Topless

by D Keith Mano

  And I needed a grace period. I pulled out half my mustache

  in fidgets of anxiety. I wanted Kay, but I resented her moral

  superiority. I wanted Berry, but reason told me that no permanent relationship could thrive there. I was apprehensive about Sunday—Plunk would not be pleased. Most of all, I was pissed

  at God. My resignation (inevitable as it might be) was part spite.

  If I can’t have what I want (the life of a promiscuous male), then

  (capital Y) You (God) can’t have me either. Amen.

  And—I know it was partly self-dramatization—I began to take

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  blame for the murders. Suppose some avatar of myself, some

  extemalization of my lust and anger, was stalking The Car. Such

  things are not unheard of. A priest in a topless bar—those are

  deadly extremes of the spirit. Even if I hadn’t literally put my

  fingers around Tanya’s neck, perhaps I had set a demonic notion

  free on Northern Boulevard.

  I was trapped in The Car from noon to four a.m. (We got a

  summons for blocking sidewalk traffic.) Jane Healy of National

  Enquirer sent a note asking me out for lunch. I declined. I

  wondered how much money Tanya would’ve made working the

  crowd: it was, after all, another tribute to her drawing power.

  We couldn’t chill beer fast enough. Lazarus, in disgust, absconded for two days. He was sick of getting stepped on.

  Willow didn’t help (yes, I had invited her back). During her

  9 p.m. set, Willow began to stagger, then wobble, then gag.

  Then she collapsed. There was absolute silence—silence heard

  over the music. The two other dancers panicked. I fought my

  way forward and—“ Hi, there’’—up popped Willow, big joke.

  I yelled at her. And, during her ten p.m. set, Willow staggered backward, hand to heart, as if she’d been shot. When she took the hand away, red liquid—from a theatrical blood bag—

  ran down into her navel.

  At about midnight (TT) Joe Solomon led me aside. I had just

  spoken with Ethel—Kay and she had gone to see Cats. Kay was

  jet-lagged and would spend time with me tomorrow morning. I

  was optimistic. Ethel seemed upbeat. So what Joe said took me

  off guard. He said:

  “ Let’s go outside t’the backyard. In case there’s a trial we

  shouldn’t be seen together.’’

  “ In case there’s a trial?” I said, outside, sitting on an old

  soda cooler.

  “ I ’m your entire defense,” he said. “ We don’t want the jury

  thinking there’s collusion between us. So I ’m gonna come less

  often t’The Car. I wanted you t ’know—I ’m not avoiding you.

  I ’m doing it for your sake. ”

  “ Thanks. Everyone thinks I did it. Pearl thinks I did it.”

  I know he wanted to say “ Did you?” But Joe held back.

  Instead he said, “ I know you’re a priest.”

  “ Pearl told you?”

  “ Not really. I ’ve been around a while. Tony mentioned his

  brother the seminarian. ’ ’

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  “ So. I ’m a priest. Does that .raise your opinion of me? Or

  lower it?”

  “ Well. It makes me think that you’ve been under terrific pressure—”

  “ I ’m not celibate. Episcopal priests aren’t Catholic priests.”

  “ Sure. But there’s still a certain amount of repression.”

  “ Joe. Joe. Don’t go Freudian on me. Please. It’s beneath you.

  If you think I did it, tell me. ”

  “ I don’t think you did it. I ’ll say that in court.”

  “ Thank you. I mean that. And I didn’t do it.”

  “ Let me go in first, so no one thinks we’ve been together.”

  At 3 a.m. I jumped into the Lincoln, which Bert had revved

  up for me on a side street. Three media cars tried to follow, but

  they were over-scrupulous about the law. I lost them by running

  six red lights in a row on Northern Boulevard at about 60 mph.

  It’s in the genes. When I reached Queens Plaza, I made a

  U-turn and headed back to LaGuardia along 35th Avenue. By

  chance I turned left at 103rd Street—which put me a half-block

  behind Rabies.

