by Walter Marks
I’d visited a few strip joints back in my medical school days. The places were different then. There was total nudity, and the strippers accepted money by having patrons insert the greenbacks in various orifices. It was better OBGYN training than I got in class. But those days were gone. This topless temptress was accepting tips only in her hands.
"Like a lap dance, honey?" I turned and saw a young, plump black woman smiling at me. She was wearing a silk robe.
"Not right now," I answered. "I’m just gonna hang out for a while."
"Maybe later," she said pleasantly.
I sat down at a table and sipped my drink, trying to get a feel for my surroundings. The room wasn’t large; it had maybe a dozen small tables in it. Only five were occupied. At two of them, girls were performing table dances — squirming and wiggling to the music, displaying their tits to their slack-jawed admirers. One woman was white, and the other was Asian. This place was definitely equal opportunity.
The three businessmen were at a table next to me, and the on-stage dancer stepped down from her platform to join them. They’d ordered champagne (New York State), which a waitress served in plastic flute glasses. The black woman took the stage and began to dance. When she removed her robe, I could see her thighs were a tad too Rubenesque for this type of gig. But she had a nice smile.
A male voice shouting "Yee-hah!" caused me to turn towards the businessmen. Their stripper was straddling the leg of one of them, dragging her hair back and forth across his face. Her breasts, which I now saw close-up, were silicone city — two melon-sized stationary protuberances mounted on a bony chest. There was a UV black light shining on the table, making her white g-string glow as if it were radioactive.
With his buddies urging him on, the man slid his hands onto the woman’s knees. She pushed them away, and waggled her finger, "naughty-naughty." She resumed her dance, and a few moments later, the lecherous hands were back, now heading for her crotch.
"No touching," she shouted. “Why don’t we go in the Party Room?”
"Aw, baby," the man whined, "I won’t tell if you won’t."
"Quit it.’
"C’mon...there’s an extra five in it for you."
Suddenly a dark shadow fell over the customer. I recognized Leo Hagopian instantly from his hulking form and boxer’s nose. Hagopian placed a huge hand on the trapezius muscle of the malefactor and squeezed it between two fingers.
"Like the lady told ya...no touchin’," he said in a disarmingly gentle voice. "You get one warnin’, then you’re history."
The man shook his head without looking up. Hagopian removed his hand and noticed me. He gave me a crooked grin. "Howya doin’, Sport?" he asked.
He was dressed in voluminous FUBU denim shorts, worn mid-hip — gangsta style. Over the shorts he wore a muscle shirt. He had shoulder length hair but was nearly bald on top. His thick, hirsute arms dangled almost to his knees. On one bulging biceps was a prison tat — a clenched fist with the slogan I AM FEAR ITSELF.
Fuck me.
He walked away before I could speak to him. I took another swallow of scotch.
"Hey, Red. You a real hunky dude. You want me dance for you?"
I winced. Hunky dude was okay, but I hate being called Red. The invitation was from the Asian girl, who’d settled her butt on the edge of my table. Her kimono flapped open, revealing small sagging breasts with the stretch marks of motherhood.
"My name Amy," she said. "I Korean...come from Seoul. If you want...I be your Seoul-mate."
She giggled.
"Okay, sure." I said. "How much is it?"
"Ten dollar a dance."
"How long is a dance?"
"Five minutes...we go by song. When song over...dance over. Unless we start near end of song, then you get little extra time."
"Do I pay you now?"
"Yes," she said. "Why don’t you gimme twenty, thirty so no interruption? Or we go in Party Room. Private. Nobody care what we do.”
“Right here is fine.”
I handed her two tens, which went into a pocket on the front of her kimono. Then she went to work.
Whatever she was doing, my mind wasn’t on it. All I could think of was groping her. Hagopian would come to break things up and give me a warning. That would be my chance to talk to him.
Amy was leaning over me, cupping her bared breasts and trying to brush her nipples across my eyes. I let my hands drift to her buttocks, and then squeezed. She pulled away.
"You stoppit, Red. Not allowed."
"Oh, okay."
