Night of the Living Deb

by Susan McBride

  Oh, boy.

  I’d run that one through my mind a couple hundred times already, and it still sounded awful, any way I phrased it.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat, assuring myself I’d have the situation ironed out before the night was through.

  Then Brian could come home, and everyone could return to their regularly scheduled lives.

  Man, how I hoped that was true.

  I double-parked the Jeep alongside a shiny black Escalade that easily took up two spaces in front of the Taco Diner, and I honked the horn lightly, noting Allie was right where she’d said she’d be: under the eaves, sipping from a plastic cup and chatting with a blond-haired guy in a Tommy windbreaker. (Not that she said she’d be flirting with anyone, but I wasn’t surprised.)

  Another toot of the horn—which sounded a shrilling duet with the horn of the Audi behind me, no doubt wanting me to move my double-parked butt pronto—and Allie finally glanced my way. I watched her palm a card off on the unsuspecting gentleman before she scurried my way, climbed up, and hopped in with a, “Whew, did you see him? Wasn’t he hot?”

  I doubt Mother Teresa had ever hit on anyone before one of her missions of mercy. Allie needed a little more practice apparently.

  She could’ve used a few instructions on backseat driving, too, for as soon as we got going, she was giving me heat.

  “Oh, no, don’t go that way, do it this way, Kendricks,”

  she commanded, and wagged a finger to point out her shortcuts until we were safely on Northwest Highway and heading west, toward our target.

  Obviously, she knew the route by heart.

  I didn’t want to ask how.

  She sipped her margarita and blabbed about some of the less than stellar men who’d done her wrong, obviously her attempt at a sisterhood-type bonding, but I didn’t even have the generosity of spirit to feign interest. All I could think about was Brian and what was going on with him.

  Nothing I could come up with was anything less than anxiety-provoking on any level.

  Instead, I tried to focus on the road ahead, on the surroundings and the far from picturesque scenery, though my thoughts kept skipping in.

  Under the Marsh Lane overpass we went.

  What was it my daddy used to say? That there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel, but sometimes it was the headlamp on a train?

  To my left, a generic-looking Walgreens squatted beneath the looming presence of a Jack Daniel’s billboard.

  Did Brian drink too much, do something stupid that he woke up regretting? That rendered him too guilt-ridden to call me?

  Planes with blinking lights multiplied against the dark blue sky as we neared Love Field.

  Did he let some big ol’ jet airliner carry him too far away? Did he have a blond bimbo packed in his suitcase?

  Auto lots with No Credit signs abounded.

  If he’d skipped out without leaving me so much as a Dear Andy note, he’d better not plan on coming back.

  I caught the flickering red letters of a Family Dollar.

  What’s a broken heart worth these days? Did it even rate a buck?

  Shabby edifices with neon advertisements for “restaurant” and “buffet,” missing letters like a poor man’s version of Wheel of Fortune, minus Vanna in sequins to jazz things up.

  I’d like to solve the puzzle, Pat. The phrase is, “My boyfriend abandoned me for a stripper.” I won, I won! So what’s my prize? A trip for one to Loserville?

  The Jeep zipped past Webb Chapel toward Harry Hines, passing countless liquor stores, gas stations, and Mexican places. A bingo parlor with a churchlike steeple flashed blue and pink neon.

  What if something happened to Brian? I should be praying that he’s okay, not envisioning him living out Paul Simon’s “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover.” Unless he jumped on the bus, Gus, or made a new plan, Stan. He had no key, Lee, so he could set himself free pretty damned easily.

  A Jaguar dealership sat right next door to a Best Western.

  Could be we were just too different to pull this off.

  Maybe Mother was right. What if Brian and I were avoiding discussions of, um, anything more permanent than what we had because we both realized subconsciously that artists and lawyers don’t mix any better than oil and water?

  That we’d been doomed from the first?

  “It’s there, Andy,” Allie piped up from beside me, flinging a pointed finger into my peripheral vision. “Take a left about half a block.”

  I saw an IHOP, and farther up the road, the sign I’d been dreading and seeking. I nudged the blinker.

