This choice: Flip to another part of the book • Go Back...Chapter #23The Stripper by: Seuzz   The book tumbles open to something that looks like a scientific journal: Proceedings of the Academy of Isomorphic Transformations. You turn the page and start reading. It seems both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time ...
* * * * *
"Who is she? What secrets does she hide?" The voice over the PA was as dark as the dimmed stage, and as guttural as the growling music. Murmurs of anticipation ran around the stage as a silhouette rose in its middle.
"This is who you came to see, gentlemen." The silhouette grasped the pole and thrusts out a hip. "The Voodoo Lounge presents our very own ... Voodoo!" Lights--a throbbing purple--flashed on. And there she was, revealed; and, in those strips of fabric, very revealing.
Her round breasts sat on--they didn't rest behind--silken purple supports. Sleek gloves stretched past her elbows toward thick gold armbands. Long earrings flashed as her dark hair twirled and flew. There were two other stages in the club, and the deep, plush seats around each were fully occupied. But even at two flanking stages, patrons had turned and were craning their necks for a glimpse of the club star.
But not everyone was raptly enjoying the show.
I must be crazy, Agent Fallon thought to herself as she glared up at the dancer from under severely cut bangs. I'm supposed to be a professional, and I'm acting like I just picked up a job application for the Bureau.
Another voice in her head wryly made itself known. Well, he is a con man. He's supposed to be able to get inside your head.
She snorted to herself. So why don't I just give him my credit cards and bank password while I'm at it? "How long are you going to make me sit here, Evans?" she said aloud.
"What's the problem? Don't your bosses pay you by the hour?" The man next to her fit much better with the rest of the clientele: sports coat draped directly over a low-cut t-shirt; three-days growth of beard; opaque aviator shades. Doubtless his eyes were locked onto the girl dancing in front of him. "Enjoy the show."
"Not my flavor," Fallon said. "Which I think you know by now. Asshole."
"It's the deal we agreed to. You treat me fair, I treat you fair."
Fallon grabbed her purse and stood. "Personal humiliation wasn't part of the deal. You finish this last fling of yours, then come find me in the van. My bosses are getting impatient."
"Find something to keep you and them busy," Evans said to her retreating back.
No one else at the table watched her go, for the dancer had unhooked her brassiere and thrown it over her shoulder as she sauntered around the edge of the stage. She dropped it onto Evans' head as soon as Fallon left.
"She must like you," the waitress said as she bent next to him.
He allowed himself a small smile, then plucked off the garment and laid it across his knee. "Maybe it's my lucky night."
"Every guy thinks that." She set a large glass down inside the armrest. "Here's your girlfriend's drink."
"She's not my girlfriend, and she won't be back."
"Take it. It's paid for."
Again, Evans smiled. Fallon isn't subtle, he thought, but she has a sense of humor. So, she left other babysitters behind for me. "They have rooms for private dances?" he asked the waitress. "Am I comped one of those too?"
* * * * *
Fallon hit her cellphone as soon she was in the van. "Fallon. We got him." She listened. "He's being cool and coy, so we're letting him finish the date. He's not the only who can play mind games." Again she listened. "There are teams covering the front and back and inside. There's no holes in the net." She rolled her eyes at what got said next, then interrupted. "I got another call coming in. Hang on." She switched to the other line, and rubbed her temple. "Yeah, fine," she sighed. "Just watch the door."
After hanging up she slumped in her seat. Five years tracking this invisible bastard. Let him climax his run with a lap dance; for her, it was now just anticlimax.
* * * * *
"You wanted me?" The girl called Voodoo pushed the beaded curtain aside and stepped into the room. A small wave of relief washed over her when she saw the occupant: the only one at her stage who actually looked good. He looked better in the private room, draped insouciantly in the chair. Idly, she wondered if she'd like it better if he took those damn shades off.
"Absolutely," Evans said. He reached into his jacket pocket--and turned the lining inside out. "I paid up front."
