by Ray Garton
Davey touched Casey's hair.
“Not right now, Case. But that's not a no!” he added quickly. “I just need a rest, okay? An intermission. Maybe if we just sort of ... worked up to it?” He waited. “Well?"
She smiled. “I think that's the smartest thing you've done since you left Penn. You're beginning to display some good judgment, my friend. I'm proud of you.” She bent down and kissed him. It began as a simple peck, but lingered. She pulled away and got up on the sofa with him. “Scoot over,” she said. “The best part's coming up, where Lugosi skins Karloff alive.” She cuddled up next to him. As Casey stroked his hair and Karloff screamed in pain, Davey fell asleep.
He awoke from a dream of the girl in the booth. He was on the sofa, a blanket twisted around his legs, sweat trickling over his temples. The television was off, the room was dark, and he was alone.
“Casey?” he said. The name came from his dry throat as a rasp. He swallowed a few times, coughed, sat up. “Casey?” He looked around the room and found a note taped to the television set.
Dear Mr. Van Winkle,
Sorry you're not feeling well. I hope you're better in the morning. Rest up tomorrow, I'll call you after work, and we can plan your job-hunting strategy.
Kisses,
Casey
He lay down on the sofa; he felt terribly weak.
He'd dreamed of her, her creamy skin ... her long black hair ... The panel had hummed up, but there had been no dirty glass between them. Only her.
Davey went into the kitchen and splashed a little vodka into a glass of orange juice. He got out the sketchpad he kept in a kitchen drawer, found a pencil, and began scribbling.
Shadows within shadows on the paper, shapes forming, shifting. Eyes, lips, a breast, a triangular patch of darkness...
He tore out the page, wadded it up, and tossed it toward the trash can. It missed and rolled on the floor.
Davey was still sweating. It was not hot, but he opened a window, and let in the cold air and the noise of the city.
He wondered if she was still working in the booth behind the window, or if she'd gone home to bed, perhaps with a lover. He imagined her hair spread about her face, an ebony pool over the pillow ... her breasts rising and falling in her sleep.
Davey went to his bedroom, dressed, and grabbed his umbrella.
Downstairs, he caught a bus to Times Square.
6
____________________________
Tuesday
TIMES SQUARE WAS ALIVE.
It throbbed with light: red, orange, yellow, blue, green, white, all flashing at a staggered pace, creating a silent harmony of color, softened through the mist left behind by the rain.
Davey looked at his watch—it was just past midnight—then through the rain-speckled window of the bus. The next stop was his. The bus lurched to a halt, the doors opened, and Davey stepped down onto the sidewalk.
He faced the bus, hands in his pockets, as it slowly rolled away, billowing fumes. On the other side of the street, its sign glowing a deep red above the blackened doorway, was Live Girls. The red letters were reflected on the wet pavement below, the reflection passing in and out of sight as cars hissed over it. Davey stepped off the curb, waiting for a break in the traffic when he spotted movement in the darkness of the alleyway to the right of Live Girls.
Someone stepped from the alley onto the sidewalk. Someone tall and slender in a long coat, black leather with a gray fur collar. A woman.
She held her hands before her face and flicked a butane lighter; the flame glowed a soft orange on her delicate face, creating small shadows above her high cheekbones. Dark hair fell to the side of her face. The flame disappeared; she put the lighter in her coat pocket and brushed the hair aside.
It was very long hair.
Davey felt something clutch in his chest as he watched her walk to the corner. She waved at a cab, but it drove on; she scanned the street for another.
It was the girl from the booth.
Davey took long hurried steps over the street, his only thought that he get to her before she got into a cab.
A horn blared and Davey gasped as a car jerked to a stop less than two feet from him. The driver stuck his head out the window and pushed back the bill of his cap.
“What the fuck ‘er you, re-taahhh-ded?"
Davey ignored the man and rushed to the other side of the street. For an instant she disappeared behind a cloud of steam rising from the pavement, then he saw her again, hailing another cab; this one slowed to a stop at the curb.
