Strip Tease (19 page)

Erin said, “We’re going to buy you some new clothes.”

“Good!”

“You like to shop?”

“I don’t know. Daddy only takes me to hospitals.”

“Right. To ride in the wheelchairs.” Erin thought: How will I ever explain that man to his daughter? At what age is a child capable of understanding that her father is irredeemable scum?

Angela said, “One time I saw a boy riding a wheelchair.”

“At a hospital?”

“Yep. Daddy said the little boy was very sick, so we couldn’t race.”

“Your daddy was right,” said Erin.

“When they put the boy back in his room, Daddy got the wheelchair and took it home.”

“Oh?”

“To fix it,” Angela said proudly. “It needed a new brake.”

“Is that what Daddy said?”

“And new wheels. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

Erin sighed. “Angie, I’m glad you called last night.”

“Me, too.”

To Mordecai, the term “blackmail” was a melodramatic way to describe what he was doing to Congressman David Lane Dilbeck. Playing hardball is what it was. Strip away the tedious formalities of a lawsuit and the essence was no different: give me money—or else. In or out of court, the seminal element of negotiation was the threat. It was an art, the core of Mordecai’s chosen livelihood.

Man falls in supermarket, hires attorney; supermarket settles for six figures. Happens all the time and nobody calls it blackmail. Here an innocent man gets mauled by a drunken congressman, hires an attorney—and they’re calling it a shakedown! Mordecai was amused by the double standard.

The attack on Paul Guber was vicious and indefensible; any personal-injury lawyer would’ve jumped at the case. Of course, most lawyers wouldn’t have arranged a secret settlement against their client’s wishes, or devised to keep the bulk of the money for themselves. It wasn’t Mordecai’s proudest moment as a member of the Bar, but these days a fellow did what he must. In fifteen years of practice, youthful fantasies of immense personal wealth had evaporated in disappointment. The Delicate cockroach fiasco was a prime example of his recurring foul luck. Now, the horny congressman loomed as Mordecai’s first realistic chance at collecting a seven-figure lump. He proceeded on the assumption that it would be his only shot.

In the early 1970s, Mordecai was among the hundreds of idealistic young law-school graduates who rushed to South Florida with the dream of defending drug smugglers for astronomical cash fees. He’d even studied Castilian Spanish in anticipation of his Colombian clientele! But Mordecai arrived in Miami to discover a depressingly small number of imprisoned South American drug barons; defense lawyers seemed to outnumber the defendants. An attorney of modest talents stood little chance of landing a billionaire narco trafficker as a client; Mordecai was lucky to get the occasional mule or offloader. Before long, he moved to Fort Lauderdale and opened a personal-injury practice.

The strategy had seemed sound: Broward County was growing much faster than Dade County, and most of the new arrivals were elderly. The elderly tended to fall down more often than younger people, Mordecai noticed, and their injuries usually were more complicated. Better still, there was an inexhaustible supply of old folks, thousands upon thousands, with more on the way each winter. Condos sprouted from the beach to the edge of the Everglades—high-rise bank vaults, in Mordecai’s view.

He set up shop and made plans to become absurdly rich. It didn’t happen. Mordecai’s income was respectable but not profane. He got by on minor negligence cases, insurance litigation and probate, which he hated. He told his secretary that they could both retire to Bermuda if his clients spent half as much time falling down as they did drawing up new wills.

Still, Mordecai was in no position to be picky. South Florida was swarming with young lawyers who prowled the courthouses in a feral hunger, scrabbling like jackals for the tiniest morsel. Competition in all specialties was savage because there wasn’t enough work to go around. Desperation was manifested in an epidemic of oily late-night advertising. Once the exclusive province of negligence lawyers, television now attracted all fields of the profession: immigration, divorce, adoption, even traffic violations. One of Mordecai’s former classmates had become famous touting himself as “Doctor D.U.I.” It was survival of the slickest.

Mordecai refused to make a commercial, as it involved the unpalatable prospect of trimming down for the cameras. His mother nagged doggedly—she was dying to see her son on television!—but Mordecai held firm against it. Maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe his career would’ve taken a loftier trajectory had he chosen the glitter of self-promotion. Then again, what was worse: shaking down a sleazy politician, or putting drunk drivers back on the road?

“I’ve got to live with myself,” he confided to Joyce.

“You did the right thing,” she said.

They were going to see Malcolm J. Moldowsky, who had called first thing that morning. Moldowsky said there was good news; he wanted to meet both of them in an hour. Mordecai told Beverly to reschedule his morning appointments, and euphorically thundered from the office. Crossing the lobby, a flash caught the lawyer’s attention—a ray of sun, glinting off Shad’s enormous head. The bouncer was waiting tight-lipped at the west elevator. Mordecai nearly stumbled: What did the lunatic want today? Had he somehow gotten wind that a deal was imminent? The lawyer slipped unseen through the easternmost exit.

