Dark End of the Street

6. Pasties & Red Velvet

6

PASTIES & RED VELVET

Horvath goes back to the Executive, takes off his suit, and lays down on the bed. The mattress is old and thin, and it doesn’t smell very good, but that doesn’t keep him from falling asleep.

When he wakes up the sun is taking its own nap.

Horvath skipped lunch and slept through dinner.

He walks over to the sink, splashes cool water on his face, dries himself with a coarse white towel.

Time to have another look at that clue, if that’s what it is.

In his pants pocket, a small sheet of paper. Pale blue with lines. Ripped across the top and folded in quarters.

It says R. Johnson, with a local phone number. Shaky handwriting. A man’s, he guesses.

There’s a phone book on the bedside table. He flips through it. 14 Johnsons, but none of them R’s.

He tries the last number. Johnson, no first name.

The number’s been disconnected. A dead-end. He’s not surprised, but it usually takes longer before he runs out of options.

Time for dinner. He could use a thick steak and a baked potato. Maybe a bowl of stew. Couple whiskeys, too. All that food could use a bath.

He gets dressed, combs his hair, and whistles a Pharaoh Sanders tune as he walks out the door.

In the elevator he sees a business card jammed into the corner of the mirror frame. An outline of a nude woman sitting in a giant martini glass. He thinks about the leggy brunette from the coffee shop.

He punches the L and waits.

The elevator stops at the second floor, but no one’s there.

Something clicks in Horvath’s mind. He looks back at the card.

Ron Johnson’s Paradise City.

R. Johnson. He pulls the paper out of his pocket and checks the number. It’s the same.

Not such a dead-end after all.

He grabs the business card and stuffs it into the breast pocket of his suitcoat. Looks like he’ll have to pay them a visit.

But first he needs a little fuel.

Dinner’s perfect. Strong whiskey and a steak so rare it’s practically wearing a bell around its neck.

His meal came with with greens on the side, which made Horvath feel like a regular health nut. Pretty soon, he thinks, I’ll be eating dandelions and sitting cross-legged on a pillow.

Outside, he walks to the corner and sticks out his arm.

Cab pulls over a few seconds later.

He gets in back, leans forward, holds up the business card. “You know where this is?”

The driver squints, moves the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Yeah. Uptown.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

“20 minutes. More with traffic.”

Horvath pulls out a couple bills, hands them to the driver. “Make it 15.”

“You got it, buddy.”

The cabbie doesn’t seem like he’s in a hurry. Sticks to the speed limit, stays in one lane, doesn’t run any yellows. But 12 minutes later there’s a big flashy sign and that woman swimming like an olive in a martini glass.

Guy knew it wouldn’t take 20 minutes, or 30. Horvath shakes his head. Everybody’s working the angles.

Nightclubs everywhere you look. The whole strip is covered in neon and blinking lights.

Horvath gets out of the cab and walks toward the glowing entrance. There’s so much wattage here the rest of the town must have a lightbulb shortage.

He hands the doorman a buck and goes inside.

There’s a small bar to his left, sort of a tiki lounge. Women in grass skirts and flowers in their hair serve overpriced cocktails to fat salesmen from Toledo and Jeff City. He’s been here a million times before, in other towns.

He goes straight, down a long narrow hallway.

At the end is a lobby, with a cloakroom off to the right. A girl in a low-cut top stands behind a wooden counter, smiling for tips. A single lightbulb hangs from the ceiling, buzzing.

There are framed photos on the wall, but he doesn’t recognize any of the faces.

To the left, a small café or restaurant with a half-dozen round tables. A handful of gray suits are sitting alone. Eating, drinking, smoking. Nobody talks. A heavy chandelier hangs from the ceiling like a bad memory.

He nods to the coat-check girl and keeps moving. Another hallway, not quite as dark.

Bathroom. Stairs to the second floor. Supply closet. Phone booth.

He keeps walking.

Elbow-high table, with a banker’s lamp. To the side, a doorway and red velvet curtain.

A big man in a dark suit and bulging forehead stands there gawking at Horvath like the caveman days are still in full swing.

“Are you…here for…the enter-tain-ment, sir?”

This is the show, he thinks. Gorilla in a suit who can sound out words.

“Sure. What kind of show is it, exactly?”