  There, parked in front of a hydrant, stood a red Cadillac.

  Linese sat at the wheel. He wasn’t alone. He was talking to Joe

  Solomon.

  SATURDAY, JULY 23

  Amy Wilson, age 5, greeted me at the door—nude. When it

  came to feminine blandishments I was getting no relief whatsoever. I averted my eyes and said,

  “ Hadn’t you better get dressed, Amy? It’s almost 10 a.m .”

  “ Mommy said you liked women with no clothes on.”

  “ Did she now?” Ethel appeared then and gave Amy a nice

  twist of the ear.

  “ I was joking—like Roseanne Barr, to whom I can relate. I

  didn’t think Amy would strip for you.”

  “ I ’ll give her a Saturday night booking.”

  “ Not my child.”

  “ I wish you’d been a little more protective of your brother-

  in-law. Of m e.”

  “ Whaddya mean? I hoofed all over New York with Kay yesterday.” Ethel lowered her voice. “ She’s in the pool. And she’s

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  got some body on her. You have a good eye—and, believe me,

  a good eye is required with that one. The way she dresses, so

  ultra secretarial, you’d need a Mars probe t’see if she has tits at

  all.”

  “ Kay is reserved. She can be . . . strict. She isn’t a pragmatist like you or me—”

  “ She’s perfect for you. You need a bit of a ball and chain.”

  “ On Sunday—if the world hasn’t zeroed in on me before

  then—I ’m resigning from the priesthood.”

  “ Shit.”

  “ I don’t hold you responsible, Ethel. Probably what I did,

  running The Car, was at least more dramatic, classier than, say,

  having a lukewarm affair with some lonely housewife in Nebraska. Which I would’ve had, I ’m sure, somewhere down the line. At least I just hurt myself this way. I won’t be compromising an entire congregation. ’ ’

  “ Mike. Anything I have, you know, money, whatever—it’s

  yours. You—” it seemed she got shy “ —you could stay here. If

  that apartment’s too dull. I was thinking anyhow maybe t’build

  another room out over the porch. For you. ’ ’

  “ I ’m fine.”

  “ I just want you t’know you’re welcome. Those kids think

  of you as their father.”

  “ They’re good kids,” I said. “ How is, ah, Kay’s mood?”

  “ She’s coming around. Listen, she loves you, she’ll forgive

  you. But just lay off Berry from here on in .”

  “ I ’m finished with Berry.”

  “ She ain’t finished with you, but . . . Go ahead, go on out

  t’the pool. Kay’s waiting.”

  And, of course, Mr. Tact, I went and did the wrong thing

  right off. Instant trauma. Kay was standing poolside, back to

  me, head down, toweling off—in a black one-piece suit that was

  certainly scandalous in, oh, 1918.1 came up, all sincere like we

  were taught in seminary, and touched her ever so gently on the

  shoulder.

  Kay, however, stood bolt upright, saw me, covered her body,

  SCREAMED and dove into
the pool, towel and all.

  Glub.

  She came up, snot in her nostrils, nearsighted without corrective lenses, and yelled,

  “ You bastard.”

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  “ That,” I said, “ was a rather extreme reaction.”

  “ You were looking at me, you were judging my body.”

  “ Kay, you’re wearing a nun’s bathing suit. Where did you get

  it, from Frederick’s of the Vatican? I couldn’t see anything. ”

  “ Don’t get cute and easy with m e.” Kay had come to the

  side near where I was kneeling down. She was clothed by water.

  “ I ’m not competing with those low-lifes who dance for you. I

  won’t compete on their grounds.”

  “ You compete just fine—”

  “ No, I don’t.” Time to switch the tone.

  “ I hear you and Ethel had a nice time in New York. ”

  “ Oh, yes—Ethel is peachy, she’s afraid of losing her meal

  ticket.”

  “ Tty t’be kind. The kids are great, aren’t they? She can’t be

  all bad—that’s what I tell myself. With kids like that.”

  “ You know what I saw in New York?”

