Topless

by D Keith Mano

  out. But she was still hidden—in the flailing hair, in the down-

  lidded eyes. In a modesty that foiled exposure.

  Then her hands went to the bra-snap: 'it is, in any woman, a

  beautiful moment. Hands up and behind: as bound captives are

  led away. Hands up and behind: doing a little, girlish, intimate

  mechanical act. And the bra came away. For a second, bashful,

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  her breasts nestled behind her arm. Then, with a gasp, Kay let

  them fall. They were very large: they were important. But they

  were still a child’s breasts: innocent and surprised to be so full.

  And Kay danced for me.

  I had to help her now. The music would end soon, and in the

  bareness of silence, she would be just a small public spectacle.

  So I did what men do. I took out a $100 bill and touched her

  thigh with it.

  The contact startled her. Kay was pulled from the cloister of

  her self-absorption. She looked down at me. She smiled. Perhaps she had expected something like this. Kay bent to accept the bill. She made a kissing face, the sort, no doubt, that she

  had seen other girls make. But Kay miscalculated. In looking at

  me she also caught herself in the mirror. And she was not prepared to accept that—the bald, gawked-at evidence of her shame.

  Kay’s knees gave. She collapsed sidewards, awkwardly, on one

  thigh—as the woman in C hristina’s World sits, twisted, away.

  “ I ’m so em barrassed,” she said. “ I ’m so em barrassed.”

  I intended only to comfort her. To praise her bravery and tell

  about her loveliness. I leaped up on die stage. But, when once

  my hands had felt her overheated skin, had slid beneath her

  breasts, a firestorm swept us. We broke through. We came together like magnetic poles attracted. We were matter and antimatter. We were its synthesis.

  I mean, we made ferocious love in silence under the hectic

  disco lights.

  For maybe an hour we lay on the stage—half in, half out of

  Bert’s sleeping bag. Kay was experiencing herself in another

  mode: I let her alone to do that. She touched my body with

  curiosity and a fresh sort of proprietorship. I enjoyed the fondling. My arm went back, lazy, unsupervised. My hand touched her G-string. I held it up between us—it was inside-out, registering the suddenness of my assault on her body.

  “ Pretty sexy,” I said.

  “ I was terrified.”

  “ W here’d you buy the equipment?”

  “ I didn’t. The girls were playing with it in the garage. There’s

  a whole drawer full of dancer stuff in an old bureau. That’s how

  I got the idea. I mean, can you imagine me, Kay, shopping for

  G-strings in a store?”

  “ The kids were playing with it?”

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  237

  “ Well, it was a little big for them. For me, too. I had t’make

  some tucks in the G-string.” Kay took it from my hand. She

  turned the G-string right-side-out. My breath came fast, then

  didn’t come at all. I sat up.

  There were words in gold lettering on the G-string. BOSS

  LADY, they said.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 1

  I put off writing about this day for more than a week. Then I sat

  at my desk, Scripto pencil in hand, and sketched complex geometrical designs. My mind would not engage the subject. I was blocked. Margie Strang, my therapist, says that isn’t unusual.

  I ’ve experienced a traumatic shock—psychic and physical: it’s

  hardly a revelation that the mind has cunning defenses. In a

  certain part of my brain the power went off—it would not allow

  the software of remembrance to be processed.

  What you will read here was not written by me. I am not that

  rational and detached. This section of my story was transcribed

  (and edited in places) by Margie Strang from tapes I made while

  under hypnosis. The original dictation is both disjointed and

  repetitious. Marge has given it structure (also, I hope, some of

  the original dramatic intensity). I know what happened, of

  course, in general terms: I wasn’t driven mad or autistic by that

  terrible Monday. But I am shaky still—and not willing to jeopardize the frail equilibrium.

  That is: I have not read what you are about to read now.

  It was a long day.

  You must realize that I didn’t, properly speaking, suspect

  anything then—on that Monday morning after Kay left The Car—

  but my subconscious mind must’ve been knitting and unraveling

  all night. My subconscious mind was way ahead of me. I suppose it already knew about Tony. Certainly I woke with feelings both of loss and fright. Or, perhaps, I never truly woke. Because

  that long day had a fantastic quality to it. And, Lord knows, the

  peculiar sense of trappedness—touched by dread and fatalism—

  that our nightmares enforce.

  * * *

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  D. Keith Mono

  Yet, probably, I would never have guessed the truth if it hadn’t

  been for the cat.

  I called Ethel from The Car every half hour until about noon.

  And each time I got little Wendy, who said, “ My doll has

  AIDS, ” and hung up. At noon my mood changed. I wasn’t sure,

  after all, that I wanted to interrogate Ethel. Yet. Ethel demagnetized my compass: I wasn’t confident of my judgment around her. And maybe I felt it was a mistake to put Ethel on her guard.

  Instead, I decided to approach Pearl—albeit circumspectly. But

  Pearl had a dental appointment and didn’t get to The Car until

  way past three. As things turned out that appointment almost

  cost me my life.

  Her face was swollen. Pearl looked like someone chewing

  tobacco. Also her lower lip had gone blubbery from Novocaine.

