“This is so wonderful,” said Dilbeck. “Isn’t she something, Erb? How about that damn snake!”
“Yeah,” Crandall said, “what a life.”
The woman, whose stage name was Lorelei, had arranged the python in an intriguing way. The tail followed the crease of her bare buttocks downward through her legs, curling out to the crotch.
“That’s a well-trained animal,” the congressman observed.
Christopher Rojo was similarly impressed. He was making a new paper airplane with a one-hundred-dollar bill. Rojo was a wealthy young man with few ambitions and plenty of spare time. His family owned a large sugar-cane operation on the southern shore of Lake Okeechobee. Christopher had never been to the farm, but he’d seen photographs. The cane fields looked like a stinking hellhole; he was astounded at the fortune they produced. There was so much money that one couldn’t possibly spend it all. Heaven knows he was trying.
“Here, Davey,” he said. “Your turn.”
Dilbeck took the paper airplane and tossed it toward the python dancer. It landed between her feet. She gave the men a slow wink, and scissored elegantly into a split. Picking up the money, she pretended to show it to the snake. Dilbeck laughed and laughed. Lorelei sprung to her feet, waved once and disappeared offstage. The set was over.
Erb Crandall sagged with relief. Maybe they’d get through the evening without incident.
Rojo said to Dilbeck: “What’s your bet?”
The congressman sipped his rum thoughtfully. “Thirty-eight B,” he said. “Nature’s own.”
“And I,” said Rojo, waving more cash, “say she’s thirty-six inches of plastic fantastic.” He smoothed a fifty on the table. David Dilbeck did the same. They turned toward Crandall, who signaled himself out of the wager. They’d been at it all night, every time a new dancer came on stage. There were two parts to the bet: the size of the breasts, and whether or not they were surgically enhanced. Rojo was getting creamed, and Crandall wasn’t surprised. The congressman had an unfailing eye for the female form; it was his life’s passion, graft being a close second.
Rojo rose drunkenly and called for a man named Ling. Soon a small Oriental in a black tuxedo and a Yankees cap appeared at the table. He didn’t look like the co-owner of a strip joint, but he was.
“Mr. Ling!” Rojo said, opening his arms. “Give us the scoop on Python Lady.”
“Her name is Lorelei,” said Dilbeck. “Have some respect.”
Rojo sat down. Dilbeck pointed at the cash. “Mr. Ling, you see what’s at stake.”
Ling nodded tolerantly. “You want the knocker report?”
“Indeed we do.”
“Miss Lorelei is a 38-B.”
“Ha!” Dilbeck crowed.
He grabbed for the money but Christopher Rojo caught his arm. “Implants!” the young man hissed. “Tell him, Mr. Ling. Tell him it’s implants, and we halve the bet.”
“No, sir,” Ling said. “Lorelei is all Lorelei.”
“Mierda,” said Rojo.
The congressman gloated as he scooped up the cash.
Ling said, “Only the best at Flesh Farm. Only the finest.”
“Top of the line,” agreed Dilbeck.
“Where else you see a snake so big?” Ling bragged. “Snake like that could eat a pony.”
“So could Lorelei, I’ll bet.” Dilbeck chuckled at his own incredible wit. It wasn’t a light breezy chuckle, though. It was deep and ominous. Erb Crandall went on full alert.
He said, “Davey, it’s getting late.”
“Nonsense.” The congressman lit a cigarette. “Mr. Ling, I would like to meet the python princess.”
“Me, too,” said Christopher Rojo.
Ling shrugged. “With or without the snake?”
“Without,” Dilbeck said. “Tell her I’ve got one of my own.”
Rojo busted a gut. Erb Crandall shifted uneasily. This wasn’t a smart idea, not at all. He said, “Come on, Davey, you’ve got a speech in the morning.”
The congressman postured idiotically. “Four score and seven years ago, our foreskins brought forth a new nation …”
Crandall didn’t smile. Dilbeck said, “All right, Erb, who the hell is it?”
“Chamber of Commerce.”
