by Ray Garton
“It's in Tribeca."
"That's right.” Benedek made a quick note of it.
“As far as I can tell,” Davey continued, “the club is run by the same people who run Live Girls."
Benedek looked up from his pad. “Really?"
“Anyway, I went there with her and watched her dance, then I went—” He sighed. “I can't believe I'm telling you this. I don't even know you.” His words came slowly and slurred a bit from the rum.
“All the better, Davey, believe me. Strangers are the best confidants. They don't know any of your friends, so they can't gossip. So what did you do, take her home?"
“I went to her place."
“And?"
“I went to bed with her...” His face clouded. “And she sent me away."
“You see her today?"
“I'm going to. Later today. We're meeting."
Benedek reached up and rubbed his forehead hard. Something about this was all so wrong it smelled. “You said earlier, Davey, that she'd done something to you. What was it?"
“I'm not sure, but I think she ... bit me ... and now I'm ... sick."
Benedek chilled. “She bit you? Where?"
Davey simply shook his head as the waitress brought another rum.
“Between ... between my ... legs.” The words seemed to stick in his throat like fishbones.
Benedek had to fight the urge to grab Davey's arms and shake answers out of him. He scrubbed his face with his big hand, lit a cigarette, and took a good swallow of his drink.
“Look, Davey, I want to talk to you more about this, okay? Something's not right here. Tell you what, my wife's a doctor. You come home with me and she can—"
“No.” He took his coat again and stood, slowly and carefully this time.
Benedek could see by the look on his face that Davey regretted having talked with him. He could also see that Davey hadn't told him everything.
“Davey, wait. I wanna help you."
“I'm fine. It's nothing. Thanks for the drink.” Davey started out of the bar, walking quickly, but careful to keep his balance.
Benedek grabbed his pad and followed him outside. He watched Davey stagger until he fell to the sidewalk.
“Here, Davey,” Benedek said, squatting beside him.
“Really, I'm okay."
“You're not okay, Goddammit."
Benedek got him on his feet and supported him with a big arm. “C'mon, we'll get you home,” he said, leading Davey to the curb and waving for a cab. Two ignored him; the third pulled over. Benedek opened the door, helped Davey inside, and slid in beside him. He turned to Davey. “What's the address?"
Benedek repeated the address to the driver and they drove into the halting traffic.
“I wish you'd just leave me alone,” Davey said quietly.
“Look, Davey, I want you to listen to me, okay? I'm not writing a feature article on the sex business. I'm not writing anything. I'm a reporter for the Times, but I'm on vacation right now. The reason I asked you all those questions is that I think there is something very wrong about Live Girls, something dangerous."
“Like what?"
“I don't know yet, that's why I talked to you. I saw you go in there twice yesterday. I was—"
“You were following me?"
“No, no, not you. I was looking for my brother-in-law."
“I don't understand."
Benedek explained to Davey the change in Vernon's behavior after he started frequenting Live Girls; he told him about the murder of his sister and niece. “For a while,” Benedek said, “Doris thought he was sick. He became pale, lost some weight. She also thought he was seeing another woman.” He watched Davey, waiting for a reaction, hoping he would make the connection. Davey's face remained weary and unaffected. “Like I said, Davey, my wife's a doctor. If you'd just—"
“No! I don't want to see a doctor.” He looked away from Benedek. “I'm going to be fine.” He shrugged. “Well, maybe I picked up something in that place. If it doesn't go away, I'll see someone."
“Okay, fine. But will you at least do one thing?"
The cab stopped at Davey's building.
Benedek asked, “Will you stay away from Live Girls? From Anya?"
Davey turned to him again, his brow creased as he shook his head slowly. “I don't know if I can."
Benedek paid the driver then led Davey into the building and escorted him onto the elevator.
“You don't have to come up with me,” Davey said as the elevator started up. The doors opened on the ninth floor. “Really, I'm—"
“Davey!"
