by K. K. Beck
Melanie had now fetched a blanket, a homey sort of quilt that you might take on a picnic, and she spread it out on the stage, rather like a housewife throwing a tablecloth on the table.
“I've heard about these Canadian stripper bars,” he said. “They call that row of guys right at the edge of the stage gynecology row.”
“You're kidding,” said Jane.
Melanie crawled around on her hands and knees for a while, a maneuver that only someone with perfect breasts could carry off with any panache, keeping her spiked shoes up in the air, rolled over a few times like a puppy dog in front of the fire, and then lay on her back and spread her knees as if she were about to get a pap smear.
A foot in front of her, a customer shoved aside his paper plate with his hamburger and fries remains and lit a cigarette, gazing thoughtfully at her crotch.
“That guy looks like he's watching TV,” said Jane, horrified yet fascinated.
“Probably a regular. All numbed out.”
Melanie parted her labia and made a few unconvincing masturbatory gestures, before springing perkily up and folding her blanket neatly after the music ended.
The disembodied disc jockey voice suggested that with some applause, Melanie could be convinced to step into the shower. A round of polite clapping brought on a big smile, and she stepped over to the plumbing display and wet herself down with a European-style hand-held shower, rinsed out her hair, shimmied a little in the spray, sat on the edge of the plastic tub, bounced a little, acted playful and childlike in the water, then stepped daintily out and toweled briskly off like someone in a locker room and clambered neatly into her mall outfit once again. She walked out of the bar, carrying her little quilt, and looking once again like a sweet young girl, albeit with a slightly sulky expression.
The sight of the fully clothed, not terribly attractive customers stuffing french fries into their faces while they inspected Melanie's reproductive organs made the whole thing grotesque and silly. Melanie, however, did have a great body, and it was well lit. In fact, despite the tackiness of it all, her white young body managed to look pure somehow, even in the noisy, sleazy surroundings.
“Is it my imagination,” she said, bemused, “but is there something rather innocent, refined and Canadian about Melanie's act? She managed, somehow, to look like a virgin.”
He smiled. “I bet she isn't.”
Jane laughed. “Well, then she's probably preorgasmic.”
“Maybe. But these guys don't care.”
“Do I sound envious? I don't mean that at all. I just think it's interesting that she's too young to have much style. Maybe I'm kidding myself,” she said, “but I think my old retro torch act, in which I remained fully clothed and vertical throughout, had sexier moments.”
She realized as soon as she said it she sounded vain and defensive, when she was really feeling bemused and analytical—trying to make sense of it all.
“I'm sure you managed to raise the tension level in the room,” he said. “With your knowing sly moves, your voice, your fully clothed but very nice body”—he put down his beer and touched the tips of her fingers—“and your pretty hands.”
Had he thought she was threatened, envious, fishing for compliments? “Perhaps. But I doubt these guys would have bought it. You're very sweet,” she said, running her hand through her hair and trying to sound self-possessed. “Maybe I'm overanalyzing something very simple.”
“Melanie's act is simple,” he said. “Yours is more complex.”
He'd used the present tense. Was every woman on all the time, Jane wondered. Can we help it? Is it our fault, or theirs? Can we ever stop seeing ourselves through men's eyes?
But she didn't get a chance to think about it much longer. The DJ's voice boomed into the room. “And now, gentlemen, from Vancouver, returning to the Tip Top Club—I know you've been waiting for her—the very lovely and exciting Stephanie Chantal.”
“Brenda!” she whispered. She had indeed been waiting for her for a long time.
Chapter 33
Dorothy's mother didn't ask too many questions. She'd been as delighted as he thought she'd be. Calvin had simply called her. “Mrs. Fletcher? My name is Calvin Mason. I understand you have some papers you'd like served on Sean Carlisle.”
“Yes, yes,” she squealed. “Where is he?”
“I have reason to believe he's coming in on a flight from Denver this Saturday.”
Damn. Why had he told her that? But he supposed he had to come up with something reasonable, or she wouldn't think he could help her.
“I don't suggest you serve him yourself,” he said. “I'm an attorney. I'll make sure it's done properly.” He paused. “My associate, Mrs. da Silva, gave me the impression you aren't represented in this matter.”
“Not really,” she said cautiously.
“Well I'll just serve him, then we can talk about any further work you might need later,” he said casually.
The way he figured it, he could worm his way in there pretty easy. After all, he'd found the guy. No one else had been able to do that. A nice fat paternity suit, with a line of credit from Dr. Carlisle, might not be bad at all. Calvin was sick of these low-rent cases he always got mixed up in.
Now that it seemed Sean didn't have anything to do with Kevin and the murder at the Cox Pharmacy, he may as well try and salvage something. Calvin congratulated himself on his ingenuity.
“Uh, okay,” she said. “I've got it all here.”