“Shit.” Dilbeck slapped Rojo’s shoulder. “Chris, you’ve never seen such stiffs. The Chamber of Cadavers is more like it.”
“Still,” said Crandall, “it’s for seven-thirty sharp.”
“We’ll get him there,” Rojo promised.
“So,” said Ling, mildly impatient, “you want a friction dance or what?”
The congressman spread his arms. “Sounds enchanting, Brother Ling. Go fetch what’s-her-face.”
“Miss Lorelei?”
“Absolutely.”
Crandall edged closer to Dilbeck and spoke sternly into his right ear. Dilbeck shook his head back and forth, keeping the drink to his lips the whole time. “One little frictionating lambada,” he said with a slurp. “What harm could it do?”
“Yeah,” said Rojo. “Let the poor man have some fun.”
It was useless to object. Crandall removed all loose bottles and other potential weapons from the table. Then he made a slow pass through the club to see if he recognized anyone. He wasn’t worried about the press, because reporters didn’t make enough money to hang out in places like the Flesh Farm. Republicans were what Erb Crandall feared—all it took was one, spying from the shadows, and the Hon. David Lane Dilbeck was cooked. The crummy wig and dark glasses only made him more conspicuous; the chauffeur’s cap, borrowed from the taciturn Pierre, was at least three sizes too small. To keep it from falling off, Dilbeck had pinned it to his wig; every time the cap moved, the hair moved with it. Not even Christopher Rojo seemed to notice. That was one good thing about Dilbeck’s little problem; customers in nudie joints didn’t spend much time scrutinizing each other. The dancers got all the attention.
Tonight the club was scarcely half full, and Crandall spotted no one from the wonderful world of politics. When he returned to the table, the congressman’s chair was empty. Rojo pointed to the rear of the club, where a row of gilded booths lined one wall. The booths were reserved for friction dancing and other private interludes.
“I slipped him two hundred,” Rojo said. “He wanted three but I made it two.”
“Two’s plenty.” Crandall sat down and checked his wrist-watch. He’d give it ten minutes.
Rojo said, “I’m tired, man.” He reached into his coat and took out a tiny foil packet. “You want some blow?”
Erb Crandall felt exhausted. “That’s brilliant, Chris. What a nifty idea. May I?” He unfolded the foil and examined the powder. Rojo smiled encouragingly. Crandall smiled back. Then he hawked up a glob and spit all over Christopher Rojo’s dope.
“Jesus!” Rojo cried.
Crandall pushed the foil across the table. “Get rid of it,” he said, “on your way out the door.”
“You crazy mother!”
“Chris, listen. You’re not gone in thirty seconds, I’ll tell your old man about this. First thing mañana.”
Rojo saw the family trust fund evaporating before his eyes. He hastily wrapped the spit-soaked cocaine in a monogrammed handkerchief. “There,” he said to Crandall. “You happy now?”
“I said get lost.”
“But what about my turn?”
Crandall didn’t understand the whining.
“With the snake lady, Erb. I’m next after Davey!”
“Take a rain check,” Crandall told him. He got up to search for the congressman.
Nothing took David Dilbeck’s mind off his troubles like friction dancing. The sugar vote, the reelection campaign, the wife, the blackmail—who cared? He was alone with the python princess. They were swaying to imaginary Johnny Mathis tunes. The congressman had his hands on Lorelei’s bottom. She was rubbing her delightfully natural protuberances against his middle-aged flab. Her voice sounded sweet and sincere. Her hair smelled like orchids. Dilbeck
was getting hard. Life was good.
When he tried to unsnap Lorelei’s top, she blocked the move.
“That’s a no-no,” she whispered.
“What!”
“It’s the law, baby.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
“Look, if you want to slow dance, I can’t be naked. That’s the law. I’m naked, you can’t touch me anywhere.”
Dilbeck had a passing knowledge of the county obscenity ordinances.
Lorelei said, “I’m sorry, baby.” She moved her hips against him in sinuous rhythm. “That’s not so bad, is it?” She had him pinned against the door to the booth.
“I’ve got an idea,” Dilbeck said.
“Yeah?”