Benedek saw a young woman with mussed strawberry-blond hair and a cigarette in her mouth approaching them.
“Where've you been?” she asked. “I've been calling and calling and then I went out to lunch and couldn't eat so I came here, and now I'm late.” She put a hand on Davey's arm and turned to Benedek. “Who're you?"
“This is...” Davey began.
“Walter Benedek. Friend of Davey's.” He turned to Davey and gave him a cautioning look.
“Davey, Jesus, you shouldn't be out of bed, let alone your apartment.” To Benedek: “I'm Casey Thorne, by the way. Nice to meet you. C'mon, Davey."
She led the way to Davey's apartment, where Davey unlocked the door and let them in.
“You sure you don't want to...” Benedek began.
“Positive,” Davey said, nodding. “But thanks."
Benedek took out his pad and scribbled on a page. “This is my number. Call if, well, if you need anything."
“C'mon, Davey, you look really awful."
As if neither of them were in the room, Davey disappeared into his bedroom.
“Miss Thorne?” Benedek said quietly.
“Hm?” She seemed anxious for him to leave.
“Do you know anything about a place called Live Girls?"
She frowned. “No. Should I?"
Benedek pursed his lips. He knew nothing of her relationship with Davey; telling her about his visits to Live Girls might cause some problems between them. He shrugged. “I guess not."
Giving her a small so-long wave, he left the apartment.
Davey sprawled on his bed fully clothed; he didn't even bother to remove his coat, which was still damp from the air outside. He heard the door close in the next room as Benedek left. Eyes closed, he heard Casey enter the room, felt the small jolt of her weight on the mattress. She spoke, but her voice was no more than white noise to him because his attention had been captured by an odor.
It was just a whiff, a vaguely familiar smell, dark and musky. His stomach gurgled and churned.
“...really have to get back to work, okay?"
Davey jerked his head toward Casey.
“What?” he asked.
She shook her head and sighed, exasperated. Touching his face, she said, “You don't seem to have a fever. In fact, you're pretty cool. I want you to stay in bed, Davey, please. Get some rest. I have to go back to work, but you can call me if you need anything, okay? Promise me?"
He nodded.
“I'll come back this evening. If you're not better, you're going to see a doctor."
“You don't need to come back."
“But I'm going to.” She stood. “Will you get undressed and into bed?"
“Yes, Mom."
She winced and touched his hand. “I'm just worried, Davey. Have you looked in the mirror? You look awful."
That smell again. For an instant, Davey's head felt light and he became aware of an emptiness in his stomach, at once a hunger and a nausea. He almost asked Casey if she smelled anything.
“Just take care of yourself, Davey. I'll be back this evening.” She squeezed his hand then started to let go, but Davey held on. She frowned. “What?"
He looked up at her small, roundish face and felt a rush of warmth. Remembering the steady gaze of her eyes when she'd asked him if he wanted to start a relationship, Davey smiled, although he suddenly and inexplicably felt like crying
. Casey had always allowed him to lean on her whenever he'd needed it, and he'd taken advantage of her generosity. He'd gone to her with every problem, from disastrous to trivial, but he'd taken his joys, his happiness, to Patty and to Beth. And when those relationships had become rocky and, eventually, failed, she'd given him her shoulder once again along with a gentle chiding and a lot of pampering.
Davey suddenly wanted to get out of bed and kick himself. Kick anything. But he had only enough strength to lie there and look up at her face. He knew that if he asked her to stay, she would call in sick for the rest of the day. She would do anything. And he would probably let her, and give nothing in return.
What does she see in me? he wondered.
You have no spine, Davey.
She was right. He suddenly saw that with a clarity that had, until then, somehow escaped him. If he had any spine, he wouldn't meet with Anya that afternoon. Or any afternoon.
She'd been so confident when he asked her if he would see her again.
Yes, she'd said with that smug smile, soon. You'll have to.
You have no spine, Davey.
