WIDOW (26 page)

“My name's Frank. And listen, I wouldn't think of . . . you know . . .” He let the sentence go unfinished. She thought he might have blushed and she felt a kindling in her heart for him. He wasn't much older than she, but he seemed younger and certainly less experienced. He was the first man she'd met in the clubs who didn't put her on guard and make her want to ask him the list of questions she now had memorized. Though she probably would. If he came back to sit with her more than this one time. A man should never push his luck with her.

She gestured to the waitress. “I'm drinking Cokes,” she said to him. “It'll cost you the same as a mixed drink, but I don't drink the hard stuff. I never saw the point in lying to a customer.”

“I don't mind the money.” He drew out his wallet. “I'll have a Coors Light,” he told the waitress. “Another Coke for the lady.”

He withdrew a twenty and handed it to Shadow, then when the drinks came, he paid for those rather than running a tab.

“How long have you been dancing?” he asked.

“Almost a year now.”

“I haven't seen you before. You look . . .”

“Like I don't belong here?” She laughed. “I'm sorry, I hear that line so often it just makes me laugh every time now. The thing is, I do belong here. If I didn't, I'd be in an office somewhere typing insurance forms.”

He looked down shyly at his hands clasped around the bottle of beer. “I'm sorry. I said I was new at this.”

“You might want to put your wallet on the table. Or at least have some money stacked to the side. The going rate for ‘talk’ is about a dollar a minute.” She wondered if that would scare him away and realized that for the first time since doing this job, she hoped that it wouldn't. It wasn't that she was attracted to him physically. He was a bland-looking sort of man and not at all interesting in a sexual way, but he seemed so fresh, so . . . vulnerable. She hadn't realized she was that tired of the old hands with their lines of bullshit.

He dutifully withdrew his wallet again and took some money out—a few twenties, she saw—and lay it in the middle of the table. “That should cover an hour or more.”

She smiled. “Looks about right to me.” She took the money and put it into the left cup of her bra. He didn't watch as she did this. God, he was a shy one. The men usually leered when the girls did that.

As they talked, he had to keep leaning in toward her to hear what she said as the music volume was turned up for one of the dancers on stage. She saw he never looked at the girl. He seemed to drink in her words instead. He had three Coors, they discussed the Astros and why they never won the championship; the Oilers and why they never won the Super Bowl; the cost of air conditioning in the summer in Houston; other clubs in Montrose; how some dancers were good enough to be onstage in Vegas if they wanted; and just any subject that seemed to fall between them.

She found out he liked to read Travis McGee novels and she had him explain to her what they were. He liked sports, of course, rooted for the local teams. He liked music, all kinds of music, and even listened to the lyrics. When the DJ played a song by Queen, he knew all the words, and offered the opinion that the lyrics were more poetic than one would expect from a rock group.

When the hour was over, he put out his hand for her to shake. “It's been real nice talking with you,” he said. “You wouldn't mind if I came back and did it again sometime?”

She said she wouldn't mind at all, and told him he was a gentleman. Then she watched him leave and sighed after him. If only that kind of man would come into the clubs more often, she wouldn't mind her work so much. She had begun to think the only sort of men left in the world were those on the make, or whose agendas were so deceptive and cruel she had to take them home and administer the drink of poison whiskey. It was a real surprise that a nice man had found his way into a club such as this and was willing to pay to talk with a dancer.

Of course, she didn't really know him. For all she knew he was another pervert who was just better than others at wearing a mask. But for some reason she thought not. He couldn't be that accomplished an actor, she didn't think. How many people were? Then again, who would ever guess the truth behind her mask?

She smiled, thinking how his name, Frank, seemed to fit his demeanor. And how “Shadow” fit her own.

She was just about ready to head for home when she saw the cop. He came through the door, his gaze fastened on her, and before she could move to leave, he was sitting across from her in the same chair Frank had just vacated.

“I want to apologize for waiting out back that night for you,” he said. “It was a stupid move. I had no right to do that.”

She had tensed, seeing him. Now she tried to relax. Maybe she could get some things straight with this guy. “It costs to sit at my table,” she said.