“Fine,” he said. “You can drop it in the mail to me, or I can pick it up, if you want.”
“I can come by your office,” she said.
Calvin usually tried to avoid that since he didn't like people to know he operated out of his living room.
“Do you work downtown?” he said.
“Yes. In the Smith Tower.”
“Perfect,” he said. “I'll be in court tomorrow.” This was a big lie but it made him sound busy and professional. “I can come down at a break in the proceedings and pick it up.”
Now he was standing there at the airline gate, looking up at the monitor that said the flight was on time, when he saw Carlisle and his wife and daughter.
He ducked behind an espresso stand. He didn't know why he was being so cagy; they'd find out soon enough, but it was awkward.
He was skulking there, thinking about buying himself a latte, when he saw him. The guy who'd laid him away on Carlisle's lawn.
The man saw him too.
He came over to him.
“Hey buddy,” he said. “You aren't the process server, are you? No hard feelings, I hope.”
“Who are you?” said Calvin. A nice-looking woman in her forties and a sulky teenager with a baby on her hip came up behind him.
“Mr. Mason,” said the woman. “I'm Barb Fletcher. And this is Dorothy and Charlie. And my”—she grimaced a little—“my ex-husband, Norman.”
“Please to meet you all,” he said warily.
“Mom didn't want us to come, but I wanted to see Sean,” said Dorothy.
“And I wanted to see Sean too,” said Norman.
“Don't hit him the way you hit me,” said Calvin firmly. “It won't help your case.”
“Dad!” wailed Dorothy. “You hit him.”
“I thought he was that bum Carlisle,” said Norm shamefacedly. “He pulled out of his marked parking slot and I followed him to Carlisle's house.”
“Norman is a little overzealous,” explained Barb in a confidential tone. “He's been out of our lives for years, but when he heard what happened to Dorothy and this Sean being so irresponsible and all, he got himself involved.”
“That's sweet,” said Calvin, “but you'd better not go assaulting people from now on. There's some free legal advice for you.”
Dorothy checked her watch. “Shouldn't we be at the gate?”
“No!” said Calvin. “Let me handle this!”
But she had drifted off with the baby on her hip.
Calvin maneuvered around away from
the espresso stand. “Well, maybe you can help ID him,” he said.
He recognized Sean as he got off the plane. He was scruffy and unshaven, and he had a big duffel bag on his shoulder. The kid looked like he'd been to war or something.
Before his own parents and sister could greet him, Dorothy had made her way up to him.
Sean stood there, looking at Dorothy with a bemused face, then he reached out a hand. The baby reached out and touched him. Calvin hustled over there. “Sean Carlisle?” he said, slapping the papers at him.
A second later, the dentist and his wife were standing there.
“Sean,” said his mother, embracing him with tears in her eyes.
“This is Dorothy, Mom,” he said.
The dentist scuttled up looking horrified. Sean's sister had a nasty little smirk on her face.
Sean's mother looked down at the baby on Dorothy's hip and burst into tears. “He's beautiful,” she said.
Behind him, Dorothy's parents were whispering. “Just stay out of it,” said Barb. “Let them work it out.”
“Where have you been, Sean?” said Dorothy shyly.
“Wilderness survival camp. My parents made me. It's supposed to straighten you out. We killed weasels and stuff and ate 'em. It was awesome.”
He looked back down at Charlie. “I thought about this little guy when I was out there in the woods,” he said. “I thought about him a lot. I'm really glad you're here.”
Calvin felt his whole case slipping away.
Chapter 34
Brenda didn't look like the girl next door. She was smaller than Jane had thought from her photograph— but perfectly proportioned. But then, her old landlord Art Deco had said that she was too short to get a lot of dancing jobs.
She came strutting in wearing a turquoise blue beaded cocktail dress with long sleeves and pearl drop earrings— hardly the girl next door. More like the young trophy wife overdressed for a charitable event and unwittingly alienating all the first wives.
The dress was held together by one button on her hip. She undid it in a flash, slithered out of it and flung it dramatically down on the ground, raising up her arms in a vaguely Martha Graham gesture. She was now wearing a matching turquoise one-piece garment cut in a big scoop to and up the sides of both hips in back, and slashed in front to five inches or so below her navel. And, of course, she kept her five-inch spikes on.
Which made it all more spectacular when she executed a back flip. Brenda was no slouch when it came to athletic ability. The guys applauded appreciatively. Jane also reflected that Brenda was no dummy when it came to choosing a costume. Having seen her publicity shot, it was clear her legs were her strong suit—she had a dancer's body, all right—and her outfit showed off her best assets.
Unlike Melanie, she didn't smile. She had a purposeful, serious look on her face. Her choreography—undulating arms, high kicks, back bends—had a fluidity about it, and she knew how to hold her head and neck to create a long line. Flinging herself at the brass poles, she managed to get herself practically airborne as she twirled around them as if she were being lifted in a pas de deux.