When he picked up Joyce, she said, “You’re excited. Let me drive.”

“No, I’ll be fine.”

Joyce warned him about the wet roads and checked the fit of her seatbelt. “Are you sure you got this right?”

“House of Pancakes. That’s what he said.”

“In Davie? Why so far?”

“I don’t know, Joyce, but that’s what the man said.” Mordecai’s voice was tight. “Do you seriously think I wouldn’t write it down—something this important?” He pulled the note from his pocket and thrust it toward her.

“Eyes on the road,” she said. Then, skimming her cousin’s scribble: “All right, so it says pancake house. We’ll see.”

Mordecai was silent for several miles while Joyce searched for a radio station that suited her taste. Mordecai wondered why Moldowsky had requested her presence at the meeting.

“Joyce, I’m going to ask a favor. When we get there, let me do the talking.”

“You don’t have to get nasty.”

“Now listen—”

“Besides, it was my idea. Cutting Paul out.”

Mordecai took a deep breath. “So it was.”

“Maybe I’m not so stupid then?”

“I didn’t say you were stupid. It’s a delicate situation, that’s all. These are serious people, and we both need to be mindful of what we say.”

Joyce flipped the visor and examined her makeup in the vanity mirror. “I’m a serious person, too,” she said. “Slow down, there’s the exit.”

They pulled off the interstate at Davie Road and quickly spotted the International House of Pancakes. In his excitement, Mordecai mistakenly parked the Lincoln in a handicapped zone. Before he could back out, a man in blue tapped on the windshield. Mordecai rolled down the window.

“I work for Mr. Moldowsky,” said the man. The blue was a bowling shirt. “He’s waiting at the country club.”

“Who are you?” the lawyer asked.

“Messenger,” the man replied. “Part-time. You want to see an ID?”

Mordecai shrugged and said, “Hop in.”

The man told Mordecai to take Orange Drive west to Flamingo Road. “How far?” asked the lawyer.

“Not far.”

Joyce wore a cocky smirk. She reached across and poked her cousin in the arm. “I told you,” she said. “House of Pancakes! I knew that couldn’t possibly be right.”

“Enough,” said Mordecai.

Joyce turned to the stranger in the backseat. “What’s the name of the country club? Is it Brook Run or Pine Abbey?”

The man hesitated, but not long enough for Joyce to notice. “Brook Run,” he said.

“I hear it’s just lovely.”

“Yeah,” the man said. “That’s what I hear, too.”

“Do they have a brunch?”

Mordecai said, “Joyce, for God’s sake.”

The man in the bowling shirt sat forward. “Yeah, they got a helluva brunch,” he said. “Slow down and make the next turn.”

The next day, she withdrew another two thousand dollars from her savings account, drove to her lawyer’s office and gave him the money—which (by his secretary’s tabulation) reduced Erin’s outstanding balance from eleven thousand to nine thousand dollars. That afternoon, the lawyer asked the new judge in Erin’s divorce case to remove Angela from Darrell Grant’s custody because he had dumped the child with dangerously unreliable relatives. Alberto’s pistol and Rita’s wolves figured prominently in the judge’s decision. Neither Darrell nor his attorney showed up to argue. The judge ordered a full hearing on the case in four weeks. He was curious to know more about Erin’s occupation.

The other dancers congratulated Erin and doted on Angela in the dressing room of the Tickled Pink. They took turns playing with the little girl until she dozed off on the floor. Erin wasn’t happy about the arrangement; the club was no place for a child. The new judge would take a dim view.

Dancers with children customarily worked the day shift so they could be home at night. Erin couldn’t afford to work days because the money was lousy, and she was now nearly broke—the apartment, the lawyer, Angle’s new wardrobe.

“The shoes are adorable,” said Urbana Sprawl, fingering the tiny Reeboks. “Where’d you find these?” She spoke in a whisper, trying not to wake the girl.

Erin said, “I’m doing tables tonight. So don’t fall off the stage when you see me.”

“Damn, you must be tapped.” Urbana knew how Erin hated table dances. “But you’ll make money,” she told her. “Real good money.”

“First one that touches me—”

“No, girl. You call Shad. That’s what he’s there for.” Urbana removed her top and studied her breasts critically in the mirror. “Mosquito got me on the left one,” she reported.

Erin said you could hardly see it.

“Hardly ain’t good enough.” Urbana found a jar of dark makeup and touched up the bite. “Don’t you worry,” she told Erin. “Everybody does tables. Fact, you’re the only one I ever knew who didn’t. That’s how fine a dancer you are. Most girls’d starve to death on stage tips.”

“Well, now I’m dancing for two,” Erin said.