“A bur-le, bur-le. It’s an…all-nude revue, sir.”

“Sounds good. How much?”

“Two dollars.”

Horvath slips him a few extra. “Mr. Johnson in tonight?”

The amazing talking gorilla looks up and to the right, but just for a second. “No, sir.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Say, you got anything else going on tonight? You know, aside from the revue?”

The man stares at him like he’s speaking Ancient Greek, or English.

“Anything…a little more special?”

The man stares at him long and hard. “Nothing like that, sir. Enjoy the show.”

He parts the velvet curtain and Horvath walks inside.

The tables are even smaller here, with a little lamp in the middle of each one. The lampshades are red velvet, just like the curtains, but with gold tassels.

It’s a big room, size of a football field.

A cigarette girl walks by smiling like she’s got three rows of teeth, maybe four.

The hostess greets him, walks him to a table. The hem of her fake silk dress is so short he can see all the way up to Altoona, where she grew up.

He picks up the cocktail menu. Fake leather, gold tassel. This place has so much class they’ve got to cram some of it in storage, or at least that’s what they want you to think.

When Horvath opens the menu and looks at the prices, he gets whiplash. Who pays that much for a drink? Christ, hope they reimburse me for this. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a jar of aspirin. He twists it open, shakes a handful into his palm, throws them down.

“Want a chaser with that, sir?”

He looks up at the waitress, who’s wearing the same get-up as the hostess, only shorter. “Good one. Are you the next act?”

“I could be.”

She smiles at him, but it’s the kind of smile that makes you want to take a shower afterward.

“What can I get you?”

“Singapore Sling.”

“Anything else, sir?” Her drinks tray is painted with wet circles.

“No, that’ll do it. If I need something else, I’ll talk to my bank manager and see about a loan.”

This time the smile is clean, and real. He can almost see the girl she used to be, before she wandered into this place.

The music starts and, a few moments later, the stage curtains open.

The men clap politely until the dancer struts out in a gold lamé dress. Busty redhead with good legs and a cruel mouth. A dim spotlight follows her around.

Without warning, the music gets louder and the stage lights explode. Now you can see a three-piece set up in a corner of the stage. The drummer looks like he’s sleeping. A cigarette, dangling from the corner of his mouth, wears pajamas and a nightcap.

The gold dress doesn’t stay on for long.

Clapping gets louder. A few hoots and hollers.

Silver bikini comes and goes.

Now she’s standing there in pasties, swinging those tassels like her life depends on it. And maybe it does.

The tassels are gold, just like on the menu. Real class.

“Here you go, sir.”

The waitress lingers, for a tip.

Horvath slides a bill into her palm.

“Johnson still run this place?”

“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”

“Let me guess. You just keep your mouth shut and serve drinks?”

“Well, I do a lot more than that.”

“I’ll bet.”

The waitress raises an eyebrow, empty drink tray at her hip. She’s looking for another tip, or maybe a side job.

“So who is your boss? He around?”

“Sorry, sir. I’ve got other tables.”

The waitress walks away and the exotic dancer takes off what’s left of her outfit.

The audience claps and whistles. The men slap each other on the back. They’re really living the high life.

One highball and two dancers later, Horvath sees his waitress across the room whispering to a stocky guy in a cheap suit. Muscle, by the looks of him.

She points in his direction and the guy looks over.

Time to leave.

A dancer floats across the stage on a cloud of cigarette smoke, or maybe hidden wires.

He moves quickly, but not so you could tell. Head down, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Passing the cloakroom, he speeds up and thinks of McGrath. Don’t check your coat. That was another one of his favorites. You never know when you’ll have to make a fast exit, so travel light and keep your coat handy.

Not that he needs one tonight. Outside, the heat’s gone down but somebody turned the humidity all the way up. This town is no picnic, that’s for sure.

There aren’t any taxies at the curb so he turns right and starts walking.

At the main road he takes a left and blends in with the crowd. The sidewalks are full of smiling people going nowhere.

After three blocks he stops and looks in a storefront window. Squadrini’s Hardware. Hammers and chisels are on sale.

Couple goons are on his tail. Not the doorman gorilla, but two of his cousins. Chimps, maybe.