“She can really dance,” said Jane.
“I told you so,” said Johnson.
The waitress came over to take away their plates.
“Excuse me,” said Jane, as the waitress picked them up. “Could you get a message to Brenda. Stephanie, I mean?”
The waitress looked suspiciously at the two of them. She probably thinks we want her for some kinky three-some, thought Jane. She glanced over at the stage. Brenda was on her knees, leaning back with her eyes closed, in a modern-dance-like attitude of prayerful ecstasy, and tweaking her small brown nipples back up.
Jane knew what Brenda would like. “I'm writing a piece for Dance Magazine about really good erotic choreography,” she said to the waitress. “I'd like to interview her.”
The girl shrugged. “Dance Magazine, eh? Is that the stripper magazine that comes out of Vancouver?”
“No,” said Jane. “It's a magazine out of New York, about all kinds of dance.” She wasn't sure it came out of New York. All she really knew was its name.
“I'll tell her. She keeps a lot to herself, though,” sniffed the waitress with disapproval.
“Tell her I think she's a serious artist, and would very much appreciate the chance to talk with her.”
The girl rolled her eyes. “A serious artist,” she repeated deadpan.
“You want some more beers?”
“Dance Magazine,” said Johnson thoughtfully after he had paid her, smiling nicely, and overtipped her by a blue five-dollar bill, and she left. “She'll talk to you. But she probably would have talked to that stripper magazine out of Vancouver too.”
Jane wasn't looking forward to breaking it to Brenda that she really wanted to talk about the Cox Pharmacy, but she had to make sure she got the interview. “If I told her her life was in danger she'd think I was nuts,” said Jane.
“That's right. You did the right thing. Sometimes, the truth just doesn't work.”
“I've discovered I'm a pretty good liar,” said Jane.
“You didn't fool me with that Persian miniature stuff,” he said. “But you're pretty good. It's a matter of finding the right button to push. With her, it's probably art.”
Brenda had shed her second garment and was now down to her shoes and earrings. She was bent over at the waist, tossing her thick, Scottish-looking mane of black hair around. Her skin was very white with a tracing of blue veins on her breasts. Jane suddenly felt very sorry for her.
Apparently, crawling around on all fours and pelvic floor work were part of the standard finale. Brenda enhanced it all with some balletic splits, then cartwheeled over to her clothes.
She slipped back into the dress, flung the Lycra number over one shoulder and clicked her way back through the bar on the spikes. Jane marveled at how she moved around in them. They must be glued to her feet.
She avoided any eye contact as she left. The guys gave her furtive looks. Melanie had smiled at the customers on her way out, and a few of them had said hello to her.
At the door out of the room, the waitress, a tray on her shoulder, leaned over and whispered to Brenda. She looked over at their table. Jane gave a little nod.
Brenda whispered something back to the waitress and went through the door.
The waitress took her time coming back to their table. When she did, she said, “You can go up and talk to her if you want. I'll show you the way in a sec.” She looked over at Johnson. “You'll have to stay, though. We just changed the rules. No guys in the rooms. We had a bad experience last week.”
“And now,” boomed the DJ, “we've got a talented amateur, dying to show you gentlemen just what she's got. Remember, Lorraine St. James, last year's Rookie of the Year, started out at an amateur night right here in Victoria. Do you think this young lady's got what it takes? Give Sylvia a real warm Tip Top welcome.”
Thankfully, the waitress came and got Jane just then. She didn't think she could stand to see Sylvia strut her stuff. She came on to the strains of “Shake That Body,” wearing a short, cheap red negligee and a terrified smile.
An unprepossessing young man with a scrofulous complexion, presumably her boyfriend, was egging her on from gynecology row. “Just like we practiced, babe,” he said, foreseeing, Jane imagined, years of sitting around drinking beers and watching his meal ticket shake her tits and grab her crotch.
The waitress pulled a key from her apron. As she unlocked the door she said a little defensively, “I clean up after them. It doesn't look clean but it is, it's just old.”
“What are they like to clean up after?” said Jane.
The girl clicked her tongue. “I had to clean vomit out of the tub yesterday. They're just filthy. There's no point having it nice up there, they'd just wreck it.”
She stepped aside and gestured up some narrow wooden stairs.
“She's in the room on the right.”
Jane bel
ieved the girl tried to keep it clean. There was a strong Lysol smell on the painted wooden stairs.
The hall was papered in ancient smudged yellowed wallpaper veined with silver. There were three wooden doors, one of which looked original. Jane knocked on the door to her right. She looked down at the worn seventies red and black tweed shag carpeting at her feet, which looked like it had been recycled from somebody's rec room.
On the wall, written in a schoolgirlish hand and framed neatly like a diploma, were the house rules. Jane read the first four.
