False Allegations (7 page)

“Y
ou look very pretty,” I told her.

“Red, white, and blue,” she said, pointing at her shoes, then touching her chest and her thigh. “Our colors too, you know. The bloody Brits had them first, but we made the best of them.”

Clarence piloted the Jag like it had a crate of Fabergé eggs in the trunk. But we weren’t in a hurry, small talk smoothing the way. Once he hit the FDR heading south, I hit the button and the privacy shield slid up. I lit a smoke— I’d cleared it with Clarence in front— and leaned back against the soft cushions.

“Well, give us a puff too,” Bondi said.

I handed the cigarette to her with my right hand but she took my wrist and looped it over her shoulders, moving against me. “Give us a snuggle first,” she said, a merry tone in her voice.

I slipped my arm around her, held the cigarette so she could take a drag from my hand. Her perfume was light, just this side of the too–sweet edge. Spring flowers after a rain.

“I haven’t had a date since— “

“Ssssh,” I said softly. “This is now.”

T
he club was on the East–West Village border, the ground floor of what had once been a small factory. Ten bucks at the door, two–drink minimum, open microphone. We sat through maybe a dozen numbers. Mostly women, mostly talking about relationships. One did a funny riff about working as a temp. Most of them bombed. The best was a girl who imitated an answering machine, doing the voice mail of a stalking victim: “It doesn’t matter whether I’m home or not, I’m not answering my phone. If you’re calling to promise never to do it again, press One— then go fuck yourself. If you’re in therapy and have some insight into your own behavior, press Two— and then go fuck yourself. If this is a death threat, press your carotid artery…tight. And leave it there until I call you back.” One guy went on and on about Bosnia. Mostly, they were weak, and the people in the audience ignored them, working on their self–images. But no hecklers— it wasn’t that kind of a joint.

Bondi loved it, clapping loudly for each one, asking me “Isn’t this great, then?” over and over. I watched the people watching the people, See–and–Be–Seen in full swing at every table. The only ones sitting alone were there for one of the performers— who joined them after their sets and watched their competition.

I looked at Bondi’s face for the first time then, really seeing it. A crackle of red in her dark brown hair, a light bruise of freckles across the bridge of her flat little nose, her wide mouth turning down just a little at the ends, hazel eyes set wide and direct. It wasn’t that the parts were so pretty, it was the mix. And when she smiled, it made you want to taste it.

It was past eleven when she wanted to go. I tapped a number into the cell phone, waited for her to finish her drink. When we stepped outside, the Jag was in place.

“Y
ou want to come up?” she asked on the drive back.

“Yes,” I said. “I sure do.”

“Honey, would you mind…I mean, I know it’s tacky and all but…could you drop me off and put me in a cab? And just hang out for a half hour or so? Then I’ll buzz you in, okay?”

“Sure.”

“It’s just that…there’s no other entrance. And if he sees me come in with…”

“Nothing to it,” I told her.

W
e found a cab stand in the Fifties, just off Fifth. I put her inside, gave the driver the address. She reached a hand behind my neck, pulled my face down. “Here’s a down payment,” she whispered against my mouth. “See you soon.”

W
hen she let me in, she was wearing a midthigh black spandex sheath and black spikes. Her hair was down and her makeup was fresh, red lipstick glistening in the reflected light from one of the baby spots. The rest of the living room was dark. “Sit down, honey,” she said, pushing me toward the two–person chair.

“You want a smoke?” she asked, bringing over the glass ashtray without waiting for an answer.

She turned her back and walked over to a cabinet that held a stereo and a stack of CDs. The black sheath had a zipper all the way down the back, anchored at the top with a big brass pull–ring. Stripper’s gown. The sheer stockings had thin black seams, a faint metallic glitter pattern in the mesh. She slipped in a CD. Heavy, pulsating music throbbed out of the speakers— all bass, baritone sax, and low–register piano— nothing I recognized. She played with the volume control until it was so muted I could feel it more than hear it.

She turned and walked back over to me. Stopped when she was still a few feet away. “Did Sybil dance for you?” she asked softly.

“She danced for the money,” I told her.

“Was she good?”

“Good enough, I guess. Good as a lie can be.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said it yourself— did she dance for
me
? That’s the lie. She’s not— in that club, anyway, she’s not— a woman, she’s a jukebox. You shove the money in, she wiggles and jiggles. The money runs out, the music stops.”

“But the men all know— “

“I didn’t say she was a crook, Bondi. A lie’s what they’re paying for. They’re not getting cheated.”

“Did you think she was pretty?”

“Pretty enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing spectacular.”

“Her bloody
boobs
are spectacular, right?”

“Not in a place like that, they’re not. You just dial the size you want, right?”

“What did
you
want?” she asked, bending forward like the answer was really important.

“Just to have her tell you I’d be calling. So you wouldn’t spook.”

“Why would I spook?”

“Because it wasn’t about that…job you wanted.”

“What was it all about, then?”

“What I told you. A date.”

“You wanted to go to bed with me again?”

“Yes. But I wanted to…be with you too.”

“Because you like me?” a film of sarcasm over her soft voice. “And you thought if I knew you better, I’d like you too?”

“That’s right,” I said, my voice soft but strong against her mockery.

She turned her back on me, standing quiet for a minute. “And that’s not a lie?” she asked, looking over one shoulder. “What you just said?”

“No. That’s not a lie at all, Bondi.”