  “ What?”

  “ A woman hit by a car. A lot of men with sores on their legs.

  TRANSVESTITES. Two cab drivers fighting—”

  “ I thought Cats was a musical—”

  “ Ha-ha. And when I saw all that, I thought, He lives here.

  He was bom here. He’s comfortable with all this misery. Who

  are you, Mike?”

  “ Why don’t you climb out of the pool and talk?”

  “ Who are you, Mike?” she said again. And I, well, I like a

  dashing gesture (though I did take my wallet out first)—what I

  did was splash, clothes and shoes on, into the pool, beside Kay.

  And put an arm around her: figuring all that wet inconvenience

  deserved an embrace. But I was wrong—Kay detached my arm

  from her shoulder with an athletic shrug. My left shoe came off

  and sank.

  “ Who am I?” I asked. “ I ’m a guy with very good intentions.

  And bad judgment, I guess. I guess there’s a lot of anger inside

  me. And lust, of course. And I guess I ’m insecure. Otherwise I

  wouldn’t be fucking up the best part of my life because I feel

  unworthy of it. I don’t like myself. And I ’m playing hard-to-get

  with God. When I should be running to Him.” She stared at

  me. “ Jesus, Kay—give me a break. I don’t know who I am.

  This last month has turned me inside-out.” She still stared.

  “ Say something.”

  “ You’ve hurt me terribly,” she said.

  And then Kay kicked off, back-stroking across the pool. I put

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  my head down on the blue tile edge. When I looked up Ethel

  was standing above me. She was nude under her housedress, I

  saw that.

  “ Hm m ,” said Ethel. “ I have some clothes of Tony’s you can

  put on. ’ ’

  They fit me perfectly.

  Meanwhile, The Car was turning into an upscale disco with

  nudity. The sort of place you went slumming in. Mercedes and

  Cadillacs pulled up outside. We were getting—a sure sign of

  acceptance—well-dressed fem ale customers. People started ordering liqueurs I ’d never heard of. We took out the ravioli buffet and fit in two extra tables. Between Thursday and Saturday I

  sold more than half a month’s liquor supply. I went to three

  dancers a shift every day. Little Norm said to me, “ Linese is

  thinking of having someone killed at Rabies—just so he can

  com pete.”

  Mike Wilson was the cynosure of all thrill-hungry eyes. A

  middle-aged woman, well-preserved by science and very drunk,

  said, with her hand on my shoulder, ‘‘You can come home and

  kill me any tim e.” Not tonight. And the watcher of watchers

  was Pearl—we were not getting along well. I resented her suspicion. Pearl, apparently, thought I ’d garrote her with my shoelaces some night. And there were moments when I wanted to.

  Colavecchia and Daniels and Cribbs came by—just to remind

  me that I was, oh, one tongue slip away from a Riker’s Island

  holding pen. I tried not to take it personally: I knew they were

  embarrassed by the case. But they certainly were unpleasant.

  “ Making a big profit, huh?” said Daniels. “ Isn’t an ill-wind

  that doesn’t blow some good. Nice new suit you got.”

  “ It’s not new. It’s my brother’s. Why don’t you find him?”

  “ We don’t think he wants t’be found,” said Cribbs.

  “ The Gaucho’s back in tow n,” said Colavecchia. “ How

  d ’you feel about that?”

  “ I don’t know—I ’ve only met the man two or three times.

  Why don’t you question him?”

  “ We’re trying, believe m e,” said Daniels. “ How d ’you feel

  about lesbians, Mike?”

  “Tout a son gout, ” I said.

  “ That means everyone to his taste,” said Cribbs. Daniels

  was not mollified.

  “ Don’t leave tow n,” he said.

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  * * *

  Around 1 a.m ., on that last night of my priesthood, a dancer

  named Didi yanked me toward the kitchen. I didn’t know her

  well—pretty, short, from Commack, Long Island, wanted to

  own a limousine service. A Jewish American Princess in exile.

