Chapter Thirty-One

Salomé, Salomé, dance for me. I pray thee dance for me. I am sad to-night. Yes, I am passing sad to-night. When I came hither I slipped in blood, which is an evil omen; and I heard, I am sure I heard in the air a beating of wings, a beating of giant wings. I cannot tell what they mean.

—Oscar Wilde

After the deputy sheriff left, Von laid the restraining order upon the coffee table, poured himself a double whiskey, drained it, then read the document again. He threw the empty glass and it shattered against the wall. He couldn’t believe she would do something like this on her own. Someone must have pressured her to do it. But who could have this much influence? Her redneck lover? Her girlfriend? Did they really think that a piece of paper would stop him from being with his Caitlin? Maybe Caitlin just needed some space and time to see the error of her thinking. Fine. He would give her that. But he was not one to turn the other cheek to those who damage his relationship with her. No, his cheek did not know how to turn.

He drove to downtown West Monroe. Inside the coffee shop across from the gallery, Von watched the gallery. He drank coffee, then ordered lunch, then after he had eaten the spicy Cajun Po Boy, he ordered more coffee and waited. When he saw Caitlin and Melissa leave the gallery, he threw his money to the table and stepped to the door. As their car pulled out of sight, Von studied the gallery. A dark-haired, fair complexioned girl was the only worker in the gallery. He crossed the street and walked into the gallery.

“Hello,” she said.

“I haven’t seen you in the gallery before,” Von said.

“I’m not here often. My name’s Bronwynn.”

Von, amazed at how personal and open Southerners tended to be with strangers, popped a cigarette in his mouth. “Can I smoke?”

“Oh, not in the gallery. Let’s step outside and I’ll join you. I could use one myself.” Bronwynn picked up her purse.

“At last, I meet a woman who understands the joys of tobacco. Do you have a light?”

“Sure.”

She handed him a book of paper matches. On the cover was a black silhouette of a naked girl, and underneath the girl, the name of a club: The Mer Rouge Lounge. Von lit his cigarette and handed the matches back to her. “Thanks,” he said.

“You keep them. I’ve got plenty.”

“I was hoping to talk to Caitlin. Do you know when she’ll return?”

“I’m sure she’ll be gone the rest of the afternoon. She’s helping her boyfriend move in with her.”

“On her boat?”

“Yeah. You know Caitlin?”

“Yes, I do. Well, I must be about my business. I’m sure we will speak again.”

****

Bronwynn’s tips were good that night at the Mer Rouge, but the fast pace of the evening had worn her out. When she came down from the dance floor after a set, the floor manager met her.

“You got three table dances lined up with those men over there,” he said. He pointed to three men sitting at the end of the bar to three men—two white and one black. They were dressed in suits and had a bottle of champagne on the table. They had the look of moneyed men. One was the man who had stopped by the gallery earlier. She cursed under her breath. Monroe was certainly too small a town.

“They asked for you specifically by name. Your real name, not your stage name.”

“I’m tired. I want to shower and get ready for the closing dance.”

“The dances are already paid for.” He slipped three twenty-dollar bills into her hand. “They said there’s a lot more for you if you’re interested. You can take them to the VIP room and give them a little extra if you want. I’ll even cut off the security camera if you’d like.”

Bronwynn wondered how much money the three men had given the manager to set this up. The manager didn’t care what his dancers did away from work, but in the club he had a “no extra’s given” philosophy.

“How the hell do they know my real name?” Bronwynn asked, but then she remembered telling the man earlier her name, and that she had given him the matchbook. “A table dance is all anyone will get from me tonight. I’m tired.”

“Suit yourself. But whoever they are, they’ve got a pocketful of money. So just get your skinny ass over there.”

In the dressing room, she slipped on a halter-top and a pair of shorts over her G-string, then walked to their table. “Hey guys, I heard you might want a table dance.”

“We might. First, sit down and let’s talk a minute. My name is Von. Biko, Rilke, this is Bronwynn. She’s a friend of Caitlin’s.” He pulled out a chair and slapped a hundred-dollar bill on the table. “That’s just to talk to us and let us buy you a drink.”

“Sure. I’ll take a large gin and tonic.” Von? The man Caitlin was trying to shake?

Von signaled a server to come over. “I guess you’ve figured out who I am by now. I can tell by your face that Caitlin’s been talking about me.”

“I really don’t have a lot of time,” Bronwynn said as she sat down in the vacant chair between Von and Rilke, “We’re going to close soon. If you want a dance, we’ve got to get on with it. So do I dance for you one at a time or all at once?”

Von chuckled. “I don’t want a lap dance.”

She slid the hundred back to him. “Well, you just keep your money because you won’t get anything else from me tonight.”

Von took his wallet from his jacket and replaced the bill. “Suit yourself. Though, if I really wanted sex, I’d get it elsewhere.” He looked at Rilke. “You know what they say about strip clubs—the place where you can get screwed but never laid.”

“So if you don’t want a lap dance, why the hell did you ask for me? I don’t sell drugs. I’m really not a good counselor. I don’t play the talk-dirty-to-me game. If mama’s not good to you gentlemen at home, I really can’t help that. I’m tired, so I probably won’t be the kind of company you want.”

He leaned forward, then slowly and deliberately said, “I want you to take Caitlin a message. She needs to reconsider my offer. I want her to come with me to New York, then back to Africa. I’ll be in Monroe until next Saturday. I expect her decision by then.”

“Von, you must not know Caitlin as well as you think. I know she doesn’t want to go anywhere with you. You’re wasting your time.”

“She will see me, and she will go to New York with me.”

Von’s face grew hard and stern, and his words were spoken with a fierceness that frightened her.

