The topless joint served overpriced meals, but nobody was there for the food. Peter ordered a drink and a sandwich. He spent the rest of the lunch money he'd been saving on a tall girl with long black hair who danced for him. Right on top of his little table. Her high breasts stayed unnaturally stiff no matter how much the rest of her bounced. He looked up at her, never moving his face. Tipped her good too, stuffing a few bills down the front of her G–string. She acted like she knew him, gave him a little kiss before she walked off, switching her marriage–wrecker hips.
The black–haired girl worked hard for her money. In those joints, management doesn't pay the talent— they're all independent contractors, renting space to do their work. They keep their tips, management gets the booze and meal money. It doesn't bother the yuppies— they can put the whole thing on their business account as long as they don't eat alone. It's easier for them to watch for–sale flesh in packs anyway.
Extras are extra.
In the back, in the VIP Room, they have lap dancing available. It's just what it sounds like. Peter didn't go back there. Didn't go for the shower room, the slow–dance body rubs…any of the extras.
It was just before rush hour when I headed back. The subway car was almost deserted. A slender, light– skinned black kid with a short, neat haircut got on. He was wearing a resplendent soft leather jacket. The front panel was maroon, ballooning white sleeves ran over the top of the shoulders with a black circle on each one, a white 8 inside the circle. The back was a red triangle tapering to the waist, with blue filling in the gaps, a huge eight ball smack in the middle.
An 8–Ball jacket is a major prize for ratpacking teenage gangstahbandits— they cost a few hundred dollars. I caught the kid's eyes, shook my head, telling him he was a chump for being such a target. The kid looked back, calm, tapped his waistband, gave me a sweet, sad smile. You want his jacket, you ante your life.
That's what it costs today.
It's easy to stalk— all you need is the time and the focus. It was a little past four in the morning when the tall black–haired girl hailed a cab in front of the topless joint. A couple of other girls stood on the sidewalk next to her. Not talking, tired from the work.
I pulled out behind the cab, my old Plymouth an anonymous gray shark, a moving block of dirt in a dirty city. The yellow cab crossed town, heading east. I followed to the Fifty–ninth Street Bridge, trailed it all around the loop to Queens Boulevard. It settled down then, rolled straight ahead.
She got out in front of a squat old building in Rego Park. There was no doorman to greet her.
The table dancer was named Linda. Lynda, she spelled it now, but it was Linda on the lease she signed. Linda Sue Anderson. The apartment was a one–bedroom. She paid $650 a month, utilities separate. She'd been there seven months, never caused any problems. I TRW'ed her through a guy I know. It was easy— her righteous Social Security number was on the credit application she'd filled out for the apartment. Date of birth too. She was twenty–nine, right on the border.
Linda Sue was a college girl. LSU, class of 1986. Drama major. Came to New York in 1987. Big dreams, dying slow, dancing on tables instead of the stage. Her legs weren't long enough for the Rockettes, I guess. And the implants wouldn't hold the stealing years back forever.
Her apartment was on the same subway line Peter took every day, a local stop. Peter would have to switch to the G train to get off where she did.
He never did that, coming or going.
I could have braced her someplace, got her to tell me all about Peter.
But I already knew all about Peter.
I told Michelle to tell the customer it was a false alarm— Peter didn't have anything on the side.
I've gone dead before. But this time, it didn't feel like it would cycle out.
When it got real bad once, I went over to Max's temple. Worked the heavy bag in his dojo until I couldn't see straight, until I couldn't lift my arms to throw another vicious shot.
I never laid a glove on the sadness.
Betrayal was around. A piece of the environment, like winos sleeping on park benches. I didn't check with Mama much, just enough to keep her from thinking I was gone. Belinda kept calling. I'd met her working the last job. She was jogging in the park, stopped and said she liked my dog. Turned out she was a cop. Maybe she was working undercover in the park, maybe she was working me. I never did find out. Never returned any of her calls.
I might have gone on like that forever, just numbing my way through the finish. Now I didn't even want to try. Didn't want to die either— at least not enough to just do it. In prison, the scariest guys were the anesthetics— once they went off, you could club them, mace them, it didn't matter— they just kept coming. Maybe they didn't feel the pain. Maybe it was like you get in a gunfight…the blood–adrenaline rush blocks your ears so you don't even hear the shots.
I was walking around like that.
I was in Mama's restaurant, waiting for Michelle. I'd promised to drive her up to the junkyard. Max was there, trying to be with me. Max the Silent, not even talking with his hands now, a warrior lost without an opponent. But lost only with me— he had another life. His woman, Immaculata. And their baby, Flower. Not such a baby anymore.
We still played at our life–sentence gin game once in a while, but I couldn't get with it. Max had been on a winning streak for months, even with Mama's occasional dumbass advice.
I felt…institutionalized. Used to it. They didn't need the Wall— I wasn't going to make a break.
Michelle came in, made a big show of kissing Max, bowing to Mama. At first, they had walked soft around me, giving the pain plenty of room. But that passed. For them, anyway. Now I was furniture.
'You ready to go, baby?' Michelle asked me.
I nodded, started to make my move. One of the pay phones in the back rang. Mama got up to answer it.
