William Lashner - Marked Man

“How about her?” said Skink, gesturing toward a tall brunette who was walking toward us.

“I don’t think so.”

“You sure?”

“Her, I’d have remembered.”

And I would have, too. She was like Fantasy Woman Version 2.0, new and improved, now with even longer legs and less clothing than before. What with her red heels, her thin hips, her high firm breasts, pale skin, green G-string, blue eyes, a mouth just irregular enough to trap your eye and get you thinking, it actually hurt to gaze upon her. It was as if she embodied in the flesh all the possibilities of your life that had never come true. No matter what doubts I might have had before about my role in that club, her very beauty defined it with utter definitiveness: She was what I could never have, I was the pathetic loser who had paid to stare.

“Hello, boys,” she said in a silvery voice as she placed her right high heel on the little round table between our chairs. A red rose was tattooed on her ankle. “My name’s Chantal.”

She bent forward at the waist and then back in some twisty ballet move. The line in her calf tensed. I leaned close to smell the flower. I could see a scuff within the gleam of her high heel, and I had the strange urge to polish it with my tongue. Her black hair was straight and glossy, and when it whipped close to my nose I smelled lilac, in a field, with bees buzzing. Or was that just my blood?

It doesn’t take much to break down my defenses, does it?

“Did you boys ask to see me?” she said.

“Uh, yes,” said Skink in a suddenly weak voice. “Yes, we did.”

She kept to her slow twisting, leaning her upper body over Skink as she said, “And what’s your name?”

“Phil,” he said. “The name’s, uh, Phil.”

“Just like that cute little groundhog,” she said. “And you look like him, too, with that gap in your teeth. So what can I do for you, uh, Phil?” Her voice dripped with a promise more languid than lascivious. “What do you like?”

“Oh, I like everything,” said Skink, “yes, I do.” He shook his head, gathered himself. “But we’re not here for me. We’re here for my friend,” he said, jabbing his thumb toward me.

“Oh,” she said, “is this a bachelor party?”

“Of a sort,” said Skink, “seeing as we’re both bachelors.”

With her foot still on the table, she faced away from me, showing off a tattooed shepherd’s crook on her lower back, and then leaned backward, farther and farther, until her spine bent like a bow and her hands reached the far armrest of my chair. There was a white dove tattooed on her right shoulder. Her face was inches from mine.

“Hi,” she said in that Tiffany voice as her body bent and surged to the rhythm of the music. “I’m Chantal.”

The place suddenly grew hot, as if a furnace had sprung on.

“Hi, Chantal,” I said.

“Do you like pinball? I like pinball, how the shiny little balls bounce around crazily. Just the way your eyes are bouncing around right now.”

“Are they?”

“Oh, yes. Be careful not to tilt.” She laughed, a sweet little girl’s laugh. “And what’s your name, honey?”

“Don’t you recognize me?” I said.

A blankness washed across her face as she examined me before she forced a professional smile onto that gorgeous mouth. “Of course,” she said. “How are you? It’s so good to see you again. Thanks for coming back.”

“You’ve never seen me before, have you?”

“No, I have, really. You’re so sweet, and so good-looking, how could I not remember?”

“Then what’s my name?” I said.

“Your name?”

She pushed herself off my chair and slowly straightened her long torso. She took her lovely shoe off the table, stepped back, stared at me for a moment like I was crazy, looked at Skink, then again at me.

“Is it Bob?” she said.

The humiliation of it all brought me back to my senses. I straightened my pants, stood up, closed my jacket as best I could. “Let’s go, Phil.”

“Wait just a second,” said Skink. “No need to rush away when things is just getting interesting. Do us a favor, sweetheart, and tell us your name?”

“I told you already,” she said, her voice suddenly not so silvery.

“But you only told us half. Chantal what?”

“Just Chantal,” she said. “We only have first names here. Like Cher. And Beyoncé.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Just like. And I suppose Chantal’s your real name.”

“Sure,” she said with a light laugh. “Just like Desirée is Desirée’s real name and Scarlet is Scarlet’s real name. And don’t even get me started on Lola herself.”

“Lola, huh?” said Skink. “Who is she really?”

Chantal leaned forward toward Skink, lowered her voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “Sid,” she said.

Skink burst out in appreciative laughter.

“What’s this all about?” she said. “Why are you asking so many questions? Are you guys cops?”

“Do we look like cops?” I said.

“He does,” she said, indicating Skink. “You look more like a high school guidance counselor.”

“We’re looking for someone,” said Skink, “and we thought you might be her.”

“Am I?”

“No,” I said. “You’re not. We’re sorry to take up your time.”

“So who is it you guys are looking for?”

“A girl name of Chantal,” said Skink. “Just like you.”

“Chantal who?”

“Chantal Adair.”

She stared at us for a long moment, stared at us like we were specters from another world who were shimmering in and out of her reality. “Are you kidding me?”

“Why?” said Skink. “You know her?”

“Look,” she said, backing away and crossing her arms over her chest. “I have to dance, okay. It’s my turn on the stage.”

“Are you her?” I said.

“The farthest thing,” she said.

“But you do know her.”

I took a step forward, gently put a hand on her wrist. She looked down at my hand, then up at my face.

“What’s your game?” she said.

“We’re just looking for a dame, is all,” said Skink.

“Well, if you’re looking for her, you’ll be looking for a long time,” she said. “Chantal Adair was my sister. But she disappeared two years before I was born.”

She smiled tightly, put her hand on my chest and pushed me away before she turned around and walked toward the bar. She leaned over it, arms still crossed, looking as if she had stomach cramps. She began talking to the bartender, talking about us, we could tell, because he was glancing our way. He gave her a drink, she downed it quickly.

“I guess she’s not the one,” I said.

“Worth a tattoo if she is, mate. Got to give her that.”

“Yeah, but the name isn’t hers.”

“Her real name’s Monica, Monica Adair,” said Skink. “But it seemed worth a shot, what with the fake dance name and the real last name both matching the tattoo.”

“Yeah, I suppose. It’s a little weird, though, don’t you think, using her missing sister’s name to dance to?”

“She’s a stripper, which explains a lot. I knew a girl out in Tucson-”

“I bet you did,” I said, “but I don’t really want to hear about it right now. I’m going home.”

“I think I’ll stay around a bit longer.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Research, mate.”

“Your enthusiasm for the job is heartwarming.”

“I got a second possibility on the tattoo front. Since this didn’t pan out, I’ll set up that one.”

“Another strip joint?”

“Nah, something a little more technical. I got me a guy what-”

Skink stopped in midsentence, which was a rare and wondrous feat. I followed his gaze, to see what had interrupted his chain of thought. It was Monica Adair, coming back our way, a strange smile on her face. She walked right up to me and put her hand on my arm.