“What bus?” Greer said. “I’ll drive you home.”
Indira started to protest again, but Greer just turned and headed back toward his car. He was hoping he hadn’t left anything incriminating out on the seat in plain sight. But when he got there, the worst of it was some burger wrappers and a few flyers from some strip clubs, all of which he tossed into the backseat.
Indira lived with her family way over on the west side of L.A., in what turned out to be a Spanish bungalow on a narrow lot; a white van, with ELECTRICAL REPAIR AND INSTALLATION written on its side, was parked on the concrete patch where a lawn had probably once been.
“Your dad an electrician?”
“In Bombay, he was a civil engineer.”
All the lights in the house were on, and he could hear somebody’s radio playing.
What, he wondered, was he supposed to do now? Even when he was a teenager, he hadn’t done a lot of this stuff — the girls he knew then just met you down at the beach, and you screwed around under the lifeguard stand at night. Since then, he had largely been in the company of professionals; if he’d been with one of them now, he’d be halfway done already.
He put the car in park, and started to lean across the seat. But Indira, reading his intentions, backed away with her hand on the door handle.
“Thank you very much for dinner, Captain.”
Captain? That was a bad sign.
“But I must go in now.”
Greer pulled back; fortunately, the OxyContin was making him feel nice and mellow right now. “You don’t want to…?” he asked, without even finishing the sentence. He shrugged, like it was of no consequence. “That’s okay.”
“But I will see you next week, for your regular appointment.”
All of a sudden, it seemed to Greer that she was all business. It was as if she were wearing her lab coat again.
She got out of the car, and he watched as she opened the door of the house. The radio got louder; it was playing 5 °Cent. What the hell, he thought. Maybe that’s all this had been, after all; a PT being nice to a crip. Letting him practice his social skills.
Fine. No problem. He had places to go.
He put the car back in gear, let the engine roar once or twice to signal his departure, then took off for the Blue Bayou.
By the time he arrived, all the spots out front were taken, but Greer took his handicapped placard out of the glove compartment, hung it from the rearview mirror, and parked the car under a Permit Only sign. When he was just driving around, he didn’t like to leave the sign out, advertising his condition, but at times like this it came in real handy.
Inside, the lights were shining on the runway, and a woman with black hair, cut short and straight across, was swinging around the pole in a G-string. It took a second for Greer’s eyes to adjust, then he saw that it was Ginger Lee, Sadowski’s girlfriend. She was half-Chinese or Korean or something, and Greer had always wondered how that jibed with Sadowski’s general attitude toward anybody who wasn’t white.
At the bar, Zeke was pulling a beer, but spotted Greer, nodded, and made him his next stop.
“What can I do you for?” he asked.
“Make it a Jack Daniel’s, a double,” Greer said, “and a taste of what we did last time.”
“How big a taste?”
Greer peered into his wallet, and said, “Make it a hundred.”
Zeke poured the drink, palmed a tinfoil packet into Greer’s hand, and said, “My team won the semis last week.”
“That so.” Zeke was a tall blond volleyball player, who was only bartending — and dealing — until the big volleyball money started to roll in.
“Yeah, you ought to come to the finals. We play down on the beach in Santa Monica.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Seriously, you ought to — you got to get some sun. You need sunlight to make vitamin D, and vitamin D is good for your bones.”
This was some night, Greer thought; everybody was looking out for his welfare. “Sadowski here?”
“Haven’t seen him.” Somebody called out for a Black Russian, and Zeke went back to work. Greer turned on his stool so he could see the runway. Ginger was upside down now, with her feet, in black spiked heels, wrapped around the pole. How’d she do that? The music was blasting Prince, “1999,” and the stage was littered with tightly crumpled bills. Greer knew that routine; you wanted to look like a sport, but you didn’t want to spend too much, so you crumpled up your bills — ones, maybe a five now and then — and tossed ’em to the girl, hoping she wouldn’t notice what they were until she’d already given you a little personalized attention.
He had a nice buzz on just now, and maybe that was just what he needed. Personalized attention.
He sipped his drink, and thought about Indira — that was going nowhere, what had he been smoking? — and then he thought about Ginger, bending down now to scoop up the bills lying around, and then, after she left the stage and another girl, dressed in a red, white, and blue bikini, came out, he thought about al-Kalli again. And how he could make that pay.
“Hey, Derek,” Ginger said, popping onto the next barstool. He hadn’t seen her coming.
“You catch my set?” she asked.
“Most of it.” She was wearing a sequined tube top and high-cut black panties.
“What’d you think of the new music?”
“Prince is old.”
“I mean, it’s new music for my act. I think a lot of these guys like the oldies.”
Greer wondered how old Ginger was — nineteen, twenty? “You could be on to something.” And she looked good in what there was of the outfit. What was she doing with Sadowski?
“You want to buy me a drink?”
Greer snorted. “Why don’t you use some of that cash you just picked up?”
She raised a finger toward Zeke, and he brought her a glass of something green.
“Stan’s not here,” she said.
“So I noticed.”
“He doesn’t come in till later. After his shift.”
If only Sadowski weren’t so stupid, Greer thought, he’d be somebody he could discuss the al-Kalli angles with. But knowing Sadowski, he’d just recommend that Greer kidnap the guy and hold him for ransom.
“You want a dance?” she said, tilting her head toward the Blue Room in back, where the lap dancing went on.
Greer gave her a look. “What about Stan?”
“What about him? He doesn’t care.” She licked the rim of her glass. “Only rule he’s got is, you got to be white.”
“How’s management feel about that?” Greer asked, looking around. Maybe half the men in the room fell something short of that high standard.
“Who cares? I do what I want anyway.”
Maybe she and Sadowski did deserve each other. She put a hand suggestively on his knee.
“I’ll make it special for you,” she said. “Other guys can’t touch, but I’ll let you.”
Her hand slid up his thigh. “What about it?”
What about it indeed. For the first time in ages, Greer felt something in his thigh that wasn’t an ache or a pain. He swallowed the last of his drink. She spread her fingers, letting them fall between his legs.
She didn’t say another word — maybe she knew she didn’t have to. Instead, she slid off the stool, taking Greer by one hand, and without looking back led him, the way you’d lead a horse by the reins, toward the Blue Room. A burly guy with a clipboard stood in front of the silver Mylar strips that made up the entryway, reeled off the prices, and checked them in. Then Ginger guided him to a big, plush wing chair in the corner. Another guy was already being serviced on a love seat. The music in here was slower, lower. You were paying for the privacy, of sorts, and the romantic mood.