Davey broke into a run, dodging pedestrians as he rushed toward the corner.
The girl grabbed the door handle and had the door halfway open when Davey waved and shouted, “Wait!” His voice was lost in the sounds of traffic and he began to run faster. She was sliding a leg into the cab when Davey reached her. “Wait wait wait!"
Startled, she pulled her head back and raised her thin brows. “Are you talking to me?” she said firmly, her face tightening. She pulled her leg from the cab and stood behind the open door as if it were a shield.
“I ... I...” Davey's voice left him and he stared at her awkwardly, his mouth open. A white light flashed rapidly above them, having a strobelike effect on her face. The cold breeze tossed her hair against her cheek and she brushed it away.
“Well?” she said, impatience in her voice. “What do you want?"
“I ... I was coming to see you just now. I mean”—he gestured over his shoulder—“back there. I saw you earlier today. Er, yesterday.” He tried to smile. “Twice, in fact."
“Come back tomorrow. I'm off for the night.” She started to get in the cab again.
Davey put a hand on the door and said, “Wait."
She stopped, and turned to him again, cocked a brow. “Yes?” She sounded vaguely annoyed. Her leather coat crinkled softly when she moved. She took a quick drag on her cigarette.
“Are you in a hurry?” Davey asked uncertainly.
“As a matter of fact, I am. I'm on my way to work."
“I thought you worked here."
“Sometimes,” she said patronizingly. “I'm also a dancer."
“A dancer!” Davey said through a pleased smile. “Where? I'd like to see you."
“Hey, lady,” the cabdriver said, “you coming or going?"
She bent down and looked into the cab. “As long as your meter's running, what does it matter?” She stepped forward and put an elbow on the door. Smoke rose between them from her cigarette, dancing in the breeze. “A club. The Midnight Club."
“Oh. I'm ... not familiar with it.” Her hand was inches from him, the same hand that had touched him.
“Well, then, you should come in sometime. I'm there five nights a week.” She smiled tightly, her lips glistening. “Good-bye."
“Can I come with you?” Davey asked quickly.
She pursed her lips, as if concealing a smile.
When she said nothing, Davey added, “I'd really like to see you. Dance, I mean. Tonight."
She remained silent, watching him.
“I'd be glad to pay for the cab. My name is”—he cleared his throat—“Davey Owen."
She drew on the cigarette and exhaled smoke through a gentle smile. “All right. You can come. But you don't need to pay the fare. I would've taken the cab anyway.” She slid into the cab smoothly.
Davey moved slowly around the door, his heart pounding anxiously. He stood by the door for a moment, then got inside, pulling it closed.
She leaned forward and said to the driver, “Hudson and Watts, please."
As the cab jerked away from the curb, she turned toward Davey and leaned back against the door, one elbow propped on the back of the seat, her cigarette held up beside her head. Her dark eyes remained fixed on Davey, studying his face as she drew on her cigarette. She blew the smoke in a thin, slow stream at the ceiling of the cab, watching him.
Davey began to feel hot and claustrophobic. He wanted to speak to her, but did not know what to s
ay; the look in her eye did not encourage conversation. It was a look of analysis that made Davey feel like a germ under a microscope.
“I'm not a prostitute,” she said.
Davey blanched and shook his head.
“I never thought you were!” he replied quickly.
Her mouth curled into a half smile of disbelief. “Surely the thought crossed your mind. Just for a moment?"
“Well, yeah ... maybe. But that's not why I approached you."
“Then why did you?"
“Like I said, I'd come to see you. You're the only reason I wanted to go back into that place."
She nodded, but did not seem convinced. “Do you go into Live Girls often?"
“First time today. I was ... curious, I guess."
“You came in twice."
Davey looked away from her, embarrassed. The cabdriver braked suddenly.
“Get offadah road, moron!” he growled.
Davey tried to smile. “I just ... wanted to see you again."
