Big Cyndi had “injured” the lovely and lithe Esperanza “Little Pocahontas” Diaz with a chair—“injured” her so badly that the fake ambulance came in and strapped on the neck brace and all that — an angry mob of fans waited outside the venue.
When Big Cyndi left for the night, the mob attacked.
They might have killed her. The crowd was drunk and fired up and not really into the reality-versus-fiction equation at work here. Big Cyndi tried to run, but there was no escape. She fought hard and well, but there were dozens wanting her blood. Someone hit her with a camera, a cane, a boot. They moved in. Big Cyndi went down. People started stomping her.
Seeing the mayhem, Esperanza tried to intervene. The crowd would have none of it. Even their favorite wrestler could not halt their blood-lust. And then Esperanza did something truly inspired.
She jumped on a car and “revealed” that Big Cyndi had only been pretending to be a bad guy to gather information. The crowd almost paused. Furthermore, Esperanza announced, Big Cyndi was really Little Pocahontas’s long lost sister, Big Chief Mama, a rather lame moniker but hey, she was making this stuff up on the fly. Little Pocahontas and her sister were now reuniting and would become tag-team partners.
The crowd cheered. Then they helped Big Cyndi to her feet.
Big Chief Mama and Little Pocahontas quickly became wrestling’s most popular team. The same scenario played out weekly: Esperanza would start every match winning on skill, their opponents would do something illegal like throw sand in her eye or use the dreaded foreign object, the two baddies would team up on poor, helpless Pocahontas while someone distracted Big Chief Mama, they’d beat the sensuous beauty until the strap on Pocahontas’s suede bikini ripped, and then Big Chief Mama would give out a war cry and ride in to the rescue.
Massively entertaining.
When she left the ring, Big Cyndi became a bouncer and sometimes stage performer for several lowlife sex clubs. She knew the seedier side of the streets. And that was what they were counting on now.
“So what is this place?” Myron asked.
Big Cyndi put on her totem-pole frown. “They do a lot of things, Mr. Bolitar. Some drugs, some Internet scamming, but mostly, these are sex clubs.”
“Clubs,” Myron repeated. “As in the plural?”
Big Cyndi nodded. “Six or seven different ones probably. Remember a few years ago when Forty-second Street was loaded with sleaze?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when they forced them all out, where do you think the sleaze went?”
Myron looked at the nail salon. “Here?”
“Here, there, everywhere. You don’t kill sleaze, Mr. Bolitar. It just moves to a new host.”
“And this is the new host?”
“One of them. Here, in this very building, they offer specialty clubs catering to an international variety of tastes.”
“When you say ‘specialty clubs’—?”
“Let’s see. If you care for flaxen-haired women, you go to On Golden Blonde. That’s on the second floor, far right. If you’re into African-American men, you head up to the third floor and visit a place called — you might like this, Mr. Bolitar — Malcolm Sex.”
Myron looked at Win. Win shrugged.
Big Cyndi continued in her tour guide voice: “Those with an Asian fetish will enjoy the Joy Suck Club—”
“Yeah,” Myron said, “I think I get the picture. So how do I get in and find Katie Rochester?”
Big Cyndi thought about that for a moment. “I can pose as a job applicant.”
“Excuse me?”
Big Cyndi put her enormous fists on her hips. This meant that they were about two yards apart. “Not all men, Mr. Bolitar, have petite fetishes.”
Myron closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Right, okay, maybe. Any other thoughts?”
Win waited patiently. Myron had always thought that Win would be intolerant of Big Cyndi, but years ago, Win surprised him by pointing out what should have been obvious: “One of our worst and most accepted prejudices is against large women. We never, ever, see past it.” And it was true. Myron had been deeply ashamed when Win pointed that out. So he started treating Big Cyndi as he should — like everyone else. That pissed Big Cyndi off. Once, when Myron smiled at her, she hit him hard on the shoulder — so hard he couldn’t lift his arm for two days — and shouted, “Cut that out!”
“Perhaps you should try a more direct route,” Win said. “I will stay out here. Keep your cell phone on. You and Big Cyndi try and talk your way in.”
Big Cyndi nodded. “We can pretend we’re a couple looking to try a threesome.”
Myron was about to say something when Big Cyndi said, “Kidding.”
“I knew that.”
She arched a shiny eyebrow and leaned toward him. The mountain coming to Muhammad. “But now that I planted that most erotic seed, Mr. Bolitar, you may find performing with a petite difficult.”
“I’ll muddle through. Come on.”
Myron stepped through the door first. A black man at the door sporting designer sunglasses told him to halt. He wore an earplug like someone in the Secret Service. He patted Myron down.
“Man,” Myron said, “all this for a manicure?”
The man took away Myron’s cell phone. “We don’t allow pictures,” he said.
“It’s not a camera phone.”
The black man grinned. “You’ll get it back on the way out.”
He held the grin until Big Cyndi filled the doorway. Then the grin fled, replaced with something akin to terror. Big Cyndi ducked inside like a giant entering a kid’s clubhouse. She stood upright, stretched her arms over her head, and spread her legs apart. The white spandex cried out in agony. Big Cyndi winked at the black man.
“Frisk me, big boy,” she said. “I’m packing.”
The outfit was tight enough to double as skin. If Big Cyndi was indeed packing, the man didn’t want to know where.
“You’re okay, miss. Step through.”
Myron thought again about what Win had said, about accepted prejudice. There was something personal in the words, but when Myron had tried to follow up, Win closed down on the subject. Still, about four years ago, Esperanza had wanted Big Cyndi to take on some clients. Outside of Myron and Esperanza, she had been with MB Reps the longest. It sort of made sense. But Myron knew it would be a disaster. And it was. No one felt comfortable with Big Cyndi repping them. They blamed her outlandish clothes, her makeup, her manner of speech (she liked to growl), but even if she got rid of all that, would it have changed anything?
The black man cupped his ear. Someone was talking to him through the earpiece. He suddenly put an arm on Myron’s shoulder.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
Myron decided to stick with the direct route. “I’m looking for a woman named Katie Rochester.”
“There’s no one here by that name.”
“No, she’s here,” Myron said. “She walked in that very door twenty minutes ago.”
The black man took a step closer to Myron. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Myron was tempted to snap his knee into the man’s groin, but that wouldn’t help. “Look, we can go through all the macho posturing, but really, what’s the point? I know she came in. I know why she’s hiding. I mean her no harm. We can play this one of two ways. One, she can talk to me quickly and that’s the end of it. I say nothing about her whereabouts. Two, well, I have several men positioned outside. You throw me out the door and I call her father. He brings several more. It all gets ugly. None of us need that. I just want to talk.”
The black man kept still.
“Another thing,” Myron said. “If she’s afraid I work for her father, ask her this: If her father knew she was here, would he be this subtle?”
More hesitation.
Myron spread his arms. “I’m in your place. I’m unarmed. What damage could I do?”
The man waited another second. Then he said, “You finished?”
