Chapter 9

In twenty minutes I was back on the corridor. It was almost six o’clock. Work was over and so the regulars at Dixie’s Pride would be showing up soon. I pulled my car into the lot across the street and looked the place over. Whatever Dixie’s Pride was, it wasn’t fit for pubic viewing. Like a lot of other bars on Route 1, it was an ugly pillbox, squat, flat roofed, windowless—just a brick box with a door and a name over it. A pleasure bunker. I got out of my car, locked it, took a deep breath and crossed the street. I’d spent too much time in places like this to be too thrilled with a return engagement. I opened the outer door and let it close. In the darkness I reached for the inner door and entered Dixie’s Pride. My brief attempt at accommodating my vision didn’t really help and I groped around the tables for a second, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the inky darkness. I found a table off to the left. It was centrally located where I could watch the door and also get a sense of the layout of the place.

The walls were covered with swirling stucco. I felt like I was sitting in the middle of a giant callus. There were mirrors imbedded in all the walls. The bar took up two-thirds of the right wall. Past that was the entrance to the kitchen where Quasimodo the chef was flipping his ashes into the soup. Virginia has a bizarre rule that you have to be a restaurant to serve alcohol. The only exception to this is a half dozen bars outside the Portsmouth Naval Yard that cater to crazed seamen. The result of this rule is that some of the worst food in the universe is served in Virginia taverns. They have to maintain a ratio of receipts for food and booze, so they have to move the slop. But what goes on in the kitchens is incredible. There are sixty-five bars on the strip of Route 1 that cuts through Fairfax County and plenty of them wouldn’t pass an inspection by Mr. Magoo, so somebody’s getting greased somewhere. I make it a cardinal rule never to eat in a Virginia roadhouse. It is to this I attribute my old age. Past the kitchen was the fire exit and the bathrooms, I guessed. Around the tables were the first round of regulars. Mostly construction workers by their dress, but a few of the white collar boys were present. I looked around for the front man who ran this place. He was sitting at a table in the left rear corner. He had wavy blonde hair combed straight back. Empty eyes, hook nose the size of an umbrella and a cigarette that hid under it. He was going to fat and his beginning beer paunch had forced him to keep his shirt buttoned higher than was stylish down here. He had a gold necklace on that either had his name on it in case he lost himself or some drivel like peace or love. He finished off with corded slacks and patent leather shoes. He didn’t look bad enough to be doubling as the muscle, so my guess was there was some monstrosity out back washing the dishes or eating them that they called on to arbitrate outbreaks of contentiousness.

The waitress found me and leaned over the table as she swept up the change and the old foam. She wore hot pants, a small halter top over large breasts and a look of terminal boredom.

“Want a menu?”

“No, just a beer.”

“Schlitz is on tap.”

“No. I’ll take a Bud.” I don’t even trust the taps. Not that they’d pollute the beer, just that they’d forget to put any beer at all in the system. The stuff is so watered it doubles as the sprinkler system for fires. I figure that anything that enters in a sealed bottle is a best bet.

A red spotlight came on over the stage and the entertainment began. A girl made her way to the stage. She climbed the staircase and daintily squatted with her knees together like some lush, overripe stork or heron and put down her drink. She sprinkled some baby powder on stage and scuffed her platform shoes in it. She unclasped her gown and let it slide down her arms and she draped it across the top stair. Nude except for pasties and G-string, she stood for a moment in silence with everyone’s eyes on her, waiting for the music to begin. She stared at her infinitely reflected image in the mirrored walls. I wondered if she thought she was looking at all her tomorrows. I doubt it.

When I was eighteen this was a thrill. I know the girls haven’t changed so I guess the change is me. I can barely stay awake in a topless bar and I have to watch what I drink. It’s not cool to fall asleep and snore at ringside. I’ve wandered through enough bars, massage parlors and hot-sheet motels looking for dreamers that I’ve had plenty of time to understand why the thrill is gone. A topless bar is no different from Disneyland, it’s just selling a different illusion. The problem is that it takes a great deal of energy to sustain an illusion for a roomful of strangers twenty minutes of every hour for eight hours a day, six days a week. The illusion is that your dancing is a form of foreplay and that you are dancing for each man alone. This requires uninhibited sexuality and great physical energy. If you can dance or are attractive, so much the better. A girl who could do this would be a genius of sorts. Instead you get the zombies who can’t hide that they’re just doing a fifteen-dollar-an-hour job. They’re about as exciting to watch as somebody electrocuting a piece of top round. They climb up on the stage and move lifelessly, their empty, glazed eyes locked on themselves in the mirror. They aren’t really on stage at all.

Then there’s the good old girls who may have the energy or be able to dance lively but they can’t accept the idea that they’re selling an illusion of personal lust for each and every guy. So they tell jokes and talk to the guys. It’s just like watching your sister, nothing to it. They try to bleach all the sex out of the experience as if you were judging the Shirley Temple look-alike tap dancing contest. Every once in a great long while there’s a girl who knows what she’s being paid to do—or maybe she doesn’t—and for a little while she has the energy, the passion. If she’s attractive and can move well it’s still the experience you had at eighteen. She’s a magician for a short time and you are the trick. Perhaps this is why hookers call sex a trick—they’re the magicians conjuring an illusion. I’ve never found one I could discuss this with. At least not for free.

I watched the first girl for a song or two, but I could feel an arhythmia setting in and went back to my beer. The second girl was everybody’s sister. I was beginning to get terrified of the idea of eight hours in this bar watching this “show.” I knew that by 2 A.M. I’d be declared brain dead. I had not seen my mystery boy come in. I hoped he’d show before my kidneys got up to leave. I was beyond nursing my beer. It was decomposing on me between sips.