  “Got it,” I said as a left arrow click-clacked on the dash, and I turned into the driveway that took us toward a pink stucco wall with a sign that declared, the men’s club. A pair of ornamental lions perched on either end, intended to add a touch of class, I figured, as if that would do the trick.

  Minispots illuminated the pale pink façade. Strands of tiny white lights rimmed the roof. As I pulled around to the porte cochere where valets awaited in white shirts and dark pants, Allie let out a dry laugh and remarked, “Oh, God, I still remember when Brian first brought me here. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected. No, scratch that. It was pretty much just what I’d pictured, so it was kind of a letdown.”

  When Brian first brought her here? Malone had taken her to a strip club?

  “C’mon, Kendricks, wipe the stricken look from your face,” the Blond Menace said, and lightly smacked my arm. “I asked him to do it. It wasn’t his idea or anything.

  In fact, he tried to talk me out of it. But I just wanted to see. I was curious. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  Um, actually, no. I didn’t.

  I’d lived nearly thirty-one years of my life without the desire to go inside a place where women took their clothes off for money. I didn’t even want to traipse inside this one on this particular night, but I had no choice.

  “You and I are very different, Allie,” is all I said, a huge understatement.

  “You think?” came her sarcastic reply, and I bit my tongue to keep from uttering another word, likely one I’d regret.

  As tempting as it was, I wasn’t about to play the superior game, not when she was doing me a favor by being there. Much as I hankered to pin an insult on her skinny tail, it didn’t seem right.

  The pimple-faced valet didn’t look any too surprised to see two women in the Jeep when he opened the door for me, while I let the car idle. I’m sure he’d seen everything several times over.

  “Be gentle,” I said as I left the key in the ignition (minus the rest of my key ring) and scrambled down and out.

  “Have a good evening, ladies,” he drawled, and I expected a salacious wink but didn’t get one. Neither did he comment on the dusty state of my Wrangler, despite it being outclassed by the shiny Jags, Mercedes, and Beemers waiting in line behind it.

  As far as I was concerned, that valet had already earned his tip.

  “C’mon, Kendricks. Let’s go.”

  I swallowed hard, tucking my purse tightly under my arm as I followed Allie up the steps, toward the doors, trying to keep my jaw from dropping as I noted the front windows on the right-hand side were filled with naughty lingerie.

  What kind of men shopped at a strip joint, for Pete’s sake?

  Geez, but I’d led a sheltered life.

  “Yo, girl, pick up the pace,” Allie called, already at the door and holding it wide. “There’s nothing to be scared of, for God’s sake.”

  Oh, really?

  I wondered if Brian had felt as discombobulated when he’d walked up these stairs to enter The Men’s Club with Matty, or if it had seemed more matter of fact for him, something that guys did every once in a while, sort of a rite of passage, a male-bonding thing.

  No biggie.

  Just dropping in for a few hours to ogle naked women they didn’t know.

  Andy, Andy, Andy.

  I chastised
myself, feeling so damned judgmental.

  Honestly, was it any different than my going to the

  Chippendale’s? Although those guys didn’t do the full Monty, merely unwrapped everything but the package. It was a dance revue, albeit a slightly risqué one. But nobody did any lap dancing, not really.

  Okay, okay, so maybe I’d even been in a vaguely compromising position with a sweat-drenched, partially clad male dancer who shall remain nameless (because I had no clue what his name was); but it wasn’t the same. Was it?

  Besides, I’d gone home last night. I hadn’t disappeared and left behind rumors that I’d run off with a bimbo.

  “Kendricks! Snap to!” Allie barked again, pulling me through the doorway with not a little force, as a pair of college-age boys made impatient noises behind us.

  Could she blame me for dragging my heels?

  Allie smartly held me aside and let the pair in their SMU sweatshirts pay the pretty hostess at the podium.

  Beyond, another pair of thick doors awaited us, and I glimpsed the lights and noise within as the back-patting buddies practically skipped their way inside.

  Then it was our turn.

  “How much?” I asked the overprocessed blonde in the bulging bustier.