“Mmm.” Her eyes moved over his face slowly. “You don't seem the type."
Davey simply shrugged.
In the silence that followed, she turned from him and stared out the front window. Her fine profile was outlined against the passing lights outside the cab.
“How often, uh, do you work back there?” Davey asked.
She turned to him, almost as if she'd forgotten he was in the car. “Off and on,” she answered.
“Do you have a ... oh, a specific schedule?"
She arched a brow.
“I'd like to come see you again."
From deep in her throat came a low, honey-thick laugh, a laugh of pleasure, but with, perhaps, a touch of mockery. “A fan,” she said, cocking a brow.
“Yeah.” Davey chuckled. “I guess you could say that."
“The atmosphere in the Midnight Club is much more pleasant,” she said, looking out the window again. “If you want to see me perform in the future, I suggest you go there."
With a twinge of disappointment, Davey realized she was not going to tell him when she would be at Live Girls.
A club would be much better than that booth, he told himself. But in a club, he would not be able to touch her; she would not be able to slide his hand over her smooth, cool thighs, her breasts...
Davey flinched and shifted in the seat, ashamed that the mere thought of being in that dark, close booth was making him erect.
When he looked at her again, her lips were wrapped around the end of her cigarette; she looked as if she could sense his shame and was amused by it.
She glanced through the front window and said, “We're almost there. I'll have to get you a table,” she added. “It's nearly impossible if you don't have reservations."
“Thank you."
“It's nothing,” she said, taking a small billfold from her coat pocket. She gave him a sidelong look, her lashes low over her deep eyes, and smiled. “I'm rather glad you came, Davey."
The cab stopped, and Davey got out as she paid the driver. He looked around for some sign of the club, but saw nothing; the dark Tribeca neighborhood was deserted. The sidewalks were lit only by pools of light from the streetlamps. The entrance to a nearby parking lot was chained off and the lot was strewn with litter and broken chunks of cement. Davey saw only one lighted window on the top floor of an old cast-iron building; it flickered a soft grayish blue.
“This way,” she said. Her heels clacked on the wet street. “I usually go in the back,” she told him, “but I can't take guests that way.” She led him to the end of the block and stopped at a door set in the corner of the building. She pushed the door open and Davey followed her inside.
They walked into a vacuumlike silence. The deep purple carpet and black walls of the foyer seemed to soak up sound like a sponge. Davey heard music playing faintly, as if from a great distance, its melody no more distinct than the buzzing of a housefly.
She turned to a man standing at the right of the entrance. There was a book open before him atop a solid black pedestal.
“Hello, Malcolm,” she said. “This is Davey, my guest this evening. Do we have a table for him?"
He checked the book, running a long finger down the page. The top of his skull was large and dome-shaped with thinning gray hair slicked straight back; he had sunken temples, sharp cheekbones with deep shadows beneath, and a razorlike jaw. His fair skin was smooth and clear as a child's. He wore a black tuxedo; a diamond stud sparkled just above his left nostril. Malcolm looked up and smiled.
“Table twelve,” he said. His voice was sibilant, feminine. “Tell Cedric when you go in."
“Your coat, sir?” A young blond girl stood behind a counter across from Malcolm. She held a tiny hand out to Davey.
Davey slipped his coat off and gave it to her. She handed him a ticket in exchange; he stuffed it in his pocket.
Davey turned to his companion; she was taking long strides toward a huge black door framed with red across from the entrance. With a slight wave, she said, “Later, Malcolm.” Then to Davey: “Come, Davey, I'm late."
Davey saw Malcolm push a button on the pedestal and the black door swung open heavily; the music that had sounded so distant a second before suddenly pounded from beyond the doorway.
Following her out of the foyer and into the club, Davey glanced back to see the door shut smoothly behind them.
The club was dark inside; smoke, diffused with dim light, writhed above bobbing heads. She led him around a crowded, U-shaped bar and through the crowd.