He dug in his shirt pocket and put a fifty-dollar bill on the table. She waved over the waitress, then tucked the fifty away.

“Irish coffee,” he said.

“Why don't you tell me what you're up to hanging out in the clubs?” She decided she'd needle him.

He leaned back in the chair, looking her over. “It's sort of a hobby of mine, a stress reliever, if you like. I enjoy watching the girls dance.”

“Ever try the ballet?”

He laughed. Maybe she was in a mellow mood or maybe talking with Frank had eased her feelings toward men, but she caught herself smiling in return, pleased she had caused that reaction. She was so serious most of the time that humor seemed hardly to play a part in her life. She couldn't remember making anyone laugh except Charlene.

“I don't care for the tights,” he said. “Or the music.” She nodded. The waitress brought the coffee and left. “What do you want with me?”

“Nothing really . . .”

“You want something. You keep following me around and coming to my sets. What's the deal?” Best to get the shit into the fan right away, let it fly.

He took a swallow of the coffee. “If I answer that I'll just be saying what a dozen men have probably already told you.”

“Like what? I'd like to hear your explanation.”

He looked into her eyes and she saw the truth residing there, waiting for it to issue from his lips. If he lied to her, she'd recognize it. “No, really,” she prompted. “I'd like to know what it is with you.”

“You're beautiful.” His voice had changed, dropping into a lower register, and his eyes remained steady on her face. “You mesmerize me. I don't talk with the girls, ask around. Until now I only came in to watch. With you, it was different from the first time I saw you. I wanted . . . to get to know you a little.”

When she opened her eyes wider to indicate he might be entering the territory of the lie now, he said, “I mean it. I don't expect . . . well . . . hey, I'm just wasting time, it's nothing to get alarmed about. I'm not going to stalk you or anything. I'm not one of those fucking freaks you get in these places. That's why I'm apologizing for waiting out by your car that night.”

“Then you aren't interested in arresting me.” Maybe she could tease, rather than needle him. He didn't seem a bad sort, but his adulation made her uncomfortable. Who needed a cop fan? Jesus.

“Not tonight,” he said, surprising her.

“But I guess you want to know what a nice girl like me blah-blah-blah?”

“Actually,” he said. “I don't need that question answered. I pretty much know all the reasons women dance in the clubs.”

“We're exhibitionists.”

“If you say so.” He looked at her solemnly over the rim of the coffee cup as he drank. “Is that why you never get friendly with the customers? The whole dance thing is to show off, get attention?”

“I didn't know you were a psychiatrist too.” She tried to change the direction of the conversation. “So if you're not Vice, what kind of cop are you?”

“Homicide.”

She remembered now one of the girls telling her that. “Solve any good murder cases lately?”

“One or two.”

“Any I might have heard about on the news?” This was easy money. Get them talking about themselves and their jobs. Easy way to make the time pass. She figured she owed him another thirty minutes or so. If she felt like it. And he didn't threaten her.

“You know about the gay banker who was killed down here a few months ago? Found in an alley with his head bashed in?”

She faintly recalled the word on the street about it. Montrose was a haven for the gay population. The killing had caused the gay caucus leader to demand the police do something and do something now. “I heard of it,” she said.

“I picked up the kids who did it.”

“I thought people were considered innocent until trial by jury.”

“That's the way the law states it. I know these kids did it, though. I have an eyewitness saw it go down. They're guilty all right.”

“Kids? Like teenagers?”

“Privileged little pricks out for a joyride.”

Shadow sipped at her Coke. She heard the steel enter his voice and it gave her pause. This cop wasn't as easy to talk to as she thought he might be. Nevertheless, it gave her a secret little thrill to know she was talking to a homicide detective about murder without him knowing she had committed more crimes than his joyriding little pricks. Of course there was a world of difference between what she and the teens had done. They killed an innocent man for nothing. She killed for better reasons—not that the cop would agree with her on that score. “Will they go to jail?”

“For a while. Unless mommy and daddy bring in F. Lee Bailey or old Racehorse Haynes to get them off. Which wouldn't surprise me in the goddamn least.”