“What's the matter?” Casey asked, squeezing his hand again.
Afraid his voice would crack, he spoke quietly. “Nothing. Just ... come back tonight. I'd like that."
She smiled. “I will. I've got a great story to tell you about Chad.” She laughed and shook her head. “He's such an asshole. Okay, gotta go. Stay in bed.” She backed out of the room, smiling. “'Bye."
The door closed.
The thought of Benedek's brother-in-law came to him, unsummoned. An image of slashed throats flashed before him and he curled into a ball on the bed. He began to shake; his arms and legs no longer seemed to be his own.
Surely the murders had had nothing to do with that man's visits to Live Girls.
For a while, Doris thought he was sick. He became pale...
A coincidence, that's all...
...lost some weight. She also thought he was seeing another woman...
It had nothing to do with him...
You like surrendering yourself like this, don't you, Davey? Anya had asked.
Surrendering...
Davey sat up on the bed and looked at the time. Still a couple hours before he was supposed to meet her. He had to ask her what she'd done to him, what she was doing. He wanted to see the bite mark on her neck. It had to be there! He'd just missed it in the poor light of the booth. He would go talk to her, but he wouldn't go into her apartment. Not again.
You have no spine, Davey.
He lay back on the bed, scared, confused, and trembling.
The seconds ticked by on the nightstand clock and three o'clock drew steadily closer.
Davey arrived at Anya's building at twelve minutes after three. Less than five minutes later, Anya slinked out of a cab at curbside. She said nothing as she approached him.
“I just want to ask you a couple of questions,” Davey said. “I don't want to go up."
She took his hand and led him to the entrance.
“I said I don't—"
Her eyes locked onto his as she turned.
“We can talk upstairs,” she said quietly, and led him inside.
Anya greeted the doorman pleasantly before stepping into the elevator. As the car rose, she said nothing, eyes front, holding Davey's hand.
There was a fluttering in his chest as the crotch of his pants grew tight. It angered him, but his anger and shame were lost in the touch of her cool hand, in the beautiful way she held her head, and in the smooth curves of her breasts and shoulders, her clean and unblemished throat....
They entered her apartment and she locked the door. Davey realized he felt better. The windows were still open and winter gusted through the apartment, but he felt warm and at ease, although he trembled slightly with anticipation.
Ask her, he thought. Ask her what's happening!
“I came to ... to talk to you,” he said as she turned to him.
Her coat fell at her feet, she stepped out of her shoes, and put her hands on his chest.
“I wan-wanted to ask you a, a question."
She began to unbutton his coat.
“What, what have you—"
“Shhh,” she hushed him, touching his lips with hers.
“But your ... your throat is—"
“Shh-shh."
Davey had the feeling of being caught in a vortex and sucked down a small, narrow tunnel as she began to touch him all over. His questions remained unasked.
When Benedek got home, he went to his desk, took his phonebook from a drawer, and looked up the number of Ethan Collier.
Benedek had known Ethan for seventeen years. He wrote an entertainment column for the New York Post in which he reviewed films, plays, nightclubs, and restaurants. He also hosted a local late-night cable talk show on which he interviewed celebrities and socialites.
Collier was six years older than Benedek, a very flamboyant homosexual who took pride in his position at the Post despite its reputation for printing less than the truth and leaning heavily on sensationalism.
“Hello,” Collier's voice said, “this is Ethan Collier. I am otherwise occupied at the moment and am unable to come to the phone. If I'm here, and if you're lucky, I will pick up before you cut the connection. If not, I'm either gone, or I don't like you. Thank you for calling."
“Pick up the phone, you aging faggot.” Benedek chuckled.
“Walter! My friend! How are you?"
“I'm getting by. How about you?"
Benedek pictured the fashionably thin, silver-haired man curled on his peach-colored sofa reading the latest Jackie Collins novel.