  The Car was packed. In Pearl’s absence most of the bartending

  had fallen to me. (Bert breaks things: he doesn’t see glass well.)

  I was pressured even with Raven and one Silicone Sister covering our table customers. Pearl saw my agitation, interpreted it as annoyance with her, and avoided me. But then Pearl had

  been avoiding me for a week. When Connie came in—to dance

  the 5 to midnight—I put her behind the bar. Then I went over

  to Pearl. I said:

  “ I ’d like t ’have a word with you. ”

  “ I ’m busy,” she said.

  “ Connie will handle business for a while—come into the

  kitchen. ’ ’

  “ With you? Oh, no—you got somethin’ t ’say, you say it here

  in front of witnesses.”

  “ Pearl,” I said, irked. “ D ’you think I ’m the killer, for God’s

  sake?”

  “ I think what I think,” she said.

  “ Jesus, of all people, you know why I came here. Why I ’ve

  stayed here.”

  “ Why?”

  “ To help Ethel and the kids out financially, of course.”

  “ Oh, Daddy Warbucks, thanks so much. You think I believe

  that? Ethel is loaded and you know she’s loaded. You’re not so

  dumb as all that. ’ ’

  “ I ’ll leave tomorrow. If you think Ethel doesn’t need me,

  please tell me so. Because I ’ll be outa here before you can say

  ‘fuck this.’ And what d ’you mean, she’s loaded?”

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  “ Ka-mon, ka-mon, ka-mon.” Pearl li
t a cigarette. “ Shit and

  shinola, where d’you think Tony got the cash t’buy this place?

  You’re his brother fChrissake. You weren’t exactly, you know,

  descended from great wealth, the two of you. Right?”

  “ So where did he get the money?”

  “ She didn’t tell you?”

  “ No, she didn’t .”

  “ Then maybe, I don’t know . . . maybe I should keep my

  trap shut.”

  “ Pearl. Please. If you know something that might help me—

  t’make a decision, t’protect myself—then say so. I ’m sick of

  being in the dark. I ’m sick of surprises.”

  “ I can’t believe you'don’t know. Ethel talks about it all the

  time. She’s proud of it.”

  “ Something illegal?”

  “ No. No. No. Not illegal.”

  “ Then where did my brother get his money?”

  “ From Ethel. Her father owned two big liquor stores. I think

  he sold for a million five. And you can bet—with the house,

  with the place in Pennsylvania, with whatever else she does—

  you can bet she’s worth twice that now.”

  “ But there are debts—”

  “ That’s what she says. All I know is, Tony and her, they were

  gonna expand this place next year. They were gonna shut down

  for three months, put new lighting in, two stages—the whole

  shooting match. If she’s gonna shut down for three months,

  why’s Ethel need you so desperately? For your looks?”

  I stared at Pearl. Under those circumstances, if she were right,

  my devotion to The Car did seem perverse. But there was one

  more question I had to ask her. Even though, by then, I could

  guess die answer.

  “ Was Ethel ever a topless dancer?”

  “ Is the fuckin’ Pope Catholic? Of course she was. That’s how

  she met your brother. He was the night manager at Pemberton’s

  out on the Island. You didn’t know that?”

  “ I didn’t.” I picked up my jacket. “ But there’s something I

  do know—on the best authority.”

  “ What?”

  “ I know there’s always something wrong with a topless

  dancer.”

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  D. Keith Mano

  I hit the door like a fullback breaking into the secondary. I

  intended to have it out with Ethel that afternoon, then. But I was

  unused to heat and light, and the sun blinded me for a moment.

  I swayed. A reporter from the Jackson Heights Free Press came

  up to me with a small tape machine. I brushed him aside, turned

  right, saw Lazarus asleep in the dry-cleaning store window,

  smiled at that, walked to the com er planning my showdown with

  Ethel—

  And almost collapsed.

  I held to a parking meter. I was faint. The Free Press man

  rushed up to me—my moment of vertigo had shocked everyone

  on the sidewalk—but I shook him off. I stood upright. I read the

  sky. At that moment I knew what had happened to Tanya and

  the others. Not in detail, but in principle. I knew and I was

  aghast. Because, just in the dimmest way, I understood the vicious, twisted force that had snapped Tanya’s neck. There was only one thing left to do.

  I ran at Lazarus.

  He was asleep, as I said, in the dry-cleaning store window. I

  yelled. Lazarus woke. Then, while both my palms slammed the

  plate glass, I began to leap and kick. I went berserk. The Free

  Press man backed away. And Lazarus, ears down, slouched low,

  began running. He ran to the rear of that long, dusty room. He

  ran under the roller-coasterish, rusted, huge mechanical clothing rack that dominated it. Lazarus disappeared.

  I waited a moment. People had begun to gather: they weren’t

  sure what attention I required. I stood back from the plate glass.

  I stuck my sore hands under my armpits. Then I started walking

  back to The Car. I knew, pretty much, what I would find there.

  The basement trap door was up. And Lazarus, all indignation

  and loose fur, was sitting on the bar.