“Ever read about a guy called Travis McGee?” she asked. “I think he was a kind of detective.”

“The novel series? John D. MacDonald? Yeah, I've read them. Travis wasn't a cop, though. He was a ‘salvage consultant.’ People came to him to get something back that belonged to them. One time a guy came to him to get back his lost reputation. They made it into a movie, but it didn't work. Travis doesn't translate well to film. Have you read them?”

She shook her head. “Someone else told me. I hardly ever have time to read.”

“Yeah, well, when I'm not on the job or in these places, time's all I've got.” He didn't appear happy to admit it.

“You married?” She knew it was the next question in the queue expected of her.

“I was once. No more. Cop's life, old story, nothing new, blah-blah-blah.” He smiled winningly and she liked that smile. “You?”

Now it was her turn to laugh at the absurdity of a question. “No,” she said.

“Divorced?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Widow,” she said. “My husband killed himself.” It had simply popped out. She felt like biting her tongue in half.

“Hell, that's a damn shame.”

“I think it was exactly what he should have done.” She sounded colder than a block of ice. She might as well stick to the truth as long as it never really told him anything specific about her past or her life now.

“Oh? Was he an asshole? Beat you, that sort of thing?”

She searched her brain for yet another subject to aim him toward and came up blank. Finally she said, “I don't want to talk about him. He'd dead. He's good and dead.”

The cop drank his coffee and sat watching her a while. She let him, unconcerned with his scrutiny. He ordered another drink. She asked for coffee too, straight, black.

“Any kids?” he asked, breaking the silence.

She frowned at him. “Look, you don't pay me to divulge my personal life history here. We can talk about books or dancing or the hole in the ozone layer, but not about my life. I'm afraid I have to leave now.”

She stood up, leaving the coffee, and went to gather her things from the locker in the dressing room. She hadn't looked back at him. She didn't care what he thought of her. She should have known a cop was going to pry, ask questions she didn't want to answer. That was the job they did. Next time he came to her table, she'd leave right away. So what if he was good-looking, with soft brown eyes, and a football quarterback's kind of body? So what if he had a crush on her?

She had no time for romantic involvements. She hadn't wanted a man for a long time. The bottom had dropped out of her sex drive. If her ovaries were still producing hormones, they just weren't moving through her bloodstream in enough quantity to make a damn bit of difference. She might as well be a nun as far as sex was concerned. And it wasn't that she was moving toward any lesbian relationship with Charlene either. Charlene was like a sister. She loved her, wished to protect her and keep her on track, but she sure as hell didn't want to get into bed with her.

Why was she making all these excuses to herself anyway? Why had she thought the cop's eyes were nice?

Christ. Maybe her hormones were working. Edging her toward the first tantalizing steps that would lead to normal sexual activity again.

Now wouldn't that be something? Goddamnit. But not with a cop! Especially one who asked so many piercing and potentially dangerous questions.

When she saw a drunken fool wending his way down the sidewalk and turning toward the parking lot where she was unlocking the driver's side door of her Toyota, she was suddenly very tired. So tired she wanted to just curl up on the backseat of the Toyota, cover her head, and go to sleep.

She wondered if Charlene was still up waiting for her and if she had made anything good to eat. She needed to tell her she had a fondness for lemon-meringue pie. She was positively lusting for any kind of lemony pie, all of a sudden. She could almost taste the lemon bite on her tongue. Pie and sleep. That's all she wanted. Nothing more. Except some peace from men—men, goddamn boring-ass men . . .

"Scuse me, baby, you goin' somewhere?” The drunk had her by the upper arm.

She wrenched away. “Get lost.”

She had shut and locked the car door before she heard what he replied. She knew all the curses. They did not bother her in the least. Fuck him and his need for her. That's what it was, too, need. Except for Frank . . . and maybe the cop . . . the men she had run into in the clubs were just eaten up with the need for a woman, any make or model of woman. A woman to bed down with, not just to talk to. It was as if all males over the age of fifteen had been stranded on a dry desert island for twenty years without female companionship. Or locked up in the penitentiary. Which is where most of them belonged.