William Lashner - Marked Man

I popped the car in gear, pulled out from behind the van, and continued heading east.

“What do you mean,” I said, “that things aren’t exactly like I would expect?”

“Well, her name ain’t exactly what you got printed there on your chest.”

“Then exactly why are we checking her out?”

“Because it’s close enough.”

“Close enough for what?”

“For you to tell me if she’s the one. Turn there.”

I turned. “What if I don’t remember her?”

“Then maybe she’ll remember you. Okay, take a right and then go under that bridge.”

“What’s that there?” I said, nodding toward a bright neon sign.

“Where we’re headed, mate. Pull in to the lot.”

The parking lot surrounded a one-story building wedged beneath a highway bridge. The lot held pickups and high-priced sedans, the building was painted black, the purple neon in the sign was blinking, alternately spelling out the name of the place in script and then showing a figure, a female figure, like the kind of thing you see on the mud flaps of a sixteen-wheeler. I stopped the car in the middle of the lot, felt my expectations deflate and my heart sicken. But I should never have been surprised. Whenever men head off into the limitless American night in search of true love, they more often than not end up at a strip joint.

“Club Lola?” I said, a tone of defeat in my voice.

“’At’s it, all right.”

“Isn’t this the place where that guy met the stripper he killed his wife for?”

“’At’s the one.”

“And I suppose this Chantal Adair is one of the dancers here.”

“’At’s what we’re here to find out.”

“What’s the point?” I said. “Of all the things I could have imagined for the tattoo on my chest, this is the absolute worst. What kind of loser gets drunk, ends up at a strip bar, falls in love with a stripper, and is determined to show her his undying devotion by tattooing her name on his chest?”

“We’ll find out tonight, won’t we?”

“Forget it. It’s no mystery how this story turns out.”

“You don’t want to know for sure?”

“I’ve seen enough already to know the whole thing is a crushing mistake.”

“If you give up now, mate, whenever you look in the mirror, you’ll always think the worst,” said Skink. “Not about the bird but about yourself. Park the car. Let’s find out what’s what.”

“You just want an evening’s entertainment.”

“That, too, yes, and on your dime, which makes it all the sweeter.”

I could feel the bass of the music even before I reached the entrance. My general rule is to never go into a place where the bouncer is dressed entirely in black and sports a ponytail, which conveniently keeps me out of all the places that don’t want me inside, but I suppose this was an exception.

“You ever see me before?” I said to the bouncer as I paid the cover for the two of us.

Without looking up, he said, “I got a bad memory for faces.”

“But this was just a few nights ago.”

He lifted his head, sniffed like a Doberman. “If I didn’t kick you out, I didn’t know you was in. That’s the way it is. Keeps me out of the courtroom, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But was I in?”

“Like I said. And I’ll tell the wife the same thing.”

“Well,” I said, taking my change, “that is a relief.”

And off we went, into the fleshpot.

Club Lola was a wide,spotlit room, smoke-filled, dark-walled, with scores of tables and a long bar across the far side. There was a grand stage in the middle, on which a woman with a G-string and pasties and white high heels was hanging upside down. Her legs were hooked around a shiny pole, her hands were hooked around her breasts. The music was loud, the tables were small, the chairs were plush, the dancer was licking her own breast with a long, narrow tongue. Nice family entertainment.

The joint was half full, customers sitting with strange sated looks on their faces as a pack of she-wolves in high heels and sheer bikinis, their surgically enhanced bodies adorned with bracelets and tattoos, swarmed and socialized. What is it about high heels and bikinis that sings seductive songs straight to the masculine gut? And all it took was one look at the bikini tops to know that the air conditioner was definitely on.

Skink thumbed his fedora back on his head, took a cigar out of his jacket pocket, spread his arms wide, breathed deep the foul air. “My kind of place,” he said.

“I bet,” I said.

“Classy is what I mean. It’s got ambience.”

“It’s got something, all right.”

“Oh, quit your bellyaching. Let me buys you a drink.”

“On the expense account you’ll be charging back to me?”

“Victor, mate, what do you take me for?”

“That means yes.”

“I’ll see what kind of action we can rustle up. Now, take a seat, pop a smile, and enjoy yourself.”

I sat, I smiled, but I didn’t enjoy myself. And it wasn’t just the mark of loserhood on my chest that was dampening my mood.

I know, I know, every woman believes that every man, in his secret heart, loves a strip club. But I, for one, don’t. They give me the skives, and I think I know why. Every time I enter a joint like Club Lola, I feel squirrelly about the roles available to men in the little strip-club drama.

Am I the arrogant he-man who just assumes it is his due to have beautiful women wind their naked bodies into knots for my amusement? Am I the pitiable misfit who has to pay to get this close to a woman’s bare flesh? Am I the bored husband who spends my nights getting angry at my life as I stare at the type of woman I should have married? Or, worst of all, am I the romantic sap who thinks that the dancer, there, that one, with the sweet eyes and full rack, really really likes me? No, really, she does. Really.

While I was having my existential strip-club crisis, Skink was having none of it. He knew exactly who he was and what he was doing there as he leaned back in his chair, a beer in one hand, his cigar in the other, and a dancer’s wriggling J.Lo smack in his face.

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Skink, his gap-toothed grin broad and gleaming. “Just like that. Yes. Oh, that’s just terrific.”

“Anything else you want?” said the dancer, who had introduced herself as Scarlet.

“Why don’t you turn around, sweetheart, and I’ll slip in a little something just for you.”

Scarlet did a spin, leaned forward with her back arched dramatically, pulled down the bikini top with her thumbs, and shimmied. It was all so festive, even her pasties glistened brightly, like twin disco balls.

“Is Chantal in tonight?” said Skink as he slipped a bill into the side of her G-string.

“She’s in back,” said Scarlet. While she talked, she worked her shimmy as efficiently as a bank clerk counting bills.

“Can you send her over?”

“What, this isn’t good enough for you?”

“Too good,” said Skink. “You stick around much longer, my head is going to burst into flame.” He slipped in another bill. “Be a honey and send over Chantal.”

As Scarlet gathered up the cash and sauntered off toward the curtain beside the bar, Skink turned to me, his grin still in place. “This is why I became a PI.”

“It’s nice for you that you found your calling.”

“You recognize anyone?”

I looked around at the women wandering the floor, talking to strange men or dancing on the stages in shifts, some good-looking, some great, all nearly naked, the sight of their bodies as available as the channels on a television set.

“Not a one,” I said.