  When she told me, I balked, but Allie clapped a hand on my shoulder, reminding me to pull myself together.

  Before I shelled out the cover charge for each of us, I removed a photo of Malone that I’d tucked in my bag. I passed it over to the hostess, who glanced at me like I was a stalker, or a downtrodden wife looking for a stray husband.

  “You’re not a cop, are you?” she asked instead, and a burly bouncer who’d been standing on the sidelines moseyed on over, like things had suddenly gotten interesting.

  Allie tensed beside me and shot me a look, like, “What the hell is that about? You want to get us thrown out?”

  But I didn’t care.

  “No.” I shook my head. “I’m just trying to find my boyfriend. He was here last night with a friend, for a sort of two-man bachelor party, only he didn’t make it home and no one seems to know what happened to him.”

  The bouncer glanced at Brian’s picture, the frown on his face unchanged.

  Apparently disinterested in my plight, he wandered back toward the double doors.

  The hostess sighed. “Sorry.” She passed the photo back.

  “Can’t say as I remember the guy. You know how many men pass through here each night?”

  I figured it likely even beat the answer to, “How many inches of makeup am I wearing?”

  I didn’t want to know.

  “If anything comes to mind, maybe you could call me,” I said and fished for a business card in my purse, which I dutifully handed her. “I have money, so I could pay for any information you recall.”

  “Money?” The tip of her tongue slid along her lips, and I could tell I’d pushed the “greed” button. “How much?”

  “Depends on how helpful you are,” I said while she stared at my card. “Anyway, spread the word around, okay? And thanks for your time,” I told her, though she’d been no help at all.

  “Hey, miss . . . um, hostess person.” Allie shouldered her way up to the podium. “You know if Lu’s working?”

  she asked the Guardian of the Cover Charge, something I probably should’ve checked on before we’d driven all the way down to this mangy spot on the map.

  “Lu McCarthy?” The made-up mask of a face appeared skeptical. “You a friend of hers? Don’t believe I’ve seen you around before.”

  “Yeah, we’re friends,” Allie said, faking it like the professional liar she was. “Though I don’t come here much, sorry. Not really into eyeballing the home team.”

  “Ah, well, your loss.” The Hostess with the Mostest grinned. “Lu’s around. Her shift’s till closing. Go hang by the bar and you’ll find her fast enough,” she offered, before she ignored us entirely and bestowed a wide grin on a tribe of already inebriated fellows noisily stumbling into the foyer.

  “Hop to, Nancy Drew.” Allie took my arm and tugged me toward the double doors, and I felt my heart beating hard enough to jump through my rib cage.

  Only the thudding wasn’t all my heart, I realized, as Allie pried open the portal to Stripper World and shoved me in.

  Chapter 8

  Music assailed my ears, the bass thumping palpably through the air, and I felt its pounding

  in my chest, keeping pace with my frantic pulse.

  I stood stock-still for a long moment, drinking in the place: the blue lights punctuated by green flashes of laser; the sight of a lone female, working a boa on a brightly lit but tiny stage, completely ignoring the pole. There was a bar to my right, and a raised area to my left where people moved in shadow.

  Barmaids in tiny corsets and skimpy skirts sashayed back and forth between the bar and the sea of tables, and ladies (should I call them “ladies”?) with pasties over nipples or flat-out bare-breasted, sauntered this way and that, clearly looking to make a few extra bucks by various and

  sundry means.

  Across the room, a pale rump raised itself from a tabletop, and a man pantomimed spanking. There were any number of lap dances in progress, and I found myself watching, like a rubbernecker would a car wreck.

  Good God, was this really playing out right in front of my eyes?

  Could it get any more surreal?

  If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn I was on a movie set. Real life—my real life—seemed so far removed from this.

  So this is what a purportedly high-class strip club looks like, I reasoned, my brain assimilating what my gaze took in, wishing I could see the fun in it; but the sole description that came to mind was, Ick.

  No, Double ick.

  No wonder Gloria Steinem looked so tired. If this was part of what she was fighting, she had no time to sleep.