“I'm leading a very productive life, Walter,” he said, his voice soft and effeminate, “don't worry. I'm so sorry, it's been months since we've been in touch. I was going to call you and extend my condolences. I'm so sorry about your sister, Walter."
“Thanks, Ethan. I appreciate it."
“Are you holding up, my friend?"
Benedek winced, knowing that the man meant well. “I'm holding up, Ethan. I have a favor to ask."
"Anything, love."
“Ever heard of a place called the Midnight Club?"
“Of course. Who hasn't?"
“What can you tell me about it?"
“Well. It's definitely not for everyone. It's for those who prefer their entertainment a bit more ... oh, I suppose a bit darker than usual. It's expensive. Reservations aren't easy to get. To be quite honest, Walter, it's not exactly your style. Why do you ask?"
“I need to get in there tonight."
“Oh, dear, Walter. You're broadening your horizons?"
“You could say that."
“What would you like of me?"
“I need to get in. Tonight. Can you help me?"
“Well, I'm not sure. When do you want to go?"
“Early in the evening."
Benedek heard the man sucking on his teeth thoughtfully.
“Let me see what I can do. May I call you in a couple hours?"
“Sure. I'd appreciate it, Ethan."
“Nothing at all.” Collier paused. “Are you sure you're okay, Walter?"
“I'm fine."
“Good. Talk to you in a while."
“Thanks."
When Benedek hung up the phone, he was smiling. It was his first genuine smile all afternoon.
Davey felt suspended in a reddish mist; he lost all sense of time and, for a while, place. He became vaguely aware of his own voice: “...bleeding again ... what have you done to me?” but he couldn't tell if he was shouting or whispering.
When the mist began to clear, he felt as if he were waking from a heavy, dream-filled sleep. A smiling face with heavy-lidded eyes hovered inches above his own.
“I have to go back to work, Davey,” Anya said softly. “You can rest. I got tonight off at the club, so I'll be home by nine. You can stay here until then if you like, or you can come back. But be here."
Davey li
fted his head and watched her cross the room. She was fully clothed and buttoning her coat. He tried to speak, but his voice would not come; he could do no more than exhale.
“Remember,” she said, turning to him at the door, “it's very important that we be together tonight. We'll have the whole night, Davey,” she added with a slow smile. She turned and left.
The sheet was sticky beneath him. He sat up on the edge of the bed and looked down at himself. There was no blood, but he could feel the familiar sting. She'd probably cleaned it all off, like a mother washing her child. In fact, she seemed oddly motherly in other ways, too. Her kiss before leaving had been just a light touch of her lips with her hand resting gently on his chest, almost as if she were tucking him into bed.
The bedroom window was open and hazy daylight shone through the narrow space between the shifting curtains. The room's dimness was strangely comforting.
Davey's stomach suddenly cramped and he hugged himself and retched violently. Nothing came up.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, but the thought of food repulsed him. He put a hand atop the nightstand to brace himself as he stood. Before taking a step, he noticed a thick book with a black padded cover, like a photo album. Curious, he switched on the bedside lamp and opened the book at random.
A newspaper clipping was pressed beneath plastic. The headline read, DANCER WORTH THE PRICE OF ADMISSION. It was a review of a nightclub in New Orleans where Anya had apparently been a dancer. The critic praised her performance at length. But the paper was slightly yellowed.
Davey looked at the top of the page and saw the date: December 2, 1962. On the adjoining page was a photograph of Anya on stage in a dark bodysuit. She looked not a day younger in the picture than she did now.
Frowning, Davey flipped a couple of the stiff pages over. Another article and another picture, these from a Chicago paper dated June 8, 1956.
Davey exhaled slowly as he lowered himself to the bed again. This could not be the same Anya...
He turned another page, making his way to the front of the book. There was another article. San Francisco, May 12, 1949. The years had tinted the page a spoiled-fruit yellow.
He turned another. Los Angeles, January 24, 1946.
“What the hell is going on?” he breathed.
