Geoff Nicholson - The City Under the Skin

“Two’s a very small number.”

“I don’t want to have to go up against him alone.”

“I don’t want to ‘go up against him’ at all.”

“Come on, Zak, there’ll be some urban exploration.”

“Oh, that’ll make everything all right.”

“I want you as a partner,” said Marilyn. “A partner with a big brown anonymous station wagon.”

“And we follow him where?”

“To wherever he goes. Maybe to where he’s keeping that woman. You might have to close the store a little early.”

“For you, I’d be prepared to do that,” Zak said. He hoped she realized what a big step that was.

A third phone call.

“A woman who goes by the name of Chanterelle,” Akim said lazily. “She’s a dancer, stripper, whatever. She’s working a late shift at the True Gentlemen’s Club. You heard of that?”

“I’ll find it,” said Billy.

“When she finishes there, she has to go to another club across town, the Oracle. You’ll step in, tell her you’re a driver sent by the Oracle.”

“She’ll believe me?”

“You’ll convince her and then do the usual.”

“What about the real driver? Won’t he turn up?”

“Believe me, he won’t turn up.”

“You know, Akim, I’ve thought of something else to ask you.”

“Have you really?”

“Yeah,” said Billy. “See, I can understand that Wrobleski’s too grand to pick up the women, and I’ll buy that you think it’s not your style, but how do you even know who these women are and where they’re hanging out?”

“Because I make it my business to know.”

“That’s a strange business to be in, isn’t it?”

Billy wasn’t expecting much, but there was an arrogance and a vanity in Akim that made him keep talking.

“I’ve been keeping track of them.”

“Since when?”

“Long enough.”

“Since before or after they got tattooed?”

“Before they were tattooed they were of no interest whatsoever.”

“And now they’re interesting ?”

“I just said so.”

“Knowledge is power, right?”

“That’s what Mr. Wrobleski says. But some people say ignorance is bliss.”

“I’m not looking for bliss,” said Billy. “Just one more question. Why have you been keeping track of them?”

“Because I knew it would come in handy one day. And it has, hasn’t it?”

“Handy? Who for?”

“For Mr. Wrobleski, of course. Who else?”

* * *

Billy Moore couldn’t remember when he’d last encountered a true gentleman, but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be meeting any in this club he was going to. It was out by the abandoned heliport, in a low-slung concrete building, wedged between a lumberyard and a pumping station. Above the club’s entrance were flashing lights, a smear of neon, and a billboard-sized image of a fashion model who would look nothing like any of the dancers inside.

He was wearing his brand-new suit, as described and selected by Carla: elephant gray with a lining that flashed vermilion at irregular intervals. He knew he looked good, probably too good for this place. He paid his money, went into the club, past a couple of bouncers who looked about as threatening as Tweedledum and Tweedledee, and took up a position at the bar. The place was a pit of shadow and multicolored points of light, barely a quarter full, the customers an even blend of blue- and white-collar, mostly sedate single men, although one or two, incomprehensibly to Billy, had brought their dates with them.

Billy watched the acts of half a dozen dancers who were not named Chanterelle. None of them were bad-looking and a couple of them could really dance. One was voluptuous but somehow apologetic, while another — skinny, lank-haired, big-jawed — worked the room with effortless confidence. A redhead who looked old enough to be the mother of every guy in the club had them begging for real or feigned mercy.

Billy saw that every one of the dancers had a tattoo of some kind or other: a Tinker Bell, an ace of spades, a sleeve of koi and cherry blossoms, and one had seamed stockings tattooed all the way up the backs of her legs; but these were not the tattoos he — or rather Wrobleski — was looking for. And then the guy running the show, a chubby rockabilly guy with a pompadour and mutton chops in not quite matching shades of black, came out to announce the next act: Chanterelle.

He talked her up so much that anything short of Gypsy Rose Lee would have been a disappointment, and Chanterelle was no Gypsy Rose Lee. She strutted out wearing a futuristic gunslinger outfit: gold thigh boots, ray guns in a holster, and a loose vest with fringes and space badges that fell wide open at the front to reveal heavy, dark, natural breasts. She moved around the stage with chilly self-assurance, her body big and ripe, her oiled skin gleaming in the lights. The real problem was the face. It could have been an attractive face if it hadn’t been so taut, if the features hadn’t been set in an expression of hostile contempt, daring the men to make eye contact with her. Few did, not even Billy; he wanted to remain inconspicuous for now. He got just a few tantalizing glimpses of her back as the vest twirled and flapped around her, but that was as much as he needed. She didn’t display the tattoos, but if she’d really wanted to hide them, she could have chosen a very different outfit.

Billy Moore glanced quickly around the bar to see if anybody was looking at him. He still took seriously Wrobleski’s concern that he shouldn’t be seen, but just how invisible could you be when you were picking up a woman at a strip club? And you couldn’t beat up everybody who might possibly have noticed you, could you now?

He watched Chanterelle dance her way through three songs. At one point she pressed the sole of her boot into the face of a man in the front row: he seemed to like it. She fondled and licked her ray guns, and in the last song—“Ghost Riders in the Sky”—fired them to shoot cream or yogurt or something all over herself. The final applause was polite rather than enthusiastic.

She gave a bow that had a lot in common with a shudder, picked up her money, and descended from the stage. The dressing room was across the far side of the club, so she had to pass through the audience. On a busy night that would have made for a lively journey, but this evening she strode across the empty floor without hassle, and Billy was able to fall in step beside her. She looked as if she was going to tell him to fuck off, but before she could do that, Billy smiled and said, “Hi, Chanterelle, I’m from the Oracle. I’m here to drive you over.”

She looked him up and down. He doubted that he looked exactly like a man who drove strippers from one gig to the next, but he thought that probably helped. Maybe she was even impressed by the suit.

“You’re not the usual guy,” she said.

“You just can’t keep good staff.”

She looked at him dubiously and shrugged. One driver was as good as any other. He followed her to the dressing room and waited briefly outside. She didn’t bother to change into street clothes, simply cleaned herself off, picked up her bag, and put on a long fake-fur coat to cover her outfit. They went out to the parking lot, where she eyed the Cadillac indifferently. She moved to get in the back of the car, but Billy was having none of that.

“Why don’t you ride up front with me,” he said. “That’d be the friendly way.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“Well, there’s no reason to be my enemy.”

She got in beside him, though there was still nothing remotely amicable about her. They’d been driving for quite a while in icy silence before Billy said, “You’ve got some tattoos on your back.”