Overhead lights with purple shades gave everything in the room a bruised look, relieved only by small white lamps on the center of each of the round tables. The walls were black and covered with a white grating on which were mounted geometrically shaped neon tube lights; the lights flashed red and purple, blue and white.
A Hispanic man with close-cropped hair and a mustache approached them. Like Malcolm he wore a tuxedo, but filled it with a much more impressive physique. He had a hard street face, knowing and sly.
“Cedric,” she said loudly. She lightly touched Davey's arm as she spoke. “Could you show my guest to table twelve?"
Cedric turned to Davey.
“This way, sir,” he said with a heavy accent.
“Wait!” Davey called to her as she began to walk away.
She stopped and turned.
“Your name!” Davey said. “I don't even know your name."
That half smile again: “Anya.” She was swallowed by the crowd.
“Sir?” Cedric said. “This way, please."
Reluctantly, Davey followed him through the crowd toward the source of the music.
Davey saw middle-aged couples, some in formal attire and jewels, others casually dressed, mixing with younger people wearing the most current fashions and sporting extravagant hairstyles. Ice clinked and smoke swirled.
Cedric led him around the crowded dance floor just below the stage to one of the front tables. “Here you are, sir,” he said. His hard-edged voice and steely eyes clashed with his formal manner.
Davey seated himself and looked up at Cedric, who was watching him carefully. His eyes moved from Davey's face, down his chest and stomach to his lap, then back up again.
“A cocktail waitress will be with you in a moment,” he said.
As the man walked away, Davey noticed a scar just below his left ear; it was perhaps two inches long and had apparently been a very deep cut. Cedric wound his way through the crowd until he was out of sight.
Davey looked up at the perfectly dark stage and blinked several times in disbelief. White disembodied hands were playing white instruments: drums, guitars, a saxophone, a keyboard. The instruments shone like polished ivory in the darkness of the stage. They moved and bobbed and swayed; the white hands glided over the keyboard gracefully. The effect was hypnotic.
The beat of the music was heavy but not unpleasant. It seemed to move the bodies on the dance floor as strings move a puppet.
“Something
to drink, sir?” a waitress asked. She had short red hair; gold eyeshadow sparkled beneath her brows. She wore the top half of a tuxedo with tails and, from the waist down, only black panties and black stockings.
“Uh, vodka gimlet, please,” Davey said. “No ice."
As she walked away, Davey watched the tails flap against her legs.
Davey spotted a table of three women, all in their forties, each immaculately dressed. They were laughing raucously. One of them, a plump black woman, gracefully lifted a hand above her head and waggled her fingers, not unlike a schoolgirl asking a question in class. Light glinted on her handsome diamond wedding ring; the spot of light was filtered through the hovering smoke and shined, for an instant, like a star. Cedric went to her side, joined his hands behind his back, and leaned toward her, smiling. She lightly placed her fingers on his elbow and said something in his ear. Cedric nodded and stepped behind her, pulled her chair back as she stood. He took her arm and led her through the crowd.
Davey watched them as they stepped around tables and shouldered their way between the other patrons. Cedric led the woman to a door, rumbled with the knob as if unlocking it, then pushed it open. They stepped inside.
Davey turned back to the table from which the woman had come. Her two friends were hunched forward over the table, their lips moving frantically in turn, their expressions mischievous and conspiratorial.
Davey sat back in his chair, puzzled.
The ladies’ room, maybe? he wondered. But why did he have to unlock it? And why did he go in with her?
The song ended and applause rose from the dance floor. The dancers laughed and chattered as they returned to their seats.
The hands and instruments on the stage faded and disappeared.
The waitress returned with Davey's drink. He winced at the price, but paid her. He sipped the gimlet slowly; at that price, it would have to last.
Davey watched the door through which Cedric had led the black woman. No one else went in, and no one came out.
He was startled by a sudden silent movement before him. The cleared dance floor began to rise until it was on a level flush with the stage; it was no longer a dance floor but a runway.