She resumed her dance. She mounted my leg, and began pressing her thighs against my knee in rhythm to the music. After a few moments, I shot my hands around her and grabbed her ass.
"Hey," she cried out, "I told you...not allowed."
"Who’s gonna know?" I bellowed. Then I started laughing boisterously. Amy stood up and glared at me, hands on hips. Hagopian was there like a shot.
"Hey, Sport. You know better than that."
"Oh. Hey, I'm sorry."
"I don’t wanna hafta come out here again," the bouncer said menacingly.
"I didn't know the rules," I said. "I'm from the West Coast. Mind if I talk to you for a second."
"About what?"
I pulled out my Paramax Pictures business card and handed it to him. Then I made my pitch about being in town to do research for a movie about a strip club, and how would he feel about sitting down with me, giving me the benefit of his expertise?
"What kinda movie is it?" he asked.
"It's...a mystery," I replied. "About a stripper."
"Does she get murdered?"
"Yes."
"What's the movie called called?"
"Uh, 'The Naked and the Dead'."
"Good title," he said. "Who's in it?"
"Sharon Stone."
"Ain't she a little old to play a stripper?"
"Sharon plays a private detective."
"A chick PI," he said. "I like it."
I offered to buy him a drink at the bar. He said fine but he’d be a while ‘cause he had to go settle a dispute between "two coozes" in the dressing room.
"In the meantime, why’n’cha let Amy here wiggle on your woodie?" the bouncer suggested. "I'll meet you later out in the bar." He turned and walked away.
Amy began running her fingers through my hair. "You relax," she said in a sexy voice. "I take care of you."
Again I paid little attention to her moves.
Okay, Hagopian bought my story — so I'm halfway home. Now if I can only handle the situation at the bar...
Suddenly the aura began — my face started tingling; there was a growing numbness in my right arm. I stared at my hand; it felt like it was growing larger... Shit — Migraine.
Amy’s naked breasts were dangling in front of my eyes. They broke up into zigzag patterns, shifting like forms in a kaleidoscope.
Oh God, not now.
But the migraine was enveloping me, the pain throbbing in my left temple. Amy’s cloying perfume wafted into my nose. I felt queasy.
"That’s enough," I shouted.
"You pay one more song," she said, dry-humping my leg.
"I said that’s enough."
I felt a squeezing in my groin, and looked down to see Amy’s hand rubbing my genitals.
"God dammit," I yelled. "Get your hands off me."
She didn’t stop. "Aw, c’mon, Red...don’t be uptight stick-in-mud. I told you...I your Seoul-mate."
Her fingernails tweaked my testicles, and reflexively I shoved her off my lap — hard. She went tumbling and landed awkwardly on her side. Coruscating lights bombarded my eyes; I couldn’t get my bearings. The music was pounding so loud I feared my eardrums might burst inside my skull. I felt myself being dragged out of my chair, then a sharp pain ripped through my right shoulder muscle.
I heard Hagopian’s voice. "Let’s go, Sport." He had my arm jammed up my back in a hammer-lock, and was force-marching me towards the rear exit.
Wha
t happened next was a blur. I was shoved down a dark hallway and out into an alley. The hot, torpid night air made me feel like I was entering Hell. Hagopian pushed me against a brick wall, and drove his fist sharply into my gut. I collapsed to the pavement, clutching my abdomen.
"Go back to Hollywood, you piece-a-shit," he said. Then he laughed and turned to re-enter the club. Hearing Hagopian’s mocking laughter, I was filled with unreasoning rage. A rush of adrenaline hit me.
"Fuck you," I yelled without thinking.
The bouncer whirled and looked at me. I struggled to my feet.
He let out a grunt and rushed me. I threw a punch but he grabbed my fist in mid-air like a baseball. Then he grinned at me and squeezed till the pain buckled my knees. His own large fist plowed into the side of my face, crushing cheek against teeth. I could feel blood filling the inside of my mouth as I fell.
I saw his fist coming again but twisted my body and rolled out of the way. Staggering up, I backed into a row of steel garbage cans. I seized one by its handles and flung it at Hagopian. He deflected it and I heard it clang as he came at me.