She was still another minute, looking at me steadily. Then she started to roll her hips to the music, standing in place, the spike heels riveted to the carpet. She reached back and pulled the zipper halfway down as she turned. Her back was bare.

She did the whole routine, prancing in a tight circle. All she had under the dress was a black thong and the sheer stockings. She moved back so I could see all of her: a graceful swan’s neck, small, rounded breasts with tiny nipples sitting high on her chest over a sharp–cut waist, slightly flaring hips, long smooth legs. A model’s body with a stripper’s curves. She worked it hard, a clear coat of sweat popping out to the soft–pounding music.

It was a real dance— she never left her feet until she dropped to her hands and knees. Then she crawled over to me, head up, purring like a tigress. When she got close enough, she pulled down my zipper as easily as she had her own.

T
he first time was quick. Hard and quick. She recycled faster than I did, but she was patient. Then we went slower, quieter.

I think I fell asleep then, but I wasn’t under very deep.

A couple of hours later, she prodded me awake, her nose rubbing my chest. “You don’t…
start
things much, do you, honey?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we’ve…done it, a few times, right? Tonight and…before. When you first came here. And I still don’t know what you like.”

“I told you— I like you.”

“I don’t mean that, luv. I want you to like what we
do
, too.”

“I do.”

“But what do you like
best
, honey? I’ve got…toys and stuff. For fun. Stay here.”

She got off the bed and walked out of the room, swaying slightly. Not putting on a show— like she was getting her bearings. When she came back, she was wearing a white domino mask, a white leather riding crop in her hand.

“You want to try this?” she whispered, standing next to the bed. “The Brits say they invented it, but some of us Aussie birds like a little touch–up too…sometimes.”

I reached over, took the riding crop from her hand. Tossed it over my body to the floor on the other side of the bed. “Take off the mask,” I said, tugging her down beside me.

W
hen she came around, her face was puffy. Slightly double–chinned, soft and round, with little jowls showing. Her lipstick was gone. Her eyes were slitted. She made a growling sound, like she didn’t want me to wake her up. I took one of her tiny tight little nipples between my teeth, just holding it there. She locked her hands behind my head, holding it in place, made sweet noises.

Later, she cat–stretched from where she was lying on her back next to me in the big bed in her room. She leaned all the way forward and touched her toes, then turned herself over so she was on her stomach. “Give us a rub, will you?” she purred.

She leaned into the back rub so hard I could feel every vertebrae on her spine. Then she nestled into me, arms around my lower legs. I thought she was going to sleep, but she slithered toward the front of the bed, then hooked a smooth hard thigh over me and sat up, straddling me. “See? It pays to be nice to me,” she giggled over her shoulder, bouncing into another dance.

S
till later, her head on my chest. I thought she was asleep until she said, “I could have done that too, you know?”

“Done what?”

“The implants. Sybil makes more money than I did, just because of those things. They’re way too big, you know. She’s gonna have to have them cut out in a couple of years.”

“You look perfect the way you are,” I said. Thinking about Vyra, an old girlfriend of mine. Vyra with her thin, curveless body. And those enormous breasts that looked grafted on. The breasts were as real as Vyra’s sadness about men only liking her for them. I wondered if Bondi would have liked no–implant, all–natural Vyra better than surgically enhanced Sybil. Somehow, I didn’t think so.

“No I don’t,” she said, her voice hard and resigned. “Not for the club life. That’s the first thing they look at, you know? ‘Take off your top, girlie— let’s have a look–see.’ That’s what they say. I can
dance
, you know. I mean, really dance.”

“I know.”

“But it doesn’t matter, not a bit. They all want the giant boobs. The managers, I mean. Sometimes they strip us all down, like a bloody meat rack. And they’ll tell you, right to your face: go get the work done. They all know doctors. Some of them, they’ll even let you work it off, you know? Front the money for the implants.”

“And grease a little on the price.”

“Of course. All the dancers have to do it eventually…except the Oriental girls. They
like
them to be small, like little girls, even. I don’t know what that’s all about.”

“Yeah you do.”

“I guess I do. Maybe that’s why Thailand’s such hot stuff. Back home, they all take trips over there. I heard you can get
real
little girls in Bangkok.”

“Little boys too.”

“Ugh! I hate— “

“Me too,” I said, stroking the back of her neck with two fingers.”

She was quiet for a bit. Then: “Burke?”

“What?”

“You’re right, you know. What you said. It
is
a lie. I hate lies. That’s why I— “

“I know.”

“You say that a lot, don’t you, honey? ‘I know.’ But the way you say it, I almost believe you do.”

“I’m careful when I say it, Bondi. And it’s true when I do.”

“Is Burke your first name? That’s a Brit name, you know. Or maybe it’s Irish…Is it your first name or your last?”

“It’s both, actually.”

“Oh God, I
heard
about stuff like that. Your mother must have had some sense of humor.”

“Yeah, Mom loved her jokes all right,” I said. Thinking about the indifferently typed letters on my birth certificate, the one I’d had to commit a crime to see. In the institution they sent me to when I was a kid. I’d used a screwdriver on the file cabinets in back of the social worker’s office. Looking for my father’s name— one of the older kids said it would be there. My father’s name turned out to be UNK. My mother hadn’t even bothered to give me a name. The fucking State had done that: Baby Boy Burke.

Maybe it was something in my voice— she stayed quiet for a while after that. I listened to her breathing. It smoothed out and settled down, but she never flirted with REM.