Whoever they are, they’re not pros. Following too close. Staring right at me. Flashy ties, like they’re in Miami or someplace. Suits are too tight. You can see their pieces bulging out like goiters. He shakes his head. That’s how you draw heat from the boys in blue. Stupid.

Or maybe they own the police. Got ‘em under their thumb. No need to hide anything.

He walks another few blocks, crosses against the light, turns a corner.

The goons are struggling to keep up. They’re running across the intersection, or trying to. Their species can only stand upright for so long.

He double-times it down a side street. Newsstand, pawn shop, tobacconist.

It’s a short block. Wino stands on the corner like a wobbly street sign.

After the first cross street, he looks back. The muscle has just rounded the corner. It’s dark and the streets are thick with cars. They might not see him yet.

He makes a quick left into an alley.

There’s a streetlamp, but it’s burned out.

Brick walls on either side. Fire escapes. The alley backs up to a row of small shops. Butcher, jeweler, dive bars and foreign restaurants. He can practically see the red-and-white tablecloths, candles melting into old bottles of chianti. Whole chickens hanging in windows. Old man bent over a workbench, loupe jammed in his eye.

An open door, restaurant maybe.

He bolts inside, slowly closes the door. Locks it and throws the deadbolt. Tries to keep himself from breathing too loud.

After a few seconds he takes his bearings. It’s not a kitchen. No heat from the ovens, no garlic or onion, no one barking out orders. No spatulas scraping against skillets or knives banging against chopping blocks.

It’s dark but his eyes are adjusting. He can see outlines and vague shapes. Wooden crates, carboard boxes.

He flicks his lighter, looks around.

It’s a storeroom, for a shop or restaurant. Must be closed for the night. Maybe it’s their day off.

Small room. Metal shelves. Jars and cans lined up in nice tidy rows, like soldiers on parade. Couple wooden barrels. Boxes stacked on the floor.

Cobwebs, large bottle of cleanser, roll of paper towels, bucket, a neat pile of old rags, broom and dustpan. Two 55-gallon vats, shoulder to shoulder like a pair of bouncers outside a nightclub.

There’s something else, in the corner. A black shadow. Horvath aims the lighter.

He’s not alone.

When she smiles, her white teeth are a flashlight in the darkness.

He expects a scream. Or a smack to the back of his head with a tire iron. But all he gets is that smile.

The Chinese woman steps forward and stops about eight inches away from him. She crosses her arms and looks him up and down, a boxer sizing up the competition.

He puts her at 85 pounds, soaking wet. She wouldn’t even qualify as flyweight.

The woman’s no more than five feet tall. 70 years old, maybe more. She’s got on one of those black pajama outfits they like to wear.

He leans forward, whispering. “Sorry, ma’am. Just hiding for a few minutes. I don’t mean any harm.”

She keeps staring, wordlessly.

“I won’t hurt you.”

She laughs now. Those shiny teeth are turned all the way up to floodlight.

“Quiet.” He points outside, raises a finger to his lips. “Bad men. Out to get me.”

She nods, puts a hand on his shoulder.

Now it’s his turn to size her up. Old and wrinkled, all bones with a little skin painted on. But with tight compact muscles and veins popping out all over like a roadmap. She looks tough and strong. If Charles Atlas was an old Chinese lady, this is what he’d look like.

They huddle in the darkness and listen to the footsteps outside.

The goons run up and down the alley, stop a few feet from the door. Voices, heavy breathing. They’re quiet for a few seconds, probably looking around and plotting their next move. One of them tries the door.

Horvath hears them walk away, slowly. They’re in no hurry to get back to the club. Their boss won’t be happy when he hears the bad news. He knows the feeling. Nobody likes to go home empty-handed and get chewed out by the boss.

The woman starts to speak, but he holds up a hand to stop her.

A minute later he reaches into his coat pocket, takes out a cigarette, lights up, blows smoke at the ceiling. “Thanks, ma’am.”

“I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“That’s a good quality in a woman.”

“In a man, too.”

“You got that right.” He reaches into his pocket for a few dollars. “You never saw me, alright?”

She waves her hands, purses her mouth. “Not necessary.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I’ll take one of those cigarettes, though.”

“Sure.” He takes a handful out of the pack. “Here’s some for later, too.”

“Thank you.”

He lights her up and they puff in silence for a few minutes. The unventilated storage room is getting thick with smoke, but they don’t mind.