Monique Sr. came in and announced that Keith Richards was sitting at table five. “I told Kevin to play some Stones,” she said excitedly. “Next set, I’m gonna knock his socks off.”

“Keith Richards,” Erin said, failing to conceal her amusement.

“What—you don’t believe me?”

Urbana asked what he was drinking.

“Black Jack and water.”

“Then it ain’t Keith. What he drinks is Rebel Yell, straight up.” Urbana was an encyclopedia of trivia when it came to the Rolling Stones.

Monique Sr. looked crestfallen.

Erin, feeling guilty, said: “Hey, maybe he switched labels.”

“It’s him,” Monique Sr. insisted. “Come see for yourself.” Erin said, “We believe you.”

“No, we don’t,” said Urbana. “Anyway, what’s the difference? The Stones don’t use dancers. What could he do for us, even if it was really him?”

Monique Sr. started to tell Urbana to go fuck herself, but then she spotted Angie, sleeping. She would not swear in the presence of a child.

“Now, say it was Rod Stewart,” Urbana went on, “then we got us some possibilities. He uses dancers in all his videos. That’s when you got my attention, when Rod the Bod takes table five.”

Erin cut in: “Monique, you want us to come look?”

“Keith would be thrilled,” she said icily.

“Let’s go then.” Erin opened the door and there stood Orly, looking gassy and dour. Monique Sr. curtly excused herself and hurried back to the lounge.

Orly trudged in and closed the door. He glared at Angela, curled on the carpet. “I could lose my license,” he said to Erin. Tell me that’s not a minor on the premises. Tell me it’s a midget stripper in tennis shoes. Otherwise I lose my fucking liquor license.”

Erin apologized for bringing Angie to the club. She told Orly it was a family emergency.

“Shit,” he muttered, and sagged down in a folding chair.

Urbana Sprawl said: “Don’t you wake that child, Mr. Orly.”

“Don’t worry,” Erin said. “She doesn’t sleep, she hibernates.”

Overcome by cosmetic fragrances, Orly immediately fell victim to an allergy attack. He stifled his sloppy sneezes as best he could.

“Hush,” Urbana said. “You ain’t even supposed to be in the dressing room. Or did you forget?”

“Forgive me,” Orly said. “See, I couldn’t control myself. It’s been at least ten whole minutes since I seen your fat ass naked, so I snuck back here to cop a peek. You don’t mind if I whack off now, do you?”

Erin said, “God, you’re in a lousy mood.”

“Damn right.” Orly grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the vanity. “The Ling brothers are doing standing-room, on account of that old judge croaking in their club. They got so much business, they’re takin’ reservations. Reservations, at a goddamn tittle bar!”

Erin said, “The TV news is what did it. You can’t buy that land of publicity.”

Orly began to fulminate obscenely, then caught himself. He glanced irritably at the sleeping girl. In a bitter rasp: “We’re talking about a dead body, a stiff—just about the worst thing you can imagine. And people are lined up around the block to see where it happened. I don’t understand human nature, I honestly don’t.”

Urbana’s eyes were full of mischief. She said, “Let’s keep our fingers crossed. Maybe somebody famous will die here, too.”

“Not the way these girls dance,” said Orly. “The only thing my customers might die of is sheer goddamn boredom.”

“That’s enough,” Erin said sharply. “I mean it.”

Urbana hustled off to do a set in the cage. Orly shrunk deeper in the folding chair, which pinched his torso like an oversize clothespin. “Even Marvela’s cashing in,” he complained.

“She’s overcome her grief, has she?”

“The Lings got her name in big letters on the marquee: come see the pussy that killed the judge!”

“Is that what it says?”

“I’m paraphrasing,” Orly admitted. “Bottom line, my business is down fifteen percent.”

Bracing for the worst, Erin said, “So what do you want from us?”

“Reconsider friction dancing.”

“Absolutely not. We took a vote, Mr. Orly.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He dismissed the idea with a brusque wave. “Then how about this: creamed corn.”

Erin said nothing. She wanted him to choke out every depraved detail, with no help or encouragement. She wanted him to be as uncomfortable as possible.

“Instead of Wesson oil,” he said. “What do you think?”

Erin’s face gave nothing away; she didn’t even blink. Orly’s hands fidgeted on his belly like two fat crabs.

“Wrestling!” he blurted. “For God’s sake, that’s what I’m talking about. Creamed corn instead of oil. There’s a place in West Palm where it started. First the girls do some—you know, roll around, put on a show—then the guys climb in and wrestle the girls. I’m thinking twenty bucks a pop.”

Finally Erin spoke. “Just so I understand. You want me to jump into a puddle of creamed vegetables and roll around nude with a bunch of drunk slobs.”

“Not nude. Topless.” Orly gnawed off a hangnail and spit it on the floor. “Health department won’t go for nude. Not with food products.”

