Catch a Falling Knife

by Alan Cook

  Albert was instantly on his guard. “If you need my help, it’s probably illegal, immoral or involves driving at night.”

  “The latter,” I said, “and possibly one or both of the formers. Have you ever heard of a place called the Club Cavalier near the Crescent Heights campus?”

  “No, and I’m wondering why you have.”

  I told him about the girl in the Administration Building.

  “What is her relationship to this case?” Albert asked.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “In fact, I don’t even know her name. But she does work—part time, since she’s a student—in the same area with Ms. Priscilla Estavez, head of the Sexual Misconduct Office.”

  “That proves nothing, except that she isn’t very loyal to this Estavez person. Why would she be giving you information that might help Mark?”

  “You’re asking good questions. It proves that when I trained you in analytical thinking, it took.”

  Albert had to smile and he used a softer tone when he said, “I suppose what you want me to do is go to this bar and look for this Shooting Star, whatever or whoever it is.”

  “It’s a club, not a bar. And the Shooting Star is a she.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I called Club Cavalier and said I had a friend who wanted to see the Shooting Star. I was told that she would be performing Monday evening. And I want to go with you.”

  “Mother, that’s not going to happen.”

  Albert put on his most defiant attitude. He thrust his chin forward, just as he had when he had been a boy, questioning the authority of his parents. He had looked cute then. He still looked cute, even with an expanding waistline and thinning hair.

  “Do you want Mark’s career to be over before it starts?” I asked.

  “Bars are rowdy places where men get drunk, use bad language and behave in a disgusting manner. It’s been years since I’ve been to a strip joint. And you’d be as out of place there as a cat at a dog show.”

  “Do you want Sandra and Mark to get back together again?”

  We went back and forth like that for a while. Finally, I wore him down. He said, “If we don’t go and Mark’s hearing ends up badly, you’ll blame me. At least we’ll take my truck. That’s more macho than your old Mercedes.”

  Chapter 6

  Albert and I arrived at Club Cavalier about 7:30 p.m., after dark. A scattering of vehicles inhabited the parking lot in front of the building, leaving plenty of room for more. Well, it was a Monday evening. Albert’s pickup truck didn’t look out of place among the older cars and trucks, although I also saw a couple of late-model cars and a SUV. However, I didn’t see a vintage Mercedes, like mine.

  One side of the building was painted with pictures of scantily clad women in alluring poses, but nothing you couldn’t see on TV or in women’s magazines. I wondered if places like this were having trouble keeping their clientele with all the other options available. I had heard stories about what was on the Internet.

  Albert led the way inside and paid the cover charge for both of us. The overweight man who took the money glanced once at Albert and decided not to check his ID. He didn’t even look at me. We stood for a few seconds just inside the door, letting our eyes grow accustomed to the dim light.

  Smoke from a dozen cigarettes curled lazily upward, creating a smog layer that stung my eyes and my nostrils. For many years now smokers had been banished to hidden corners where they furtively inhaled and I had forgotten how obnoxious the smoke could be. Loud noises that I guessed passed for modern rock music filled the room and a spotlight highlighted a girl who went through a series of contortions on a raised stage, involving a vertical pole rising from the stage to an overhead beam.

  As my vision improved I saw that she wore nothing above the waist and only a G-string below. The G-string didn’t look much different from the thongs that girls today wear under their clothes and even in plain sight on the beach, except it was decorated with sequins. On her feet she wore the tallest heels I had ever seen.

  Her ample breasts bounced in time to her movements, which were supposed to be erotic, but to me looked humorous. The platinum-blond color of her hair led me to believe that she wore a wig since only a few people, mostly from Scandinavia, have hair naturally that color. Even Sandra’s hair was a few shades darker.

  Men sat at small tables near the semicircular stage, which had a brass rail around its edge. It would have been difficult for them to touch the dancer, had they an inclination to. However, customers reached out and placed bills on the stage from time to time.

  Albert took me by the elbow and led me to one of the small tables well away from the dancer. I guess he didn’t want me putting money on the stage. A young waitress, clad in a short skirt and a low-cut top, instantly appeared. She eyed me as Albert shouted an order at her; I stared calmly back at her. She made her way through the tangle of tables, changing direction like a frightened rabbit, but returned quickly, carrying two glasses of beer on a tray. Albert gave her several bills. I couldn’t hear her thank-you because of the din.

  The song ended and the dancer bowed to weak applause—the room was sparsely populated—and a few cheers masquerading as catcalls. She picked up the bills from the floor, held them up in acknowledgment and disappeared behind a red curtain at the back of the stage.

  The noise level was greatly reduced with the music gone, for which I was profoundly grateful. I looked around at the other patrons. They were all men—I was apparently the only woman customer—but I had expected that. Their ages ranged from college-age to grizzled, with most in between. I realized that I had too small a sample to draw inferences from, but I suspected that most of the college boys came on Friday and Saturday nights.

  Some men sat alone and stared into their beer glasses; others sat in groups of two or more. I felt sudden pity for the loners. Was this their idea of a social life? Were they living in a fantasy world because the real world was too—sad? Judging from some of the expressions on their faces, the fantasy worlds couldn’t be much better.

