paint. After inspecting her body for bare spaces, he drew some numbers and letters on her buttocks-everyone else had been too squeamish to touch those. He picked up the camera himself and pointed it at his master-piece. Ignoring the applause and jeers from the audience, he rolled back to his seat.
Just as Jake and I decided we also had seen and heard enough, another woman stepped onto the small stage. She didn’t say anything to the Body Artist or the audience, but began painting with the kind of focus none of the other volunteers had shown. The two dancers had mimed enthusiasm throughout the show, but now they seemed genuinely engaged by the work in progress. They began filming, and we all saw the woman’s work: stylized flames that covered the Artist’s back were overlaid with an intricate design, scrolls of fleurs-de-lis done in pink and gray. The painter was adding a face to her composition when the tattooed man began shouting again.
“Are you dissing me, bitch? Are you dissing me?”
Chad stood so quickly his buddies couldn’t hold him. His chair clattered to the floor, and he tried barging past the customer tables to the stage. By that time, the bouncer had reached Chad. He used some moves that I hadn’t seen since I left South Chicago. Chad was doubled over and out the door in under a minute.
The bouncer’s speed and ability subdued Chad’s buddies. When a server suggested they settle their tab and join their friend outside, one of them pulled a fistful of bills from his pocket and laid them on the table without counting or even looking at the check. All four left as quickly as they could.
The owner, a tall woman about my age, climbed onto the small stage. In her own way, she was as striking as the Body Artist. Her hair was black except for a streak of white that fell artistically over her forehead, and she was wearing a big white satin shirt, tucked into skintight black pants. She introduced herself as Olympia Koilada.
“We all owe a big round of applause to our Body Artist. Have fun, but be safe, use protection.” She flashed a peace sign, and walked back to the bar.
Canned music began to throb and whine through the room, and the noise in the audience grew loud with relief. Jake and his friends decided to take the Raven out for a late dinner. He was good-natured enough to include Petra, but she announced that she was staying on to talk to the manager.
“I heard them say at the bar that they’re shorthanded, and I need more work,” Petra said. “You know, my nine-to-five, we’re kind of going day to day on whether we’ll even have jobs at Christmas, so this would be great.”
“A club job would be great?” I said. “It would be even more unreliable than your day gig.” Petra was working for a Web-based design firm.
“Have you seen the way people are tipping?” Petra’s eyes sparkled. “I used to work as a hostess, you know, in the summers, at my folks’ country club. The waitstaff
I wondered if I should try to do more to stop her. Petra was only twenty-three, and, in some ways, I felt responsible for her. She’d stopped taking money from her parents after learning about a serious crime her father had spent his life covering up, and she wasn’t used to looking after herself full-time.
Jake waited, a little impatiently, while I tried to talk Petra out of applying for work at the club.
“Don’t be a snob, Vic,” he said. “I was a roadie in clubs like this all through my twenties, didn’t do me any harm. Let’s go. I told the others we’d catch up with them at the restaurant.”
I followed him into the bitter night. The backup at the parking lot exit looked as though it might take twenty minutes, but an alley ran behind the club; I turned my Mustang around and eased my way against the flow of the traffic.
“Petra was right, it was awesome,” Jake said. “And at the same time disturbing, especially those dancers in their burkas. I suppose anyone doing art is manipulating public emotions. I do it myself, so why does her expression seem to cross a boundary?”
“It’s the body,” I said. “You can’t get away from it. Whether we like it or not, we live in a world where the exposed female body is a turn-on. Music only suggests the erotic or the private self. The Body Artist forces you to see the private.”
“Maybe. Bass players, we have a reputation as the crudest of musicians, so if I’m uncomfortable at a public display of nudity it makes me think I’m not a genuine bassist. I will confess, in private and to you alone, that I sat there feeling like I didn’t have enough clothes on.”
I laughed. “Speaking under cover of darkness, I also confess-Hello, what are they doing?”
I had turned in to the alley. Chad and his friends were hovering outside Club Gouge’s back entrance. I stopped the car.
“Vic, please don’t get out to fight them. I’ve had enough excitement for one night.”
“I never get to have any fun,” I whined, but added, “Of course I’m not going to fight them, but I do think the club’s nifty bouncer needs to know these guys are hanging around.”
I made sure the car doors were locked and pulled out my cell phone, but when the quintet saw us, they moved on down the alley. Ice packed with dirt made the going treacherous, and one of the gang tripped and fell, which gave me time to trail them while I looked up the club’s phone number. By the time I’d bumped through the ice and potholes to the street, the men were circling back along Lake Street, toward the main entrance to the club.
“Vic, not that I’m trying to tell you what to do, but you know I’m not going to risk my fingers if you go after them,” Jake said. “And I’m pining for bouillabaisse.”
His tone was light, but he wasn’t joking-his fingers were his livelihood. I didn’t know whether to laugh or feel hurt. “Do you really see me as someone who’s so pining to fight that I’d take on five drunks twice my size and half my age? My only weapon right now is my cell phone.”
“I’ve seen you come home covered in burns and bruises; I’ve never been with you when you got them. How was I to know?” Jake squeezed my shoulder to take the edge off his words.
Of course, when I used to cruise South Chicago in my cousin Boom-Boom’s wake, there were plenty of times I found myself fighting for no reason I could ever figure out. I decided not to tell Jake about it. It would be hard to persuade him that I’d matured since then.
Someone finally picked up the club’s phone. A late-night L clattered overhead as she answered, and, at her end, the music and crowd noise were just as deafening, but she finally realized I wanted to speak to the owner, Olympia Koilada. By this time, I was back in front of the club in time to see Chad and his friends get into their RAV4.
Olympia didn’t seem concerned about the guys. “I don’t know who you are or why you think it’s your business- you’re a private eye?-and you think your nose belongs in my business? I don’t think so. Controversy brings people to the club, and the Artist knows it. She also knows how to look after herself. I’ve got a live show coming on in two minutes. Ciao
The girders to the Lake Street L, and all the similar SUVs streaming in and out of the club’s parking lot, made it hard to keep an eye on the RAV4. I finally gave in to Jake’s plea that we get to the restaurant.
3 Brush Attack
The next Monday at breakfast, I was startled to see my name jump off the
I called the club owner to find out if she’d leaked the story. “Do you know who used my name to prop up some bogus story?”
“What do you mean, bogus story? You called me yourself to tell me that bunch of guys was hanging around the club. I figured I was a little short with you, so I did you a favor, giving you credit. Next time, hire your own publicist.”
“Ms. Koilada, those punks didn’t object to your artist’s nudity. I don’t know what pissed them off, whether it was her mocking them with her cat drawing, or the woman who was painting her when they charged the stage, but-”
“But nothing,” she snapped. “You don’t know what they objected to. Neither do I. But the idea of a nude artist offends some people-”
“And titillates others,” I interrupted in turn. “So this little story will bring more people to Club Gouge.
