Miss Ku’s was located in the 9th Arrondissement, in the heart of tourist Paris, but stashed away on a narrow backstreet where most people wouldn’t see it. Where it belonged. A pink and lavender neon sign over double matte-black doors proclaimed the club to be “international.” It featured a nude girl on her back resting on her elbows with her feet pointed seductively. She flickered in the moist air that hinted at more rain.
When Maggie entered the club she was overwhelmed by more glaring pink and lavender neon strips around the top of the bar, making her squint as the bouncer, a big guy with a spiky haircut and a barbed wire tattoo around his muscled bicep showed her to a table at the front of the stage. John Rae and a slight young Turk in western garb were watching a slinky Asian woman in a leopard skin bikini and high heels dance badly to a ’70s disco number. The song vocals seemed to be centered around a woman moaning the word more orgasmically.
Apart from the woman onstage and similarly clad waitresses strutting around under flashing lights with trays of drinks, Maggie was the only female. She sat down in a low puffy vinyl seat, trying not to think of who or what might have preceded her, and gave John Rae a shake of the head.
“Imagine my disappointment, JR.”
John Rae returned what might have been called a shit-eating grin. “Not nearly as disappointed as I am. She’s a terrible dancer.”
“I can see you blushing, dude, even with all this damn neon.”
He shrugged, signaling for a waitress. “If it makes any difference, you’re the most striking woman here. And you’ve still got most of your clothes on.”
John Rae turned to introduce his friend, who was now watching Maggie with his hands clasped tightly together in front of him. He had dark skin and piercing eyes, and wore a loose blue track suit and brilliant white Adidas sneakers that reflected the black lights placed strategically around the room. A reserved flat line of a mouth gave little away.
“Maggs, this is Abd Allah. I call him ‘Bad’ since I can’t really pronounce his first name. And he is pretty bad to boot.”
Bad stood up, leaned over the mirrored table to shake hands with Maggie in a most formal manner. “I am very sorry to hear about the loss of your friend,” he said in perfect English.
Bad seemed to know Maggie’s recent history, which meant JR trusted him enough to tell him.
“Do I really call you ‘Bad’?” she said.
“Others do. I am fine with it.”
“Call me Maggie,” she said.
“Bad is ex Millî İstihbarat Teşkilatı,” John Rae said as they sat back down.
Turkish intelligence. Ex. Interesting.
“Now where is that waitress?” John Rae said.
The leopard skin woman was twirling on a brass poll in a haphazard manner, using centrifugal force to propel her around as she held on for what seemed to be dear life.
A woman with dramatic black bangs down to her eyes appeared. A gleaming shock of red lipstick accentuated what looked to be a permanent pout. She wore a red mesh see-through bikini that left little to the imagination. The only part of her not exposed were her lower legs, which were encased in black PVC platform boots.
They ordered drinks and she slouched off.
The music changed to whimsical and the Asian dancer exited the stage to a smattering of applause. The DJ announced a special international act. A rotund swarthy woman in an orange clown wig hopped up onto the stage, grunting at the effort. She wore a purple and white polka dotted dress and purple sneakers.
“I yam ‘Little Annie Fannie’,” she said in heavily accented English. “But I yam not so little, eh?” She pointed at an Asian man in a three-piece suit sitting in the front row, trying to slither down in his chair. “Not like you, eh? I bet you are little in quite a few ways, eh?”
One lone guffaw bounced from the back of the room.
“You know,” she continued, “My ’usband, ’e ask me: ‘why don’ you dirty talk to me during sex’.” Annie patrolled the stage with the microphone in her fist, glaring at the patrons. “I tell ‘im: ‘It’s because I don’ ‘ave my phone handy, eh?’”
Laughter, but not much.
“Oh, you fuckers don’ like sex? Or you just never ‘ad it?”
Maggie turned to JR as she sipped a watery Black Russian. “Is there a good reason you came here, JR?”
“Believe it or not, there is,” John Rae said, drinking from a long neck Heineken. Bad sipped a bottle of Perrier. “He’s just running late.”
“I live in anticipation, then,” she said.
“Wait no more,” John Rae said, looking over her shoulder to the door.
Maggie turned to see an older man, slim but fit, gray crew cut and gold-framed grannie glasses, giving John Rae a nod as the front door shut behind him. He wore faded blue jeans and a dark floral shirt under a black ribbed motor racing type jacket with zip-up pockets. He approached them in a sprightly manner, defying his sixty-plus years.
“I do apologize for being late,” he said in good English tinged with a German accent. “I can blame no one but myself.” He had his share of wrinkles and crags but light blue eyes to carry it all off.
He reached out to take Maggie’s hand as they all stood up.
“Dieter Fromm,” he said. “You must be Maggie. So very nice to meet you. Again, my apologies.” He held her hand the entire time he made his introduction but it didn’t feel as creepy as it might have. Despite his relaxed manner, there was a military bearing about him.
“’Ey, old fart!” Little Annie Fannie shouted at him with a screech of microphone feedback from the stage. “Don’t talk when I’m doing my jokes.”
Dieter turned to the stage, bowed. “So sorry, mademoiselle. Please allow me make it up to you in some way.”
“Oh, you will,” she said, flashing her thick eyebrows. “You will.”
“I only ask that I don’t have to take you to dinner. I’m not sure I could afford it.”
More laughter.
Annie placed a hand on her ample hip. “I don’t see what else you got to offer, Siegfried. Not unless you been doing push-ups with your tongue.”
Even more laughter. Random clapping. Another serious guffaw from the back of the room.
“Touché!” Dieter gave Annie a lazy salute and sat down. “Whose idea was this anyway?” he said, looking at Maggie. “Yours?”
“I’m drawn to the ambience,” Maggie said. “And the intellectual repartee.”
Dieter sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Let’s get serious, shall we?” He rubbed his hands together. “La Ferme.”