  All the men were well behaved, almost docile. Even when the dancer had been on stage I hadn’t seen anything approaching rowdy behavior. It wouldn’t do me any good to watch Albert’s reaction; he wouldn’t lift an eyebrow with me there. The place must get a lot livelier later on. But between the brass rail on the stage and the doorman, who probably doubled as a bouncer, I suspected management was prepared to handle anybody who misbehaved.

  I happened to see the dancer reenter the room through a doorway on one side of the stage. In addition to her G-string she now wore a skimpy top. She swaggered directly over to one of the tables, took a middle-aged man by the hand and led him back through the same doorway. I quickly nudged Albert to get him to look in her direction and said, “Where is she taking him?”

  Albert looked over in time to see them together, thought about what to tell me for a bit, then said, “She’s probably going to do a private lap-dance for him.”

  “Is that what it sounds like?”

  “Yes, but there are specific rules. The dancer can touch the customer, but the customer can’t touch the dancer.”

  “Or he’ll get his arm broken.”

  “At least he’ll get kicked out.”

  “So it’s completely under her control.”

  “Yes.”

  Just as men were becoming more and more under the control of women in all phases of life. As exemplified by the sexual harassment policy at Crescent Heights College.

  The ticket-taker picked up a microphone and announced the next dancer. As dissonant music reverberated around the room a clone of the first dancer popped out through the curtain and started to gyrate. Her blond wig wasn’t as blond, but if anything, her breasts were larger. Did the customers become bored watching different versions of the same girl?

  As eight o’clock approached more customers arrived. The tables around us filled up. I began to wonder what I could learn by watching the girl called the Shootin
g Star. If I had dragged Albert all the way here for no reason, he would be upset. He was upset about having to bring me here, anyway, although I had a hunch he secretly enjoyed the dancers.

  The clock over the bar showed two minutes after eight when the ticket-taker picked up the microphone and announced in a loud voice, “And now, what you’ve all been waiting for. Club Cavalier proudly presents the Shooting Star.”

  I guess I was expecting another big blond Barbie-doll, but the girl who came through the curtain was petite, with bright-red hair—and she wore a mask. My next surprise was that she was dancing to a song I recognized: an old Perry Como tune from the fifties called “Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes.”

  Even though the laid-back barber sang it in an upbeat tempo, it was as out of place here after the music of the other dancers as a hotrod would have been in the parking lot, but she made it work. She glided effortlessly around the stage, barefoot, and then did a series of gymnastic maneuvers, ending in an aerial back-flip. I noticed that when she unhooked her bra, shrugged it off and tossed it back toward the curtain, all eyes were on her, including Albert’s.

  Her breasts were smaller than those of the other girls. They were obviously her own. They were the breasts of the girl next door, but these days the girl next door had probably eaten too many Big Macs to have the body definition she had. She reminded me of when I had been in school and almost all the girls were thin.

  The Shooting Star got on the pole, twisting around it like a snake while flashing colored lights painted her body. At one point she did an upside-down split while hanging onto the pole, completely off the stage. Then she did the same thing facing the other way. She mesmerized the audience. These moves revealed most of the mysteries of being a woman, in spite of her scanty G-string.

  I studied her red hair, which was probably the only false thing about her, and wondered how it stayed on. Then I looked at her mask, which covered not only her eyes but also her forehead and the upper part of her cheeks. Was that just for show, to add to the intrigue, or was she really trying to hide her identity?

  She finished her act with another gymnastic run and another back-flip. I held my breath, fearing that she would either hit the pole or catapult herself into the audience, but she had complete control of her movements. She received the loudest applause and most cheers of any of the dancers. There were so many bills on the stage that it took her a while to collect them all. While she did several men yelled, “Take off the mask.”

  Her brightly lipsticked mouth smiled, she waved to the audience, money and bra in hand, and the curtains swallowed her. I looked at Albert. He stared after her, his mouth slightly open. She had affected him so much that he had forgotten to hide it.

  “I’m going to the restroom,” I said, and stood up before he recovered enough to respond. I made my way to the doorway with signs indicating that men’s and women’s rooms (thank goodness) existed in that direction. It was the same doorway I had seen several of the dancers take men through for lap dances.

  I used the women’s restroom—the beer was getting to me—and as I came out I noticed another door, leading to…where? The lap-dance area and the dressing rooms? I opened the door and entered a dimly lit hallway with music blaring from hidden speakers.

  I closed the door behind me and glanced to the right. I saw what looked like openings to several cubicles. The head and bare back of one of the girls suddenly appeared out of the first one, her hair flying, her body gyrating. She disappeared and then reappeared and bent over backwards until her hair touched the floor. Her naked body was toned with muscle, but still feminine, and I had to admit that she exuded an animal eroticism. I hoped her victim—or customer—was enjoying her attentions.

  I turned the other way and saw brightness. I went around a corner and found myself at the entrance to the dressing room. I looked inside; the walls were hung with the traditional mirrors, surrounded with naked light bulbs. Several of the girls sat in front of mirrors, in various stages of undress, working on their faces. I looked around for the Shooting Star, but none of them had her body type, with or without a mask.

