William Bernhardt - Dark Eye

He staggered through the narrow corridors, his mouth dry, searching for a spot with an open seat and a modicum of oxygen. The music, the smoke, the cachinnation, and the Caligulan revelry all assaulted and oppressed him. Most of the rooms had stages upon which young women removed their clothes in time to the rhythm of that relentless music. He saw one stage-he couldn’t help but look-with an uncommonly limber woman spread across the floor, twisting and writhing like a snake, hands flat, breasts pressed against the stage, her thighs locked around the head of a middle-aged man in a blue leisure suit. In some of the smaller, more private alcoves, women performed one-on-one, straddling the men’s laps, rubbing themselves against their patron’s personal areas for his despoiled gratification.

He was tempted to run outside, retrieve the axe from his truck, and bring them all to account for their crimes against decency.

But that was not the plan. He pressed his hand against his forehead, forcing himself to maintain focus. He had a destiny to fulfill, and he would not shirk it.

He found an empty chair wedged between two young men in matching shirts, both in the throes of lap dances. He tried to make himself comfortable, but the girls on either side constantly poked him with their stiletto heels or other protuberances. They giggled, smiled, then returned to their business. Their business.

A woman wearing a red lace teddy appeared before him. She had no concept of personal space-or perhaps she did-and stood so close to him that the tips of her fairly enormous and probably artificial breasts touched his face.

“You look as if you could use a friend.”

He tried not to stammer as he spoke. “We could all use a friend.”

“I’d like to be yours.” She had vivid red hair-not natural, he felt certain-parted in the center, and a mole strategically positioned just below her lower lip. He rather suspected that wasn’t natural, either. She appeared to be about twenty, which in this place made her a senior citizen. “Can we do business?”

“I’m looking for a girl.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m looking for a particular girl.”

Her smile faded a few notches. “Don’t be put off by the laugh lines, Skippy. I’ll rock your boat like it’s never been rocked before.”

“I’m sure, my dear, but-”

“Just give me a chance.” She pressed a knee into his lap and leaned closer. “I know what you want.”

“I don’t believe you do.”

“Trust me.” She squeezed.

“Stop that!” His voice came out much louder than he intended as he slapped her hand away. Fortunately, the music was so thumpingly loud that even his immediate neighbors did not notice. He took several deep, cleansing breaths, trying to regain his genteel demeanor. “Listen to me. I am looking for a specific girl who works here. Her name is Lenore.”

The redhead arched an eyebrow. “You like them young, don’t you?” She pulled away. “What else is new? Give me a minute, slick.”

He waited. While he did, the young man to his left apparently reached climax, shouting and bellowing and putting a very satisfied expression on the face of the purposeful titian-haired teenager who climbed off his lap. Money changed hands, a lot of it.

And then he saw Lenore. She was an Asian girl, as he’d known, but her hair was dyed blond. Or perhaps it was a wig? She was much smaller than her predecessor, and younger. Almost a child. Poe would’ve loved her. He thought he perhaps loved her himself, in his way.

“April said you wanted me?” she said with a ruby-red pout.

“She was correct.”

“Okay, so a table dance is two hundred, all right? You want anything more, we negotiate.”

He gazed at her, the impossibly rouged cheeks, excessive bee-sting lipstick, breasts like pomegranates. She was wearing a tight red bustier with dragons embroidered on each side. She was a lovely thing, delicate as a rose blossom.

He had been right. She was the offering. And the third would fulfill the prophecy.

“This may seem odd to you, dear,” he said, oozing gentility, “but all I want to do is talk.”

“You like to watch. That’s okay, I get it.”

“No, ma’am. Listen to me carefully. I want to talk. With you.”

“Believe it or not, mister, that’s about the only thing we’re not allowed to do here. They don’t want us wasting time with conversation. And they don’t want patrons getting hung up on a particular girl and starting some kind of trouble.”

“I can pay you. Well.”

She pursed her oh-so-red lips together. “I don’t know.”

“Please. I’ll make it worth your time.”

She considered a few more moments. “I wouldn’t do this if it hadn’t been such a shit of a night.” Her eyes scanned the room, checking for supervisors, then scrutinizing the numbered lights on a neon sign by the door that told her where vacancies existed. “Okay, look. I can get us a couch in a semiprivate room. But it’ll be three hundred to me. And you’ll have to tip the bouncer.”

“And we can talk?”

“You can do anything you want. I’ll be working. Come on.”

She led him through the madding crowd to an alcove farther down the main hallway. After he took care of the bouncer, Lenore gave him a gentle push onto a black upholstered couch. A moment later, a woman wearing a black dominatrix outfit appeared bearing a tray with two glasses of champagne.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, charming her with his smile, “but I do not partake of strong spirits.”

The waitress stared at him. “It’s just champagne.”

He wagged a finger. “Nonetheless. Spirits destroyed the prophet, you know.”

The waitress and Lenore exchanged a look, then a shrug. The waitress disappeared.

Lenore reached behind herself and snapped open the bustier.

“Just a moment,” he said, holding out a hand. “You don’t need to do that. I want to talk.”

“No doubt.” She pushed his hand away and crawled onto his lap. Her bare breasts tickled his nose.

“I mean it!” he said, holding her back. “This is not-”

“Do you want me to lose my job?”

He relaxed. Even in a semiprivate room, the night must have a thousand eyes. “At least give a man a chance to breathe, would you?”

Lenore giggled. “Whatever.” Her hips began to sway.

“That’s not necessary, either.”

“Got to please the client.”

“Rest assured you will receive my highest encomiums.”

“Just relax,” she said, stroking the back of his neck. “We have to look as if we’re doing proper business. Even if we’re not. Believe me, girls who don’t follow the rules don’t last long here. And I’ve got a living to make.”

“Some living. A girl your age. Performing lap dances for strangers.”

“I don’t do lap dances,” she replied. She squeezed her thighs together, tightening her grip on his groin. “I do friction dances. It’s my specialty.”

He felt his internal temperature rising.

“Now what is it you wanted to talk about, you stud?” she growled in his ear, her hips grinding. She was eager and energetic but not that practiced. “Don’t I interest you even a little?”

“This isn’t-isn’t-”

“I know what to do.” Her hand found the zippered fly of his trousers.

He knocked her hand away. “Stop!” This was becoming too intense, too potentially awkward. “I want to go somewhere private.”

“We are somewhere private.”

“Someplace else. Away from here. Someplace we can do… more than this. You know what I mean.”

“I don’t know if I think that’s a good idea…”

“Please. Vouchsafe me this one cherished boon.”