Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

"Because we're just going to a club?"

"Because it's just me, honey. This must have set you back a bit."

"You like it?" I asked her.

"Oh, I love it!" she said, patting the upholstery. "It's so elegant."

"Then it's worth it," I told her.

Her smile flashed brighter than her rhinestone choker.

"You look very pretty," I told her.

"Red, white, and blue," she said, pointing at her shoes, then touching her chest and her thigh. "Our colors too, you know. The bloody Brits had them first, but we made the best of them."

Clarence piloted the Jag like it had a crate of Fabergé eggs in the trunk. But we weren't in a hurry, small talk smoothing the way. Once he hit the FDR heading south, I hit the button and the privacy shield slid up. I lit a smoke—I'd cleared it with Clarence in front—and leaned back against the soft cushions.

"Well, give us a puff too," Bondi said.

I handed the cigarette to her with my right hand but she took my wrist and looped it over her shoulders, moving against me. "Give us a snuggle first," she said, a merry tone in her voice.

I slipped my arm around her, held the cigarette so she could take a drag from my hand. Her perfume was light, just this side of the too–sweet edge. Spring flowers after a rain.

"I haven't had a date since—"

"Ssssh," I said softly. "This is now."

The club was on the East–West Village border, the ground floor of what had once been a small factory. Ten bucks at the door, two–drink minimum, open microphone. We sat through maybe a dozen numbers. Mostly women, mostly talking about relationships. One did a funny riff about working as a temp. Most of them bombed. The best was a girl who imitated an answering machine, doing the voice mail of a stalking victim: "It doesn't matter whether I'm home or not, I'm not answering my phone. If you're calling to promise never to do it again, press One—then go fuck yourself. If you're in therapy and have some insight into your own behavior, press Two—and then go fuck yourself. If this is a death threat, press your carotid artery…tight. And leave it there until I call you back." One guy went on and on about Bosnia. Mostly, they were weak, and the people in the audience ignored them, working on their self–images. But no hecklers—it wasn't that kind of a joint.

Bondi loved it, clapping loudly for each one, asking me "Isn't this great, then?" over and over. I watched the people watching the people, See–and–Be–Seen in full swing at every table. The only ones sitting alone were there for one of the performers—who joined them after their sets and watched their competition.

I looked at Bondi's face for the first time then, really seeing it. A crackle of red in her dark brown hair, a light bruise of freckles across the bridge of her flat little nose, her wide mouth turning down just a little at the ends, hazel eyes set wide and direct. It wasn't that the parts were so pretty, it was the mix. And when she smiled, it made you want to taste it.

It was past eleven when she wanted to go. I tapped a number into the cell phone, waited for her to finish her drink. When we stepped outside, the Jag was in place.

"You want to come up?" she asked on the drive back.

"Yes," I said. "I sure do."

"Honey, would you mind…I mean, I know it's tacky and all but…could you drop me off and put me in a cab? And just hang out for a half hour or so? Then I'll buzz you in, okay?"

"Sure."

"It's just that…there's no other entrance. And if he sees me come in with…"

"Nothing to it," I told her.

We found a cab stand in the Fifties, just off Fifth. I put her inside, gave the driver the address. She reached a hand behind my neck, pulled my face down. "Here's a down payment," she whispered against my mouth. "See you soon."

When she let me in, she was wearing a midthigh black spandex sheath and black spikes. Her hair was down and her makeup was fresh, red lipstick glistening in the reflected light from one of the baby spots. The rest of the living room was dark. "Sit down, honey," she said, pushing me toward the two–person chair.

"You want a smoke?" she asked, bringing over the glass ashtray without waiting for an answer.

She turned her back and walked over to a cabinet that held a stereo and a stack of CDs. The black sheath had a zipper all the way down the back, anchored at the top with a big brass pull–ring. Stripper's gown. The sheer stockings had thin black seams, a faint metallic glitter pattern in the mesh. She slipped in a CD. Heavy, pulsating music throbbed out of the speakers—all bass, baritone sax, and low–register piano—nothing I recognized. She played with the volume control until it was so muted I could feel it more than hear it.

She turned and walked back over to me. Stopped when she was still a few feet away. "Did Sybil dance for you?" she asked softly.

"She danced for the money," I told her.

"Was she good?"

"Good enough, I guess. Good as a lie can be."

"What do you mean?"

"You said it yourself—did she dance for me ? That's the lie. She's not—in that club, anyway, she's not—a woman, she's a jukebox. You shove the money in, she wiggles and jiggles. The money runs out, the music stops."

"But the men all know—"

"I didn't say she was a crook, Bondi. A lie's what they're paying for. They're not getting cheated."

"Did you think she was pretty?"

"Pretty enough."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing spectacular."

"Her bloody boobs are spectacular, right?"

"Not in a place like that, they're not. You just dial the size you want, right?"

"What did you want?" she asked, bending forward like the answer was really important.

"Just to have her tell you I'd be calling. So you wouldn't spook."

"Why would I spook?"

"Because it wasn't about that…job you wanted."

"What was it all about, then?"

"What I told you. A date."

"You wanted to go to bed with me again?"

"Yes. But I wanted to…be with you too."

"Because you like me?" a film of sarcasm over her soft voice. "And you thought if I knew you better, I'd like you too?"

"That's right," I said, my voice soft but strong against her mockery.

She turned her back on me, standing quiet for a minute. "And that's not a lie?" she asked, looking over one shoulder. "What you just said?"

"No. That's not a lie at all, Bondi."

She was still another minute, looking at me steadily. Then she started to roll her hips to the music, standing in place, the spike heels riveted to the carpet. She reached back and pulled the zipper halfway down as she turned. Her back was bare.

She did the whole routine, prancing in a tight circle. All she had under the dress was a black thong and the sheer stockings. She moved back so I could see all of her: a graceful swan's neck, small, rounded breasts with tiny nipples sitting high on her chest over a sharp–cut waist, slightly flaring hips, long smooth legs. A model's body with a stripper's curves. She worked it hard, a clear coat of sweat popping out to the soft–pounding music.

It was a real dance—she never left her feet until she dropped to her hands and knees. Then she crawled over to me, head up, purring like a tigress. When she got close enough, she pulled down my zipper as easily as she had her own.

The first time was quick. Hard and quick. She recycled faster than I did, but she was patient. Then we went slower, quieter.

I think I fell asleep then, but I wasn't under very deep.

A couple of hours later, she prodded me awake, her nose rubbing my chest. "You don't… start things much, do you, honey?"

"What do you mean?"