  “Hey.”

  I don’t think I blinked until Allie toed me with a pointed pump.

  “Yo, Kendricks, let’s make this quick, okay? You’re looking pretty green, and I don’t think it’s the lighting.”

  I did feel a bit queasy.

  Normally, I’d be the one barging into a situation, using any means necessary to find the answers I was seeking.

  Only something was different this time. It was as if a part of me was afraid that the answers might be ones I didn’t want to hear. What if I was in denial and this was the beginning of the end for me and Brian?

  I couldn’t bear to consider it.

  Thankfully, Allie didn’t wait for me to take the initiative.

  Instead, she took the reins and headed straight for the bar. I tagged along behind her, not moving quite so quickly, disconcerted by my anxiety as much as by the barrage of ZZ Top’s “Pearl Necklace” on my eardrums while a redhead—literally, red as the stripes on the flag—shook her booty on the stage. I wondered if her mother had a clue where she was working or what shade of Miss Clairol she was using.

  By the time I caught up with her, Allie’s attention had homed in on a brunette in a red bustier, approaching with a tray of empties. As the bartender had stopped ragging the bar to point a finger directly at this particular serving wench, I had a pretty good feeling it was Lu McCarthy.

  My insides clenched, and I hovered at Allie’s elbow, waiting as the barmaid sauntered up and plunked her tray atop the ledge.

  “I’m on break, Cricket. Be back in ten,” she said to the bartender, loudly enough so he could catch her words over the music.

  Cricket?

  The guy was as burly as a linebacker, with a shaved head and eyebrows that resembled mating caterpillars. I could even make out a tattoo, or at least the angled tips of a winged critter—I’m guessing a hawk or an eagle as opposed to Big Bird—wrapping around his thick neck.

  “Hey, Lu? It is Lu, isn’t it?” I heard Allie say, before I even considered opening my trap. “Any chance my friend and I can chat with you a spell
? We’re hoping you can help us.”

  The fierce-looking bartender chirped—and I mean chirped, which might explain the “Cricket” thing—“Girlfriend, they want to chat with you ’bout that dude you saw leave with Ms. Trash.”

  Ms. Trash? I mused. Man, the folks around here had weird names, but maybe that was part of the ambiance.

  Lu looked blank, or else she was doing a damned fine impression of Little Orphan Annie.

  “Guy looked a little like John Cusack in his Say Anything days, only with glasses,” the bartender added to jog her memory.

  I squinted, trying to picture Malone as John Cusack, or the reverse. I didn’t see it. I’d always thought Brian had more of a Tom Hanks “aw shucks” quality.

  “With a touch of Matt Damon from Good Will Hunting,”

  Cricket added. “He had that brainy look to him.”

  Okay, I’d give him that.

  “Oh, yeah, that dude,” Lu said, apparently recovered from her brush with short-term memory loss. She turned from Cricket and gave me a chin-jerk. “So your man never made it home?”

  “No,” I said, squirming in my shoes. “The friend he was here with last night, Matty, said he paid you to go backstage after Malone. He told me you saw him leave with a woman.”

  “Yeah, with a girl who works here.” Lu took a long look at me. She had a nice face with large brown eyes and short dark hair. “He really hasn’t turned up since then?”

  “No,” I got out, my voice scratchier than a wool sweater. I was still having trouble believing this whole

  scenario was real, when it felt anything but.

  “So he’s missing, huh?” the suddenly talkative barmaid continued giving me the third degree. “Like that TV show with the FBI guys who’re really hot?”

  “Um, I guess, sure.” Except no hot FBI guys were involved in this hunt for Malone, just me and Allie Mc-Squeal. “He’s, um, kind of been out of touch since last night,” I said, and felt that lump in my throat return, though it had never really left, not since I’d talked to Matty.

  Lu threw a glance at her pal Cricket before she addressed me again. “Look, hon, I don’t know you, and I’ve got no right to tell you this, but the dude’s obviously a jerk. Maybe you’re better off,” she said and crossed her arms over the swell of breasts that overflowed the tightly