Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [22]
I found The Satellite Dish easily enough. A one–story blue stucco building, standing alone on a slab of blacktop. Two long, narrow windows framing a set of double doors, the dark glass covered with fluorescent promises: Go–Go Girls. Topless. Bottomless. Exotic Dancers.
I nosed the Plymouth through the parking lot. General Motors must have held a white–on–white sale: Eldorados, Buick Regals, Oldsmobiles. Vinyl tops, tinted glass, hand–painted monograms on the doors. I left the Plymouth at the edge of the blacktop, dull paint fading into the shadows. It looked abandoned.
I stepped through the double doors into a square foyer. White walls, red carpet. Hawk–faced guy in a powder–blue double–knit suit sitting at a little table to one side. The joint wasn't classy enough to have a hat–check girl—and not hard–core enough to shake you down for weapons.
"Ten bucks cover, pal. And worth every penny," the hawk–faced guy said. His heart wasn't in it.
I paid, went through the next set of doors. The place was bigger than it looked from the outside, so dark I couldn't see the walls. A T–shaped bar ran the entire width of the room, with a long perpendicular runway almost to the door. Small round tables were spread all over the room. Two giant screens, like the ones they use for projection TV, stood in the corners at each end of the long bar. The screens were blank.
The tables were empty. Every man in the place was seated at the bar, most of them along the runway. Hard–rock music circled from hidden speakers. Three girls were on top of the bar. Two blondes and a redhead. All wearing bikini bottoms, high heels, and sparkle dust. Each girl worked her own piece of the bar, bouncing around, talking to the customers. The redhead went to her knees in front of a guido with a high–rise haircut and diamonds on his fingers. She spun on the bar, dropped her shoulders. The guido pulled down her panties, stuffed some bills between her thighs, patted her butt. She gave him a trembly wiggle, reached back and pulled up the panties, spun around again, ran her tongue over her lips. Danced away.
It was somewhere between the South Bronx shacks where the girls would blow you in the back booths and the steak–and–silicone joints in midtown where they called you "sir" but wouldn't screw you out of anything more than your money.
I found an empty stool near the left side of the T. A brunette wearing a red push–up bra under a transparent white blouse leaned over the bar toward me. She raised her eyebrows, smiling the smile they all use.
"Gin–and–tonic," I told her, putting a fifty on the bar. "Plenty of ice. Don't mix them."
She winked. I was obviously a with–it guy. No watered drinks for this stud.
She brought me a tall glass of tonic, jigger of gin on the side. Put four ten–dollar bills back in front of me. Class costs.
"My name is Laura," she cooed. "I go on after the last set. You going to be here?"
I nodded. She took one of the ten–spots off the bar, looked a question at me. I nodded. She stuffed it between her breasts, winked at me, and went back to work. I left the money on the bar.
I sipped my tonic, waiting.
The music stopped. A short, stocky guy in a pink sport coat over a billowy pair of white slacks stepped to the intersection of the T. The lights went down. The house man hit the stocky guy with a baby spot. He had a wireless microphone in one hand.
"Here's what you've been waiting for…the fabulous…Debbie, and the Dance of Domination!"
The bar went dark again. Most of the men moved to the back tables. A door at the right of the T opened, and two dim shapes walked to the intersection. The music started. No words, heavy bass lines and drums. One of the shapes went off the stage.
A hard white spot burned the center of the T, making it into an isolated island. A black straight–back chair stood by itself, thick high posts on each side. The giant TV screens flickered into life. The camera zoomed in on the chair, filling the picture.
A blonde in a black sheath came into the light. Black spikes on her feet, black gloves