He shot his arms under my armpits, and lifted me in a punishing bear hug. I felt myself being swung in the air and then crashing to the pavement.
I tried to get up, but Hagopian pushed me down. He dropped on top of me, straddling my torso with his massive thighs. I reached up towards the big man’s face, slashing with my fingernails — like the desperate Agnes Rivera. But his arms were too long, and he laughed as my nails gouged thin air.
I felt the bouncer’s hands encircling my neck. His fingers tightened, closing off my esophagus. I tried to scratch my nails into his arms, but my fingers had no strength. They fluttered softly against Hagopian's skin — a caress before dying. My vision grew dim...
I heard a Big Bang.
The hands around my throat loosened, and I gratefully sucked in lungfuls of air. Hagopian fell back, clutching his right shoulder and howling in pain. I heard a woman’s voice, "You okay?" It was Laura Hecht.
She came into my field of vision, holding the smoking Desert Eagle in a two-handed grip. Behind her was Amy, watching in amazement.
I pulled myself up to a sitting position and said I was okay. My voice was hoarse and constricted. Laura knelt down beside me, keeping her gun trained on the writhing Hagopian.
"Lucky for you I messed up," she explained. "While I was waitin' in your car, I noticed my cell phone was out of juice. I realized you wouldn't be able to reach me, so I went into the club to see if you’d tried to call. When I couldn’t find you, I started screamin' that I was your wife, and where the hell was that no-good red-headed jerk anyway?"
She pointed to Amy. "This nice lady directed me back here."
I saw a splash of liquid fly through the air, and looked over at Hagopian. The bouncer screamed. A geyser of bright red blood was jetting out of his shoulder.
"He’s hemorrhaging," I said. "It’s his brachial artery.” I crawled over to Hagopian and yanked up his muscle shirt. I pressed the heel of my hand firmly against the first rib, compressing the artery against the bone. The blood stopped spurting. Meanwhile, Hagopian had passed out.
"Good work," Laura said with admiration.
"You too. You’re a helluva shot," I replied, keeping pressure on the bouncer’s chest bone.
She groaned and stood up; her sexagenarian lower back obviously ached from bending over. "One of my Mafia informants once told me if you wanna put a hurt on someone without whackin’ him, shoot him in the knee-cap. But Hagopian was on his knees so I went for the shoulder. Same general effect."
"Laura," I said. "Thanks."
"Hey, I did what I had to do. Just like you did."
"Yeah," I said sadly. "But I screwed up. I didn’t get Hagopian’s DNA."
"Sure you did," Laura said. "Check out your clothes."
I looked. My jacket and shirt were covered with Leo Hagopian’s blood. I grinned at Laura, who’d turned to Amy.
"Do me a favor, Hon'," Laura said. "Call 911 and tell 'em to send a squad car and an ambulance." Amy nodded and went back inside.
I switched hands and kept pressing on Hagopian’s rib. My jaw was beginning to ache, my hand hurt and I could feel my lower lip swelling. There was pain radiating from my abdomen, and my left cheek was bruised and sore. But — my headache was gone.
"You need to go to the hospital," Laura said.
"Yeah, But EMS'll go to St. Vincent's 'cause it's closer. I prefer Bellevue. Would you mind driving me?"
"No problem."
We heard a moan, and saw Hagopian was coming to. Laura pointed the gun directly at his crotch.
"Try anything, asshole, and I'll blow off yer schwanz."
I was sure Hagopian didn't understand Yiddish. I was also sure he knew exactly what Laura meant.
She gave me a satisfied look. "Well, David," she said, "With any luck, we’re in bid-ness."
CHAPTER 32
I was released from Bellevue Hospital Center late the next afternoon. Ed Sorenson had gotten me a private room and supervised my care. I was really banged-up, but after a night on Vicodin, all I needed now was Tylenol. The main discomfort came from bruised ribs, sutures inside my cheek, and a fat lip.
In the bathroom mirror, my face was not a pretty sight. The left side was black and purple from jawline to temple, my lip was three times normal size, and one cheek looked like a chipmunk storing up nuts.