  I could hardly manage the Lincoln. Each time another tumbler clicked into place—which was every other block or so—I tended to hit the brake. I was saying, Stop! to myself, I guess.

  Don’t go any further—there are mysteries that should remain

  sealed. The Lincoln jerked to a half-halt, then accelerated, then

  halted, all the way to Ethel’s.

  Some facts I was certain of. Other facts were based on hypothesis, but had a grim plausibility to them. I was sure, for one, that Lazarus could travel from Big M arty’s Dry Cleaning

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  to The Car—through the party wall in the basement. If he could,

  perhaps a man—or yes, a woman—could also. Much of that wall

  was covered by our beer cooler. But I didn’t investigate—the

  police, after all, had scoured The Car on at least three occasions.

  They had found nothing. The connecting passage was well disguised.

  I knew, further, that there was a back door to Big Marty’s. It

  opened onto a side street (60th) off Northern Boulevard. Having

  snapped Tanya’s neck, the killer could’ve retreated through our

  basement, crossed over, gone up through Big Marty’s, and then

  exited out onto 60th—while Joe and I were waiting for Tanya to

  appear. And Tanya didn’t scream, because she recognized her

  killer. Because that killer’s appearance in The Car, even after

  hours, was unremarkable.

  Everyone suspected me. Pearl, Joe, even Kay at moments.

  Everyone, that is, except Ethel—she had dismissed the question

  of my guilt out of hand. I had been grateful to her: Ethel’s

  loyalty, in large part, had convinced me to overlook some of her

  more shameless manipulations. But what if Ethel knew I was

  innocent? What if, worse, her loyalty were a front? After all,

  Pearl suspected me, and Ethel had done nothing to dissuade

  her. And the thought hit me: suppose Ethel is protecting someone else. Suppose she’s trying to frame me.

  So—by the time I reached Ethel’s—I had thoroughly demoralized myself. Such subtle maneuvering (and the suavity to put it over) is symptomatic of a disturbed, yet powerful, mind.

  Maybe, I thought, this is not the time to confront Ethel. She

  was cleverer than I. She might turn against me. For one, she

  could probably break Kay’s alibi. Good God, perhaps it was

  Ethel who had contacted Colavecchia and Daniels.

  Whatever else, I certainly couldn’t challenge Ethel in front of

  Kay and the kids—that would’ve been both cruel and dangerous.

  The feet was: I didn’t have evidence enough to accuse her at all. I

  planned to take Ethel for a ride—on the pretext of discussing Wein-

  traub and my possible arrest. I would study her reaction when I

  brought up the police and Kay’s alibi. I would draw Ethel out.

  But Ethel wasn’t at home.

  Wendy, naked again, answered the door. She had her terminally ill doll under one arm.

  “ Hi, Daddy,” she said.

  “ Where’s your mother?”

  “ Oh, she went t’the country,” Wendy said.

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  There was a baby-sitter: a girl of about fifteen with glasses

  and skin like peeled rubber cement, who live
d down the block.

  Yes, she told me, Mrs. Wilson had gone to her country house

  for a day or so. No, there wasn’t a telephone. Yes, she knew the

  address. But, now that I mentioned it, gosh, she couldn’t find

  the piece of paper Ethel had written it down on. My nieces were

  unhelpful—Amy said the summer place was in California.

  Wendy thought maybe Virginia sounded good. I called Pearl at

  The Car.

  “ Ethel has gone t ’the country house, ” I said. “ I haveta speak

  with her about my case. D ’you know where the house is?’’

  ‘ ‘If Ethel needs a break, maybe you should leave her alone. ’ ’

  “ Please, Pearl. Let me be the judge of that. Do you have the

  address?”

  “ O f course. I ’ve been there several times. But you could

  never find it. It’s way out in the boonies—past New Milford.

  Why’n ’cha let it go ’til she gets back?”

  “ Because I can’t let it go. My fuckin’ life is at stake. Give

  me the address. I ’ll be responsible.”

  I waited while Pearl found her purse. I sketched an enormous

  dragon of geometry in the time it took. Pearl brought her address

  book back. She began thumbing slowly through it. I could’ve

  shrieked.

  “ Hope I don’t get in trouble for this,” she said.

  “ You won’t, you won’t. I take full responsibility.”

  “ Sixteen East Copper Lake Drive. It’s a dirt road. I think

  there’s a mailbox with Wilson on it. It’s in Cahoga, Pennsylvania. C-A-H-O-G-A, ” she said over the music blare. “ You’ll haveta ask instructions.”

  “ I will. Tell Bert t’run things. Tell him I ’ll meet him at The

  Car late tonight—to pick up the take. ’ ’

  “ Is that all?”

  “ Yes. No. You just told me Tony and Ethel were gonna expand The Car. How?”

  “ Inta the old dry-cleaning store, of course. Where else?

  Through the roof?”

  “ Who owns the dry-cleaning store?”

  “ Ethel. She bought it last year. I told you, she’s loaded.”

  I functioned, after that, like someone obeying vague posthypnotic suggestions. I bought gas. I bought a Rand McNally road map (it showed Cahoga near the northwest com er of a state