“What happened to classy?” Erin demanded. “New name, new image—what happened to that?”

“Those fucking Lings is what happened to that.” Orly looked despondent. His words carried a tinge of genuine shame. “You want the truth, I’m hurting. I need a goddamn gimmick, Erin. This creamed corn thing is what they call camp. I’m told the yuppies are suckers for it.”

She said, “So it’s come to this.”

“I can’t force you to do it.”

“No shit,” she said. “With a shotgun you couldn’t force me to do it.”

Orly straightened and put on his businessman’s face. “What’s the part that gripes you—is it the wrestling or the corn itself? Because something else occurred to me.”

“I can hardly wait,” Erin said.

“How about this? Forget the creamed corn—”

“Bravo.”

“Consider pasta.” Orly’s eyebrows danced. “You mention class, well, there you are. What’s classier than pasta?”

“Pasta wrestling?” Erin was tumbling through space.

“Egg noodles, linguini, take your pick.”

“I’ve got to undress now, Mr. Orly. Could I have some privacy please?”

When he stood up, the chair fell off his ass with a clatter. Angie stirred but did not awaken.

“Think about it,” Orly told Erin. “Like I say, it’s a smash in West Palm.”

In the mirror she watched him go out the door. “What happened to just plain dancing?” she said.

Sabrina came in to keep an eye on Angie while Erin performed. “I heard you’re doing tables tonight,” Sabrina said, combing a jet-black wig. “It’s not so bad.”

“Unless they grab you,” said Erin.

“They won’t grab tonight. Shad’s in one of his moods.” Sabrina’s hairbrush hit a snag and the wig jumped off her lap. “Damn,” she said.

Erin fastened her G-string and checked her butt in the mirror, to make sure the strap was lined up. She said, “The thing is, I need the money.”

“You’ll do good,” Sabrina said. “Just be careful not to fall.”

Kevin was playing “Honky Tonk Woman” when Erin went on stage. The song brightened her mood nearly as much as the sight of Monique Sr. dancing wildly on the table of a man who actually looked like Mr. Keith Richards, if you used your imagination.

Which is all that was keeping Erin sane.

Visions of Valium tablets danced in Beverly’s head. The phones were beeping off the hook, the mail had piled up, and that horrid bald man was reading National Geographic in the waiting room, for the second straight day—the same man she’d tried to stab with a letter opener! Seeing him again was awkward; in sixteen years as a legal secretary, she’d never assaulted a client. Half in terror, Beverly had offered a meek apology.

For what? the bald man said. He’d already forgotten about it. Beverly felt more afraid of him than ever.

“I do need to see the boss,” Shad had said.

“You just missed him.”

That was yesterday. The lawyer had rushed to a meeting and failed to return. He hadn’t even phoned in for messages. Today, Beverly’s exasperation was turning into concern: Mordecai could not be found. So far he’d skipped four office consultations, two depositions and an important hearing in Circuit Court. The court hearing was significant because it involved the awarding of attorney’s fees, an occasion that Mordecai never missed.

Beverly was mystified. Now a bank officer was on the line, seeking to verify the number on Mordecai’s client trust account. The officer recited the account number and Beverly told him it was correct. “All deposits usually go through me,” she said.

The bank officer said it wasn’t a deposit, it was a withdrawal. A substantial withdrawal. He said Mordecai had called with instructions to close out the account immediately.

Beverly didn’t like the sound of that one bit. Another line lighted up—Paul Guber, mildly worried. He hadn’t heard from his fiancée in two days. It was unlike Joyce not to pester him hourly. Did Mordecai happen to know where she was?

Poor Beverly had no answers. Now Shad loomed in front of her desk. Today he wore camo fatigues. “This is getting ridiculous,” he said.

“I know, I know,” the secretary agreed. “I can’t imagine where he’s gone.”

Shad said, “Let me check around.” He stepped past her and opened the door to Mordecai’s office. Afraid to protest, Beverly followed.

“Did you turn all these lights on?” Shad asked.

The secretary said no, the lights were on when she got there. “He might’ve worked late last night,” she said. The phones resumed beeping, but she didn’t pick up. She was determined not to let Shad out of her sight.

He circled the desk, touching nothing. “Someone’s been through this.”

“How can you tell?”

“It’s too damn neat,” Shad said. A man working late hours would leave some clutter, but Mordecai’s desk was abnormally tidy, not a pencil out of place. Even the trash can looked as if it had been vacuumed.

Shad asked if there was a drop safe. Beverly said no—Mordecai kept all sensitive files in a lock box at a bank.

“How many keys?” Shad asked.

“Two, I think.”

“Where are they?”

“I don’t know,” said Beverly. “He won’t tell me.”

“This is good,” Shad said.