False Allegations

The Prof's disclaimer was about as effective as the War on Drugs—when it came to the subject of lingerie, Michelle was not to be denied. 'What colors? Pastel or harsh? Lots of bright–red and black…or pink and blue? Did it have lots of straps? Was it what you'd wear under a dress or only by itself? Did you see—?'

'Girl, I didn't see nothin', okay? I wasn't looking for no souvenirs, all right?'

'What else?' I asked, trying to take him off the hook.

'Cash money,' he said, looking over at me gratefully. 'Less than two large. Careless, not in a stash. Bunch of letters, wrapped in a ribbon. All from Australia, all from Amanda…some girlfriend, I guess. Gossip stuff: Sara married Sean, Isabelle just had a baby, you know. Joint was clean, like she had a maid come in every day. Beds made, dishes done. Bunch of pills in the medicine cabinet, but all over–the–counter stuff except for some Valium. Prescription too—had her name right on the bottle. Money stuff: Bank statements, checkbook. Fur coat. White fur.'

'What kind of fur?' Michelle asked.

'Fucking polar bear, all I know about it,' the Prof snapped at her. Turning to me, he continued: 'Back of one of the drawers, a vial of crystal. Just the one vial—looked like someone gave it to her and she just threw it in there. Jewel box had a couple of sparklers, looked real to me. But I ain't Mama…' he shrugged.

Mama nodded, acknowledging the respect for her expertise, but she didn't say anything.

'Passport. Don't know if the picture's her, but it's got that name all right. Bondi. Big fat leather address book. Filofax, whatever the hell that is. Pretty full, too. Looked straight–up, nothing in code. Pussy doctor, dentist, hairdresser. Lots of addresses in Australia. Number at the club where this Sybil works.'

'You see the name Kite anywhere?'

'Not a trace, Ace.'

'Bottom line?'

'It's a hotel, bro, not her home. She may play there, but she ain't gonna stay there…and she knows it. Had some real nice luggage. Alligator, the real thing. Old– fashioned kind—none of those little wheels on it. I figure she could fill them suitcases, empty out the joint, be in the wind in a few hours.'

'You think it's worth me talking to her?'

'She's a ho, bro. She sees the gelt, her heart'll melt,' the Prof offered.

Michelle took a deep drag on her long black cigarette. When she took it from her mouth, her cherry lipstick was all over the snow–white filter tip. 'What you do for a living doesn't make you a whore,' she said softly. 'Sure, there's women so cold you'd need a CPA to find their G–spot. And maybe that's her, I don't know.' She took another drag. 'But there's another 'maybe,' Burke. Maybe she told you the truth. Maybe she was in love.'

The little round brunette's hair was cut shorter than the watchers like it in the wet– dream joints, but she'd spent enough on the implants to keep them paying attention. Her breasts were right at the tolerance limit for her frame, so stuffed she had cleavage even topless. They tumbled free as she tossed her black bikini bra into the audience; bounced deeply as she reached behind her to the fireman's pole; finally stabilized as she steadied herself. She ground the pole between her buttocks and humped hard to the music, her fingers patting herself between the legs, eyes closed. That last part was a smart move—the audience was ugly.

She worked for the money, crawling along the runway, rewarding every bill stuck into the black garters around her chubby thighs with a lick of her lips or a shake from her elevated butt. The crowd was small, but they gave her a big hand along with the cash. The PA system interrupted the music loud enough to say her name was Desiree.

'Hi, handsome,' she said to me a few minutes later at my table in the back of the club, bending forward so her pendulous breasts were inches from my face.

'You're a great dancer,' I said, stuffing a twenty into each of her garters.

'Ummm,' she purred at me without looking at the bills—like her thighs could read. 'Would you like me to dance some more? Just for you?'

'Yeah, I'd like that,' I told her, laying two more twenties on top of the little table.

Then she was on my lap, facing away, straddling my cock like she had the fireman's pole, humping just as hard. I kept my hands on her waist, away from those flopping breasts, whispered into her ear: 'You're a really good dancer, Sybil.'

I felt her stiffen against me, heard the harsh intake of breath. 'Tell Bondi I'd like to see her again,' I whispered. 'Tell her Burke wants to buy her lunch. I'll call her, okay?'

She deflated on my lap like someone stuck a pin in one of those rubber sex–dolls. 'I don't—'

'Just tell her,' I said, shifting my weight. She stood up. Walked away without looking back, heading right for the shaved–head bouncer standing with his arms crossed over in the far corner. She was so shook she even forgot the wiggle.

'Hullo?' She answered the phone on the first ring the next morning, more a question than a greeting.

'It's me,' I said, my voice shaded just past neutral toward friendly. In case she wasn't the only one listening. 'I thought, if you weren't busy, maybe we could have dinner or something.'

'Something?'

'If you'd rather do something else, I mean. A movie, maybe a—'

'Could we go to a club?' she asked in a little girl's voice. A little girl expecting to be disappointed, but taking a shot anyway.

'A nightclub?'

'No, one of those comedy clubs,' she said, switching to her normal voice. 'I've always wanted to go, but I never did. You ever have something like that? Something you always wanted to do?'

'Yeah,' I told her. 'But I did some things I didn't want to do too. I guess maybe it balances out.'

'I know what you mean. At least, I think I do—I don't know you that well.'

'That's the part I'm trying to fix,' I said.

'Why?'

'I like you,' I told her. 'I just like you. And I thought, if you knew me better, you might like me too.'

'Maybe I know you better than you think,' she said softly. 'Would you rather just skip the date, come on up here instead?'

'No. I mean, I would like to come up there. But I thought I'd let you make up your mind first.'

'That's sweet. You know, if I hadn't been expecting your call, it would have been a…surprise.'

'I know. That's why I—'

'Is tonight too soon?' she interrupted.

'Just right,' I replied. 'Eight o'clock?'

'Do you mind if I…meet you someplace? I'm going to be out—getting my hair done. I don't want to break the appointment. How about Seventy–seventh and Central Park West, on the park side?'

'See you then,' I said.

'Where'd you get this?' I asked Clarence. I was in the back of a black Jaguar Mark VII sedan—an old one, but it looked and smelled showroom.

'It's my mate's, mahn,' Clarence said over his shoulder. 'I let him hold my Rover for the night. Heathcliff knows I love my ride like he loves this one. We trust each other with our babies. No problem.'

'It's a beauty,' I said, patting the oxblood leather seat.

'It is a good one, mahn, that I know. Not as fine as mine, it is true, but very cherry anyway. I know the woman will like it. And mine, you know, it is really too small to play limousine. This one has real privacy,' he said. 'Try the button.'

I pushed the button he pointed at and a thick pane of frosted glass slid up from behind the front seat. 'Can you still hear me?' I asked him in a normal voice. When he didn't answer, I hit the button and asked the question again as the glass slid down.

'It depends on how loud you speak, mahn. Cliff would not want wires running through his pride and joy, now.'

'That's okay—it's not about that tonight.'