I wondered how Kim would react to my new look. Our relationship seemed to be progressing, but for now kissing was definitely out.
Earlier in the day Laura arrived to brief me on what to say when the cops came to take my statement.
As she advised, I told the detectives exactly what happened at the club. I didn’t lie, or leave anything out; any half-truths or inconsistencies would weaken the prosecution’s case against Hagopian when it came to trial.
Since my behavior at the club was designed to trick Hagopian into giving me a DNA sample, the defendant's lawyer would undoubtedly argue entrapment. A weak defense, Laura said. She was willing to bet the jury would find Hagopian guilty of assault and attempted murder. Factoring in his prior convictions, he’d get the max — 25 to Life. In any event, she could still use his DNA from my bloody clothes to nail him for Agnes Rivera’s murder — what we wanted in the first place.
The detectives were satisfied with my story, and told me to send a written deposition to the DA, which would be sufficient for indictment.
Laura said she’d get right to work on obtaining Hagopian’s DNA sample from my clothing, which was being held as evidence.
“There’s a lotta red tape,” she said, “Remember, we’ve gotta get Agnes Rivera’s body exhumed.”
“I know. What are the chances?”
“I don’t know. But. David — I got my ways.”
She reached over and touched my hand.
"One day soon, God willing," she declared, "Leo Hagopian is goin’ down. And Mister Janko’ll be walkin’ out that prison gate, free at last...great Gawd a’mighty...free at last."
"Laura," I said, "You’ve been incredible. I don’t know how to thank you, except...to say thank you."
She looked at me thoughtfully. "Well," she said, "You could thank me another way, if you’re up for it."
"Name it."
"Well, the kind of cases I get often involve convicts. Sometimes I could use a psychological profile, 'specially when I think somebody’s handin' me the malarkey. Could you do that for me?"
"Glad to," I said, "But I should warn you — I’ve been known to make mistakes about people."
“Same here. You shoulda seen my first husband.”
Laura said she’d go down to the hospital garage and get my car, while I got ready to leave. We’d meet in front of the main Bellevue gate. On her way out, Laura handed me a Brooks Brothers shopping bag.
"This is for you," she said. She was gone before I could thank her properly.
I opened the blue and gold box inside the bag. It containe
d a white Oxford button-down shirt. 16-34. Perfect
I got dressed in the new shirt, thinking about Laura Hecht and all she'd done for me. I felt a warmth and closeness to her that seemed strange. But the emotion wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. It was just — I hadn't felt it for a long time. Since my mom died.
Bellevue is on the East Side, so I decided to drive back to Vanderkill taking the FDR Drive, then crossing the Triboro and following the Major Deegan/Route 87 north till it intersects with the Saw Mill River Parkway.
I missed seeing my houseboat and thought for a moment of visiting it, but it seemed pointless now, and I was anxious to get back to Vanderkill and see to my patients.
It was a cloudy afternoon. A drenching rain had cooled things off and cleansed the city’s streets. There were still puddles on the highway, and my Checker rode through one with a splish-splash. It was a happy sound — like a child dashing through the surf at Coney Island.
As I drove past Yankee Stadium, the sun broke through the clouds. Across the Harlem River, in the brilliant sunlight, I could see the red brick housing development on Dyckman Street — where Agnes Rivera had been murdered. I thought about Victor Janko and hoped he’d soon have a chance at a new life. With his painting talent, and some solid guidance, Victor would do okay on the outside.
I'd discussed his case with Dr. Sorenson. Ed said he’d work with Victor at Bellevue, if he’d return to New York when he got out. I felt sure Victor would agree. After feeling so defeated about messing up Victor’s chances of parole, I might actually do one better and prove he was innocent. Maybe I wasn’t so bad at my job after all.
By the time I hit the Saw Mill River, my lip and cheek began to throb; the medication was wearing off. And I was getting a dull headache; not a migraine, but a garden variety type the Tylenol could easily handle. I took two gelcaps from my shirt pocket, and swallowed them without water.
As the drug started to work, I thought about my migraines — how I hated being at the mercy of them.