“What if you get half naked? Then I can touch the part that’s not.”
“Nice try,” Lorelei said, “but it’s all or nothing.”
So they continued dancing until Dilbeck felt himself poking her through his pants. In a low voice, he said, “And what are we going to do about him?”
“Admire it,” Lorelei said, “but that’s all.”
Dilbeck gazed at his groin forlornly.
“Look,” she told him, “you could be a cop for all I know.”
He whipped off the cap and the hairpiece, and presented his true self to the python lady. “I’m not a policeman. I’m a United States congressman.”
“Yeah, and I’m Gloria Steinem.”
Dilbeck sensed from Lorelei’s demeanor that the friction dance would soon be finished.
“How much time do we have?” he asked.
“About forty-five seconds, baby.”
David Dilbeck hurriedly unbuttoned his shirt, dropped to the floor and lay on his back. Lorelei studied him guardedly.
“Dance on me,” he said.
“How much?”
“Two hundred bucks.”
“Heels or bare feet?”
“One of each,” said the congressman, shutting his eyes.
Carefully, Lorelei stepped on his chest. “What’s that scar?”
“Double bypass,” Dilbeck replied with a grunt. “Don’t worry, I’m good as new. Now dance, please.”
“Jesus,” mumbled the python woman.
“Oh yeah. Good girl.”
“Let me know if it hurts.”
“I’ll let you know if it doesn’t,” said the congressman.
Lorelei had difficulty keeping her balance, as Dilbeck’s topography was spongy and uneven.
“You’re a wonderful talent,” Dilbeck said, groaning pleasurably under the weight. His hands crept spiderlike toward his crotch.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Lorelei stepped hard on his wrists. “That’s not allowed.”
“Stop, mommy.”
“You wanna play with yourself, go home and do it.”
David Dilbeck cried out once. Next came a series of wet suckling noises. Then he began to thrash epileptically beneath the astonished dancer; legs kicking stiffly, mad-dog eyes rolling back and forth.
Lorelei was afraid to take her feet off the man’s arms. Inwardly she berated herself for not demanding payment up front; if the jerk croaked, she’d have to go through his pockets.
Dilbeck began to buck as if jolted by a hot wire. To keep from falling, Lorelei braced both arms against the walls of the booth. The door flew open and a stranger took her under the arms. He carried her out and asked if she was hurt. She said she’d left a shoe inside. The man said she probably wouldn’t want it back, all things considered. He handed her three hundred dollars.
“Thanks,” Lorelei said. “Will he be OK?”
“Don’t you worry.”
The dancer’s hands were shaking as she folded the money. “You know what he told me? He told me he was a congressman.
Erb Crandall laughed. “Some guys,” he said, “will try anything.” He dug into his pocket for another hundred-dollar bill.
8
The next day, Malcolm Moldowsky made the call. The meeting was set at a bowling alley on Sunrise Boulevard. “Grab any lane you can,” the man said. “It’s League Night.”
Moldowsky’s feet were so small he had to rent women’s shoes. He got a nine-pound ball and tried to clean the germy holes with his monogrammed handkerchief. He willed himself to not think about those who had fingered the ball before him.
He bowled alone for an hour until the man showed up. He was as big as a wine keg, and wore a brown UPS shirt. He scanned Moldowsky’s scores and said, “Not bad.”
“I cheated,” Moldy said, tossing a gutter ball. He had knocked down maybe forty pins in all. On the score pad he had given himself a 164.
The man put on his bowling shoes and bowled strike—spare—strike. “You picked a good lane,” he said to Moldowsky.
A waitress came by and the man waved her away. Moldowsky handed him a thick brown envelope. “It’s all there,” he told him. “The tickets, too. Check for yourself.”
“Nuh-uh,” said the bowler. “I don’t care what’s inside. I’m just the delivery boy.”
He rolled a snapping curve that left the seven-ten combination. “Are you a gambling man?” he asked Moldowsky. “Wait, that’s a dumb question. Of course you’re a gambling man. Otherwise you wouldn’t be involved.”
“Good thinking.”
“Five bucks says I make this split.”