The third girl walked up to the stage. She was built like some new breed of poultry: all breast and no back. She slipped off her gown and locked her arms overhead. She suddenly flexed her pectorals and her breasts jumped. She did a deep knee bend, which in five-inch heels is no mean feat, and came up, rippling her stomach and pelvis. The music began, something about “life in the fast lane” and she went to work. She swung her hips and ass from side to side, a metronome gone mad, and then did a deep squat. She bent over and pulled her tangled hair up from behind and wagged her tail at me, or so I felt. She stirred her pelvis clockwise and back again. She did a high kick and then a slow descent, as if sliding down an imaginary fire pole. She did a deep back bend, running her hands up the insides of her thighs, then across her belly. I watched her for a while as she made her way in a slow circular course during the song. She was meeting everyone’s eyes boldly and turning so as to give everyone a chance to believe she only had eyes for them. When she got to me I locked eyes with her, raised my beer in tribute and let a smile escape across my face. She winked and continued to turn as she danced.

I tried to figure how to get her attention without becoming memorable. The one sure way to get a girl to talk to you is to slip her some money between dances to show how much you think of her. If the “chemistry” is right she may sit with you between sets. I figured that, being paid at fifteen dollars an hour for her time, a five spot would show I was serious but not crazy. I finished my beer and took out a five, rolled it up and put it in the mouth of the bottle. She smiled and slowly licked her lips. I was mesmerized, a mouse dancing with a rattlesnake. Bending over, she picked the bottle up and rubbed it between her breasts. She put the bill in her mouth, slowly sucking it out of the bottle while twitching her butt at the other men. She stood up, folded the bill and slowly put it in her G-string between her legs, rubbing it from side to side. I could hear it singing “Nearer My God to Thee.” She winked at me again and went back to work.

I enjoyed the rest of her set and waited to see whether I’d scored or not. I had to remind myself that as much as I admired her talents she was selling illusions and I was buying hard, cold reality. In that area she could help me a lot or she could hurt me a lot.

She picked up her drink, slipped on her gown and made her way to my table.

She didn’t bother to ask if she could sit. She lit her cigarette and said, “I haven’t seen you in here before.”

“No, and believe me, it’s my loss, honey. You’re something else.”

“My name’s Jackie. What’s yours?”

“My name’s Sam. Sam Thornton.”

I wanted her and I didn’t. She was exciting but that would wear off pretty quickly. I knew that because I had followed my impulses before. Sex is not magic. As good as it can be, as soon as it’s over the world comes roaring right back at you unchanged. I know this. I’d chased long legs and big breasts for too long and had precious little to show for it. Accepting it was still not easy.

I’d push a little to get a name on my mystery boy, but not too much. If nothing came, I could always come back and wait for him to show. She was a perfect cover for my being a regular. I was smitten.

“You’re the best dancer I’ve ever seen, let me tell you.”

She smiled graciously.

“What other nights do you dance here?”

“Fridays and weekends. The other days I work at the Watering Hole.”

She slowly drew a pattern on my forearm with her nails. It was getting hard to keep on track.

“Is that the one in the motel?” The place had asbestos sheets to handle the turnover. The manager only wrote half the bookings in his ledger. If the IRS knew he’d have to answer a lot of questions. If his boss found out he wouldn’t get to answer any.

“Yeah. I dance and tend a little bar.”

“When do you get off here?” I didn’t know what I wanted her to say.

“One o’clock. But listen, man, I’m a wreck when I leave here. I just want to go home, soak my feet and hit the sack.”

“How about if I catch you after a day shift?” I guess I wanted a yes. I wasn’t sure I liked that.

“Okay. I’d like that. I’m on day shift Tuesday at the Hole. I get off at six.” She started to slide her chair back. I reached across and put my hand on her arm and whispered, “I’m looking for a guy who hangs out here. He wears a lion’s head earring, tattoo of a dancing girl. He handles some things I’m interested in. You know him?”

A razor’s edge came into her eyes. She looked at me as if a fog had lifted and the prince really was a toad. She pulled away ever so slightly and avoided my eyes. Stubbing out her cigarette, she said, “No, I don’t, but if I see him how can I get in touch with you?”

“My number’s 555-0088. Listen, I’ll see you Tuesday, huh?”

“Yeah, sure. Listen, I got to hit the head, straighten up. I’m on again in ten minutes.”

“Great.” She headed straight back to the bathrooms. I watched her set and then got up and left.

I went out into the cold night air. Wheels were turning. I was getting reactions. The next step would not be up to me but I would be ready. I’d wait a day for a contact and then go back to the bar to see if my wandering boy had come home.

I drove home wondering if Samantha would come over. I wanted to talk to her, to touch her. When I got in I cleared my service and got her message. I called her place. No answer. I stripped, showered and called my service. Nothing yet. I called Arnie.

“Arnie, Leo here. I think I have some work for you. Are you interested?”

“Tell me about it.”

“Remember I told you about that missing kid case I’ve got. Well, my reading of the guy she was last with is that while he may not be Charles Manson, he’s no gentleman. He sure didn’t bring little Randi Benson home after they shared chocolate sodas. I’m hoping for a meeting. It’ll probably be a setup and I’ll want you there for backup. If the meet is amicable just tail him.”

“When is all this going to go down?”

“Don’t know. Can you be on standby?”

“Yeah. If that changes I’ll call you.”

“Fine.”

I sat down at my desk and hunt and pecked out a report to Benson. I called him. No answer there either. Okay world, you don’t want to hear from me. Fine! I gave Samantha another chance. She flunked. I turned in.