shapes went off the stage.
A hard white spot burned the center of the T, making it into an isolated island. A black straight-back chair stood by itself, thick high posts on each side. The giant TV screens flickered into life. The camera zoomed in on the chair, filling the picture.
A blonde in a black sheath came into the light. Black spikes on her feet, black gloves up to her elbows. A black pillbox hat on her head, a black veil covering her face. She sat down on the chair, crossed her legs. She tilted her chin up, waiting.
I could hear the humans breathing under the music, but there was no conversation. Topless waitresses were working the darkness, stopping at the little tables, taking orders for drinks. Business was booming.
It was like no strip act I'd ever seen. No playing to the audience - they were all watching through a window. Quiet. Lost and alone in their ugliness.
The stage went dark. The music stopped. Herd sounds from the crowd.
Nobody moved.
When the spot came on again, the blonde was on her knees, facing the crowd. She ran her hand across her thighs, into her crotch, as the music built. Then she lifted the veil slowly. The pillbox hat came off. The camera came in on her face. She licked her lips, her eyes wide. As she opened her mouth, the stage went dark again.
It stayed dark for a couple of minutes. Cigarette lighters snapped in the crowd. Tiny red flares.
Flood came into my mind. I saw her struggling to work skin-tight pants over her hips, shifting from toe to toe, flexing her legs. Bending over another chair, in another place, the fire-scar on her rump dark against the white skin. I put the image down - those bodies were buried.
The lights came up again, blaring rock music came back through the speakers, the TV screens went dark. Three different girls were working the top of the bar, gesturing for the men to come away from the little tables and get closer.
I poured the gin into the empty tonic glass, mixing it with the ice. The bargirl came back to where I was sitting, bringing me another set; she put my empty glasses on a little tray.
'You like that stuff?'
'Not my taste,' I said.
'Maybe later you'll tell me what you like,' she whispered, sweeping the rest of my money off the bar, doubling her tip.
I reached in my pocket for another fifty. Waiting for Belle wasn't a cheap job.
26
I figured Belle must work as one of the back-table waitresses, but I didn't want to ask for her by name. The tables stayed empty while the girls worked the top of the bar, so I'd have to wait for the next number, move into the darkness by myself, look around. I sipped my tonic, lit another smoke.
I watched the girls spread themselves on the long bar, as turned-on as a gynecologist.
It was a good twenty minutes and another half-century note before the guy in the pink jacket took center stage again. 'Cassandra,' was all he said. The stage went dark again. I could see shapes moving around, setting things up. This time I went back to a table near the back wall. I took the tonic, left the gin.
When the spot hit the stage, a girl was seated on a padded chair, looking into a mirror. The camera came in on her face. Belle. A mask of makeup making the soft lines hard, a white bathrobe around her shoulders, a white ribbon around her hair.
The speakers fired into life. Nasty music, zombie-swamp blues, voodoo drums.
Belle was taking off the makeup, patting her face with cream. She shrugged her shoulders and the robe dropped to her waist. Her breasts were enormous, standing out straight, defying gravity in a white D-cup bra. The camera watched them in the mirror.
She rose to her feet, holding the robe in one hand at her waist like a skirt. The spotlight widened: she was in a bedroom, white ruffled bedspread, white shag rug on the floor. Belle stalked the white room, a young girl getting ready for bed. Running a brush through her thick hair, maybe humming to herself. She opened her hand and the robe dropped to the floor. Belle hooked it with one foot, delicately tossed it onto the bed.
With the robe off, it was a different Belle on the screen. She faced the crowd in the white bra and plain matching panties, bending slightly forward, as if she was looking out into the night. The big woman wasn't fat; she was wasp-waisted. When she turned sideways, the stinger was a beauty, standing out by itself, straining against the fabric.
The music came harder. Her hips wiggled, like they had a mind of their own. She paced the room, stretching the way a cat does, bending to touch her toes, working off the restlessness, too wired to sleep.
The speakers spit out the music, sliding from the voodoo drums into words. Words I'd never heard before. A man's voice, gospel-tinted blues now. Warning. Blood moon rising. Slide guitar climbing on top of the drums, picking high notes, bending them against the black fabric of the bass. The words came through at the bottom of my brain; my eyes were locked on Belle.
The music stayed dense, but the tempo picked up. Belle cocked her head, listening. She unsnapped the bra, carefully hung it on the bedpost. Her huge breasts didn't sag an inch. She raised her hands high above her head, touching them together, standing on her toes. She made a complete turn that way, a tiny smile on her face. Not a muscle twitched in the smooth skin. Her body was as seamless as an air-brushed photograph. Her shoes were gone. She stalked the little room again, listening to the throbbing music, rolling her head on the column of her neck, working out the kinks. A nurse, tired from a hard day's work? A waitress, finished with her shift?
The camera ran the length of her body. Only the white panties on her hips, a thin gold chain around her neck, a gold cross resting between her breasts. Some kind of blue mark on the front of one thigh. Even with the camera zooming in, I couldn't make it out.
She rolled the panties over her hips, down past her butt. It took a long time, but not because she was teasing the audience - the panties had a long way to travel. Belle picked them off the floor, fluffed them out, went over to the bed, and hung them on the bedpost. On top of the white bra.
The music drove harder.
Belle dropped to her knees in front of the low bed. She clasped her hands. A little girl praying. The camera moved from her broad shoulders, past her tiny waist, down to the giant globes of her butt. The seamless skin was sweaty in the burning spotlight.
The words pushed back the music.
Belle's whole body was shaking now. Trembling as the spotlight blended from white to blood-red and back to white. She got to her feet and turned to face the crowd. She pulled back the covers, slid into the bed. She fluffed the pillow, pulled the covers to her shoulders, lying on her side. The mound of her hip was as high as her shoulders.