“Sure,” said Moldy. “Five it is.” His lack of interest would’ve been obvious to a three-year-old.
The big man made it look easy, nicking the seven-pin just enough to kick across and take out the ten. “That’s the toughest split in bowling,” he said. “Did you know that?”
“Amazing,” said Moldowsky with a yawn. He gave the man five ones. “Ask your people to move as quickly as possible. We’re up against a deadline.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” the man said, “but I’ll be happy to pass it along. Your turn, sport.”
Unhappily, Moldowsky positioned himself at the head of the lane. He made three tiny, stiff steps and heaved the ball down the alley. Somehow he got a strike.
“Pure luck,” Moldy admitted.
“The best kind,” said the man in the UPS shirt. “You go on home now, OK? Everything’s under control.”
A single piece of rotten news affirmed the leaden sense of futility that had burdened Mordecai every day since his graduation from law school, 207th in a class of 212.
The setback was especially cruel, coming at a rare moment of optimism. A lawyer from the Delicato Dairy Company had arrived at Mordecai’s office to discuss a possible settlement in the case of the roach-tainted blueberry yogurt. For Mordecai, the company’s willingness to negotiate (without the customary exchange of nasty correspondence) was a glorious surprise. An out-of-court agreement would have spared him long hours of excruciating preparation for a trial; it would also have saved him from exposing a jury to the sight of his client, Shad the bouncer.
The informality of the meeting had sent Mordecai’s hopes soaring. The attorney from the Delicato Dairy Company had been civil, sensible and not given to bluster. He was keenly aware of the public-relations consequences of a high-profile insect trial. The central concern was television: in Florida, TV cameras are allowed in court. The two men agreed that color videotape of a cockroach being plucked from a Delicato container could have a negative impact on consumer confidence. The extent of damage, sales-wise, would depend on how many major markets picked up the satellite feed from the courtroom. The attorney’s eagerness to avoid such a risk was obvious by the size of his initial offer—a settlement in “the mid-six figures.” Mordecai struggled to mask his elation.
Of course, the Delicato attorney requested to see Shad’s roach. Just a formality, he assured Mordecai. The attorney had brought a 35 millimeter camera to document the contamination. Photographs would be important, he explained, should his clients challenge the wisdom of settling. A brief slide show in the boardroom would turn them around.
Mordecai was impressed by
the attorney’s thoroughness. He could see how product liability might be an attractive field of practice, if one could avoid the courthouse.
He wished Beverly were there to share the triumph, but she was out with one of her three-day migraines. Mordecai was using a temp named Rachel, whose unflagging bubbliness compensated for her lack of shorthand skills and slothful pace at the typewriter. Mordecai called Rachel into his office and told her to fetch the blueberry yogurt from the refrigerator. The smile left her face instantly, and Mordecai knew.
“I’ll get some more,” she said quickly, “on my lunch hour.”
Mordecai found no words to express his dismay. The Delicato attorney politely excused himself to use the telephone in the other room.
“Oh Rachel,” said Mordecai, abjectly.
“I’ll buy the variety pack. Eight kinds of tropical fruit.”
“Rachel!”
“Yes, sir?”
“What possessed you?”
“I was hungry.”
“Did you not notice that the carton was open?”
“I thought it was Bev’s. I didn’t want it to sit there and go sour.”
“Rachel,” said Mordecai. “You don’t understand.”
“I’m very, very sorry.” She began to weep.
“Shut up,” Mordecai said. “Shut up this instant.” When he thought of Shad, the flesh on his neck got damp. How would he tell him? What bloody havoc would ensue? Mordecai also mourned his own financial loss: forty percent of zero was zero. His vast stomach pitched.
“I didn’t know it was yours,” Rachel slobbered. “I didn’t know you liked yogurt.”
“I hate yogurt. It gives me the runs.”
The secretary’s remorse clouded with confusion. “Then why are you so upset?”
“Because you swallowed my evidence.” Mordecai spoke in an odd singsong voice. “So how was it, Rachel?”
“The yogurt?”
“Yes, the yogurt. A little chunky, perhaps?”