  But now Didi was agitated: her oviducts had really gotten in an

  uproar.

  “ Mike,” she said, “ I can’t go up.”

  “ Why not?”

  “ My boyfriend just came in. He’s by the cigarette machine.

  Oh, God, if Raul sees me. Oh, God. He doesn’t know I do

  topless.” By the cigarette machine was a Sylvester Stallone,

  with tattoos that said DEATH and POLLUTE. “ Shit, shit, he’s

  coming this way. What do I do?”

  What Didi did was wave to Raul. The best defense is a good

  offense. For her—not for me. “ Raul,” she said, “ Raul. Hi, over

  here.” Raul, who had the distracted look of those-who-are-

  about-to-urinate, probably wouldn’t have noticed Didi, if

  she’d’ve shut up. Instead he went absolutely red. His nostrils

  opened. His fists clenched. He elbowed through six people as

  if they were nothing more than low cloud cover.

  “ What’re you doing here?” he said.

  “ Same as you are, sightseeing. I want you t’meet Mike, he

  owns The Car. I met him this morning while I was shopping

  t’buy a vibro-massage for your mother—and he said, you know,

  come see the joint, since, you know, it’s so notorious these days.

  So I thought I ’d peek in. ’ ’

  Didi had pulled it off. She had managed to distract Raul from

  her to ME. (Luckily for Didi, she had a black sheath dress on—

  not a G-string and a net bra or something.) Raul looked at me.

  Then he looked at his fist. His fist flexed itself like a pedigreed

  animal. Then Raul simply lifted me by the chest hair and draped

  me back over the bar. It was what you might call a powerful

  sensation.

  “ You hitting on my chick?” he asked.

  “ No,” I said. My arms were pinned under me and I had no

  footing. He was obscenely strong.

&nb
sp; “ You don’t invite no lady to this pusball joint. Never. This

  pusball joint is for hookers and sluts. Right?”

  “ Oh, so right.” He hoicked me up higher by my hair.

  “ You apologize t’this lady and say you never wanna see her

  again.”

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  “ Would you let go—”

  “ Say.”

  “ I apologize, Didi, it was wrong of me t’ask you here. And,

  let’s not meet again.” Raul let me down, agh, slowly. Then he

  took Didi by the arm and jerked her toward the door. But she

  forgot her purse, and came back. As Didi passed me, me with

  both palms on my aching, hand-depilated chest, she said, “ Do

  I still have a Thursday booking?” They’re another species, I

  thought, dancers. They’re wired for a different kind of current.

  And so, on that last night of my priesthood, I went into our

  kitchen and pressed my chest against the refrigerator. The incident had been so quick and trivial—I mean, compared to the deaths of Rita and Tanya and Bubbles—and yet it was so painful,

  so humiliating, that tears of frustration, just two of them, condensed under my eyes. I wanted to hurt someone. I wanted to be in power. I wanted to knock some dick loose, as Tony used

  to say.

  Instead I took Tony’s jacket off. It was too warm against my

  sore chest. I put on a light cardigan sweater, one that I kept in

  the kitchen for when our A/C got too strong.

  And found a small sack of cocaine in the pocket.

  I threw it from the rooftop before I hurdled (yaagh!) across

  that five-story-tall airshaft on my way home. (There were still

  three or four photographers staking out my apartment. TOP­

  LESS MURDERER GOES TO BED.) I might’ve stayed away

  another night, but Tony’s clothes had begun to make me feel

  eerie. Jako, for one, was totally spooked by my outfit. ‘ ‘Don’t

  come no nearah,” he said. “ Some of you’s dead and some of

  you’s alive—and I don’t keer which is which. ”

  I tiptoed down from the fifth floor to the second and spotted

  Kay on the landing there. She was sitting cross-legged outside

  my door, reading Howard’s End in the dim light. She wore blue

  jeans and sneakers. Her hair was down, contact lenses in. I had

  the visual drop on her (she expected me to come from below)

  and, for a moment, I took advantage of that. I watched Kay