Now, Bronwynn remembered where she had seen his face—he was the white man in Caitlin’s paintings. The Merchant of Blood Diamonds. The same one who had wanted to marry Caitlin even though they hardly knew each other. The one who had inundated Caitlin with phone calls, letters, gifts, and demands. The stalker who had forced Caitlin to file a restraining order.

“Caitlin is afraid of you now. You’ve come on too strong.”

“You are mistaken. She’s not afraid of me. She’s just confused and pressured by others to avoid me.”

“If I were her, I’d be afraid of you. From what she told me, you’re suffocating her. I’m claustrophobic, so I understand the feeling.”

“If you were her, your fear might be warranted. But you’re not her; you’re nothing like my Caitlin.”

“Screw you.”

Biko hissed like a snake, then said, “Maybe we should take her and lock her in small, dark room. She be nice to us then.”

“You men are creepy, but you don’t frighten me,” Bronwynn said.

“Biko’s joke was inappropriate.” Von leaned closer to her. “Actually, I sense you are afraid, and you should be. But don’t be ashamed of your fear, Bronwynn. We all have our private terrors, little neurotic phobias that sting us like scorpions. Some have more than others.”

Bronwynn stood up. “You are so full of yourself, so full of shit.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Bronwynn. You regret sharing with me anything personal. You don’t understand why you did it. You’re used to controlling the conversation with the drunken losers who come to this club, men who can’t even get an erection, who drop money on this stage or slip it in your garter because it makes them think they’re still men. But they’re not men, Bronwynn. Not anymore. They’re losers who have wasted their life. You know it every time they whisper how beautiful you are and what they’d like to do to you. Do you think a man who could get a decent date would be here on a Saturday night? I doubt it. And you yourself—it’s probably difficult for you to get a decent date, isn’t it?”

“So why are you here, Von? Does that mean you can’t get a date? You sure won’t get one with Caitlin.”

“I’m not here to find a woman like you. I knew you were a friend of my fiancée, and that you worked here and I wanted you to tell Caitlin that I’m running out of patience.” He thumbed through several hundred dollars bills. “I could be very grateful for your help. Just persuade Caitlin to be more open to reason and to meet me again.”

“Fiancée? You’re kidding me. You must be insane.”

“Perhaps, I am insane. Perhaps you don’t know Caitlin as well as you think you do. Carry my message to Caitlin. After you dance, you can leave, Bronwynn.”

He and the others turned their attention to the stage. It was suddenly like she was a non-person, someone who wasn’t there at all.

The three men were still at the table when she danced, downing Tequila shots and draining beers as fast as the waitress could bring them a new tray. She felt uncomfortable stripping before Von’s leering eyes, and she tried to dance in areas away from their line of vision.

The three grew louder and more obnoxious with every round of drinks. When their waitress taking orders refused to return to their table, the manager walked over and told Von they would have to leave if they didn’t settle down.

“I apologize,” Von said. “We just got a little carried away.” He handed the manager a twenty. “Send the waitress or a dancer with one more round, then we’ll be on our way.”

As Bronwynn finished her last set before the grand finale, Von dumped a handful of change on the dancefloor. “This tip is especially for you, Bronwynn,” he called out as they walked toward the door. “I’ve known gutter whores who could dance better.”

She knelt, scooped up the change, and pelted their backs with the coins. “Sorry sons of bitches! Caitlin said you were a psycho!”

“Bronwynn!” the manager shouted. “Settle down.”

“Losers!” she shouted. “And you better not bother Caitlin anymore!”

****

After Von, Rilke, and Biko returned to the hotel room, Von once more went over his itinerary. Biko watched the television, engrossed in Rambo: First Blood on HBO, and Rilke was brooding, nursing his drink.

“What’s on your mind, Rilke?” Von asked.

“Von, America is not like Africa. I’m worried that you’ve gone completely daft over this American girl. Forget her. Forget her boyfriend. Let this matter slide. We’ve wasted too much time here, and if you get any crazier about her, you’ll screw up our business deals. Let’s get out of Hickville and get back to work. I know you’re picking up the tab for this, but watching you chase this girl is boring.”

“He is right, mon,” Biko said. “Biko is watching too much TV. Makes him crazy and stupid.” He took a puff of a cigar. “And Von become soft, like boy who cries when little girl calls him names.”

Von felt his face redden. “All right. Give me one more week.”

Rilke set his glass on the table and stood up. “Naw. I’m going to New York for a few days, then back to Freetown. I’ll see you there when you get this girl out of your head.”

“Wait a minute, Rilke.” Von looked at Biko. “You remember what you told me about the Lebanese girl? That if I wanted her, I should kill the man and take her?”

Biko smiled. “Ah, but this Caitlin is not Lebanese. She will not be wife who obeys. I do not think she will come with you, even if you kill her man.”

Von looked out the curtained window. It was late and the traffic on Louisville had slowed. “She will come. I just need to be more persuasive.”

“How, Von?” Rilke said. “She’s a horse that hasn’t been meeked.”

“Rilke, tomorrow I’ll rent a car. I want you to take it and go to New Orleans tomorrow and deliver one of these diamond parcels. I also have a contact there whose specialty is creating identification. I want new identities for each of us—in our business, one never knows when he might need one. And just in case she proves to be difficult, I also want one for Caitlin. I’ll drug her and drag her ungrateful pretty little ass all the way back to Africa if I have to.”

He opened his briefcase and handed Rilke passport photographs of himself and Caitlin. “My contact can use these for the passports. Biko will stay with me and help me tidy up things here. By the time you finish your business, we’ll be ready to go.”