Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [23]
I could hear the humans breathing under the music, but there was no conversation. Topless waitresses were working the darkness, stopping at the little tables, taking orders for drinks. Business was booming.
It was like no strip act I'd ever seen. No playing to the audience—they were all watching through a window. Quiet. Lost and alone in their ugliness.
The stage went dark. The music stopped. Herd sounds from the crowd.
Nobody moved.
When the spot came on again, the blonde was on her knees, facing the crowd. She ran her hand across her thighs, into her crotch, as the music built. Then she lifted the veil slowly. The pillbox hat came off. The camera came in on her face. She licked her lips, her eyes wide. As she opened her mouth, the stage went dark again.
It stayed dark for a couple of minutes. Cigarette lighters snapped in the crowd. Tiny red flares.
Flood came into my mind. I saw her struggling to work skin–tight pants over her hips, shifting from toe to toe, flexing her legs. Bending over another chair, in another place, the fire–scar on her rump dark against the white skin. I put the image down—those bodies were buried.
The lights came up again, blaring rock music came back through the speakers, the TV screens went dark. Three different girls were working the top of the bar, gesturing for the men to come away from the little tables and get closer.
I poured the gin into the empty tonic glass, mixing it with the ice. The bargirl came back to where I was sitting, bringing me another set; she put my empty glasses on a little tray.
"You like that stuff?"
"Not my taste," I said.
"Maybe later you'll tell me what you like," she whispered, sweeping the rest of my money off the bar, doubling her tip.
I reached in my pocket for another fifty. Waiting for Belle wasn't a cheap job.
26
I FIGURED Belle must work as one of the back–table waitresses, but I didn't want to ask for her by name. The tables stayed empty while the girls worked the top of the bar, so I'd have to wait for the next number, move into the darkness by myself, look around. I sipped my tonic, lit another smoke.
I watched the girls spread themselves on the long bar, as turned–on as a gynecologist.
It was a good twenty minutes and another half–century note before the guy in the pink jacket took center stage again. "Cassandra," was all he said. The stage went dark again. I could see shapes moving around, setting things up. This time I went back to a table near the back wall. I took the tonic, left the gin.
When the spot hit the stage, a girl was seated on a padded chair, looking into a mirror. The camera came in on her face. Belle. A mask of makeup making the soft lines hard, a white bathrobe around her shoulders, a white ribbon around her hair.
The speakers fired into life. Nasty music, zombie–swamp blues, voodoo drums.
Belle was taking off the makeup, patting her face with cream. She shrugged her shoulders and the robe dropped to her waist. Her breasts were enormous, standing out straight, defying gravity in a white D–cup bra. The camera watched them in the mirror.
She rose to her feet, holding the robe in one hand at her waist like a skirt. The spotlight widened: she was in a bedroom, white ruffled bedspread, white shag rug on the floor. Belle stalked the white room, a young girl getting ready for bed. Running a brush through her thick hair, maybe humming to herself. She opened her hand and the robe dropped to the floor. Belle hooked it with one foot, delicately tossed it onto the bed.
With the robe off, it was a different Belle on the screen. She faced the crowd in the white bra and plain matching panties, bending slightly forward, as if she was looking out into the night. The big woman wasn't fat; she was wasp–waisted. When she turned sideways, the stinger was a beauty, standing out by itself, straining against the fabric.
The music came harder. Her hips wiggled, like they had