Voodoo hid her disappointment. "I do better when you show me the incentives."
"I'm a friend of a friend of the boss's."
A little something caught in the back of her throat. "You have my undivided attention." She peeled off the t-shirt she had donned back in the dressing room. "And I'm pretty sure I'll have yours."
"That shouldn't be too hard," Evans said. "I like you." He gave a slight smile as her hips swayed back and forth. "Where are you from? I heard your name's Priscilla. Or is that another fake name, like Voodoo?"
She put her arms behind her head. "You want to ask me questions, or watch me take my clothes off?"
"Can I do both?" he asked as she leaned in close. He rubbed a fingertip along her naked hip; the nail scraped deeply.
She pushed his arm back to his chest. "Don't touch."
Evans smiled, and sucked on his finger. "But you can touch me?" he laughed softly. "Hardly seems fair." She straightened back up and began to sway again. "Are questions okay?"
Her jaw tightened. The customer is always right. But invasion of privacy is even worse than touching. "You can ask," she murmured diplomatically.
"I understand. You don't have to answer. I'll fill in the answers myself."
You've been at this for eighteen months, she thought to herself. But there are always new perversions.
"Where are you from?" he said. "Who were your parents?" He crooked a finger. "I won't touch, but come closer." She complied, and he stretched his legs, planting them between her feet. It made dancing difficult, but he seemed to be more into the mind games anyway.
"You look different. Are you mixed race?" To that one she allowed a small smile of acknowledgement. "Why are you in New Orleans? Why did you become a stripper?"
The questions were gentle and ingratiating, and even though she didn't answer aloud, she found herself straining not to blurt them out. Her breath became short and shallow.
"Who is your best friend? Where do you live? Is there anyone special in your life?"
Now she began sweating. It's hot in here. This is exhausting. The room spun. What time is it? I've been at this for hours. And still the questions, slowly and teasingly, batted lightly at her.
"I think that's enough," she finally gasped.
"I think so too." He slowly stood, and raised a finger. "One touch? Just one?" Reluctantly, she nodded.
And then she gasped. He'd struck fast, a quick blow to the side of her neck. She blinked and swallowed. She felt like a balloon, leaking air. Numbly, she put a hand to her neck; when she took it away, she was holding an ocean of blood.
Evans took her by the shoulders and gently guided her to the floor. His index finger--the long, green, scaly finger ending in a bone like a carpenter's nail--was already softening and shifting. The other fingers were softening and shifting, too, becoming slimmer and shorter.
He took her in his arms and sucked at the side of her neck, at the wound, in long draughts, spilling nothing. Muscles and tissues and arteries contracted and shriveled. Five minutes later, there was only a sack of leathery skin wrapped around brittle bones, which he shoved under the chair.
Evans took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it out into long ringlets. He plumped at his chest, fluffing the slabs into fat pillows. He grabbed his crotch and pushed and massaged, until he had his fingers wedged deeply inside himself. He slipped off his clothes and rubbed his legs, pressing them into slimmer shapes. He closed his eyes and touched his face lightly, like a blind man learning a new face; it's what he did when he had no mirrors.
And as he did all this, he murmured to himself. "Priscilla," he started in a gravel-like baritone. "Priscilla Kane. 23B Montauk Apartments. Hi Mom. How's Chester? Have you talked to your friend Sarah lately? I'm sending you some more money. No, that work study job didn't come through. I had to go back to-- Please don't start, Mom. It's clean and no one touches me--" He caught himself and giggled. "They just watch, that's all." When he was done, his voice was still low and throaty, but melodious.
He twitched up her discarded panties and brassiere and t-shirt, and quickly dressed. On his way to the dressing room, to change into street clothes, he snatched a drink off a passing tray: one of the privileges accorded the club star.
* * * * *
"Night, Priscilla," the bouncer said. "See you tomorrow."
"No you won't," she retorted. "I quit." And she stalked off into the night.
* * * * *
To continue investigating the room: "Disposing of Lucy"   | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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