Berry. ’ ’ Ethel laughed. ‘ ‘Trust

  me—don’t worry about Berry. She’s a topless dancer. Get out

  t’the airport and bring Kay here. If she sees these kids, she’ll

  understand.”

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  * * *

  Kay kept me waiting in the motel lobby for about 45 minutes.

  I was sleepless and miserable. I didn’t look forward to being

  cross-examined. I ’m not a fool: I knew it was time to come

  clean and throw myself on the court’s mercy. I prayed: well,

  some finger exercises of prayer, anyhow. I wasn’t ready to capitulate—but I sent out scouts to test the enemy’s (God’s) strength. He was there, as usual, in force.

  Kay came down all blond and tall. With eye makeup and

  lipstick and heels. I-can-be-as-pretty-as-that-other-one, she was

  saying. Kay even had her contact lenses in—a sore point with

  me: when we first dated, Kay always wore contacts. After our

  engagement she put her glasses on (and I forgot to shave). It was

  the principle of the thing. Now Kay had The Law and The

  Prophets written all over her. She sat in the lobby, where a raised

  voice would be unacceptable, and waited for me to state my

  case.

  “ You ran out on me last night,” I said.

  “ I was scared. I didn’t recognize you.”

  “ How did you know about The Car?”

  ‘ ‘It’s a national story. ‘Mike Wilson, manager o f —I read that

  in an Associated Press piece. It’s a common name, but it fit with

  someone who once mentioned four tits on the telephone.”

  “ Do people know in Lekachman?”

  “ Some may guess.”

  “ I ’m glad you’ve come.”

  “ Why?”

  “ Because, first, I love you. Because, second, you bring certain benchmarks of conduct and resolve that I need—if I ’m gonna get through this catastrophic period. Because, third, I hope you’ll

  forgive me someday for what I ’ve done—and we can start on

  our life again.”

  “ But you’re seeing another woman, aren’t you?”

  “ Yes . . . I have been.”

  “ Past tense?”

  “ Yes.”

  “ Does she know it’s past tense?”

  “ Not yet.”

  “ The tawny one with the long leg muscles and tits smaller

  than mine?”

  “ Bernadette, Berry, her name is. It was a special circumstance, Kay. I ’ve known her since my childhood. She lived next

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  door to Amanda. She knew all about me and I wanted t’keep

  her quiet. ’ ’

  “ Oh. Your affair was an act of statesmanship, I see.”

  “ No, I don’t mean that. I just fell. But only with her—no

  matter what you hear people say. And with her it was like a

  return to second childhood. It was a revenge on my past. It was

  . . . something.”

  “ It was a damn good screw—I ’m certain of that. I don’t think

  your friend leads with her intellect. ’ ’

  “ Actually she’s pretty bright at—”

  “ Oh, shut up, you stupid m an.”

  “ Yes.”

  “ How can you be a priest and run a topless bar, Michael?”

  “ You can’t . ”

  “ So?”

  “ I ’m resigning from the priesthood.”

  “ No—oh, n o .”

  “ On Sunday. Bishop Plunk has asked me t ’concelebrate with

  him and give a sermon. I ’m gonna confess,and step dow n.”

  “ N o.” She started to cry.

  “ Listen, it’s nothing more than a formality. I ’m finished anyhow. I ’ll be lucky if the news doesn’t break before Sunday. It’s a miracle it hasn’t already. I just want t’go out with some dignity.

  Not with my hands on the hood and my legs spread, so t ’speak. ’ ’

  “ It’s terrible. It’s just such a terrible loss.”

  “ Shit, who needs another priest? I went into the church because of my sexual guilt. I ’ll leave the church because of my sexual guilt. I ’m not giving up my faith. And anyhow—don’t

  tell me you wanted t’be a priest’s w ife.”

  “ I wanted t ’be your w ife.”

  “ Well, you still can b e .”

  “ No, I can’t. You’re just getting your track shoes on. You’re

  too fast for me. Mike the priest, him I
could’ve kept up with—

  he might even’ve owed me something. But, out there,” she

  pointed to a plane taking off, “ out there you’ll run me ’til I

  drop. And then go on. You’re a powerful man. And dreadfully,

  dreadfully good-looking. Though the mustache is gross.”

  “ You think too much, Kay. I ’m gonna go easy for a long

  time. Right now I want life in the exact change lane.”

  “ Who killed those women?”

  “ I don’t know. But everyone thinks it was me. Can I take you

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  to Ethel’s? I better reserve a room here tonight—my pad is staked

  out.”

  “ I don’t think I like Ethel. ”

  “ She’s using me, I know. But I allowed myself t’be used.

  Lets us use her now. Come.” She broke into tears. “ What

  now?”

  “ Just show me the New York skyline, then I ’ll go home.”

  “ You’ll see it, but you’ll stay,” I said.

  By noon there was a line outside The Car. We had been

  featured on “ Good Morning America” (Pearl made a guest

  appearance). Tanya’s funeral, moreover, was well-covered by

  all the networks. On ABC, Costanza said, “ I know who did it

  and he’s gonna kill again at The Car.” Guess who? That kind

  of prime-time advertising you can’t buy.

  About half my dancers volunteered for duty. Fear, they may

  still have had, but a topless dancer’s first reflex is toward your

  billfold. And The Car was mobbed. Odalisque, who’s maybe 50

  years old (and a friend of Pearl’s) made $350. At those wages

  death is a decent risk. Moreover, I was getting calls—even out

  of Cleveland— from high school girls who wanted to dance at

  The Car. We were the epiphenomenon of the year.

  But Berry didn’t call. I left messages. I even considered driving to her parents’ home—but I thought better of it. I wanted to explain, cajole, somehow ease my guilt—and I wanted to squirm

  out of the relationship. But Berry, I knew, was strong and—yes,

  Kay—bright. And her love was involved with pride.

  Bert saw to it, as much as he could, that no one got near me:

  reporter, or well-wisher, or hit man (people wanted autographs). That meant being near Bert, constantly whacking my knuckles on his iron shell. But it was also calming: Bert’s myopia was an image for his attitude about life, i.e., Just watch what’s in front of you, otherwise you might trip over it.