  One of the blond dolls spotted me in the mirror, turned around and said, “Well, howdy, Grandma. Are you the new dancer?”

  The others guffawed and I smiled, saying, “I’m looking for the Shooting Star.”

  “You and the rest of the whole friggin’ world,” the girl who had greeted me said. “She ain’t here.”

  “But she just came offstage a few minutes ago.”

  “She came through here just like her name—ssswishhh—she almost always does that, and went out there.” She pointed to a door with an Exit sign over it.”

  “Isn’t she doing another show tonight?”

  “Oh, she’ll be back. She comes waltzing in here about ten minutes before her gig, wearing this gigantic jacket with a hood and her mask. Underneath, she’s wearing her costume so all’s she has to do is take off the coat and she’s ready to go on.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Honey, nobody knows her name. She’s about as friendly as a mud fence. I don’t think even Lefty knows her right name.”

  “Lefty? Is he the guy who takes the money and announces the dancers?”

  “Naw, Lefty’s the boss. Stays in the back and counts the money. When he’s not in here copping feels.” The girls laughed. “Makes sure we always get screwed out of our rightful share. Why are you so interested in the Star, anyway? She’s just a stuck-up little slut, getting her jollies by provoking the customers we worked our asses off to get. She’ll be gone in six months when something else grabs her attention.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I think you’re all great dancers. And thanks for your help. My name is Lillian, by the way.”

  “I’m Cherub,” the blond said. “This here’s Francie, Dixie and Jewel. Sounds like a friggin’ law firm.”

  They all laughed and I joined them. “Do you have a…business card or something, Cherub?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I do, as a matter of fact.” She dug around in her purse and produced a slightly creased card, which she handed to me. “You writing a book or something?”

  “It’s an idea. In any case, I need to talk to the Shooting Star. If you learn any more about her, would you give me a call?” She agreed and I wrote my name and phone number on the back of another of her cards. Then I said, “Well, I’d better get back out there. My son will be wondering where I am.”

  “Not many mothers would bring their sons to a place like this,” Cherub said. “Is it his birthday or something?”

  “Something like that. At the age of 49 I think he’s old enough to start noticing girls.”

  Chapter 7

  I spent every spare minute on Tuesday trying to figure out how to get back to Bethany and Club Cavalier. I was convinced that the Shooting Star was Mark’s accuser, but how could I prove it? And if I did prove it, how would it help Mark? He certainly couldn’t bring it up in his own defense because the reasoning of the adjudicating panel would go something like this: Mark knew victim was a topless dancer, thus thought she was “easy” and had no qualms about harassing her.

  If what Cherub said was true, Club Cavalier needed a harassment policy—to protect the girls from the owner. Perhaps Priscilla Estavez should take that up as a cause.

  I had vague thoughts of blackmailing Mark’s accuser so that she would drop the charges against him. Evidently, she didn’t want her identity known, for whatever reason. It probably wasn’t only because she was a student, although that must be a contributing factor. I had heard of other girls who had worked their way through college as strippers and even as prostitutes. I suspected that most of them didn’t tell any more people than necessary about their secret lives.

  I couldn’t impose on Albert again. When I had returned to the table after talking to the girls, I hadn’t told him where I had been because I knew he wouldn’t approve. And he certainly wouldn’t have anything to do with lying in wait for the Shoot
ing Star to try to prove her identity.

  It had been a wasted evening, as far as he was concerned. At least that’s what he said. I wondered, however, if seeing the Shooting Star, with her youth, freshness and unabashed eroticism, had fanned some dormant spark of manhood inside him, which apparently couldn’t be reached by his girlfriends, none of whom seemed to particularly excite him. I could always hope that he would find somebody to love, and get married again—and not end up a lonely old man.

  In mid-afternoon the phone rang. I immediately recognized the voice at the other end as Albert’s. Since he rarely called me during the day I wondered whether something was wrong. “Where are you?” I asked.

  “At work,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you that our innocent little foray last night got me into trouble.”

  “Trouble?” I said, puzzled. “What kind of trouble.”

  “I got an e-mail from one of my colleagues. It seems that some guy in Bethany has created a website for the sole purpose of posting the license plate numbers of people who visit the strip clubs there.”

  “Huh? I don’t understand. What in the world would he do that for?”

  “I guess he doesn’t like strip clubs or the men who patronize them. Probably considers himself morally superior to the rest of us.”

  “I don’t like people who feel qualified to tell me what to do.”

  “I know that, Mother. But you’re not the one with the problem. I am.”

  “Does anyone really care what you do with your free time? I can see that it might elicit a few laughs around the water cooler, but what can they do to you? After all, you have tenure. There isn’t some policy at UNC that says you can’t go to nightclubs, is there?”

  After blowing off some more steam, Albert had to admit that being caught going to Club Cavalier wouldn’t really do him any harm. I guessed he was just using this as a way to try to put me in my place, whatever that was. However, he gave me an idea. “I take it you know how to find this website? Could you give me the information?”