“Hi, Chantal,” I said.
“Do you like pinball? I like pinball, how the shiny little balls bounce around crazily. Just the way your eyes are bouncing around right now.”
“Are they?”
“Oh, yes. Be careful not to tilt.” She laughed, a sweet little girl’s laugh. “And what’s your name, honey?”
“Don’t you recognize me?” I said.
A blankness washed across her face as she examined me before she forced a professional smile onto that gorgeous mouth. “Of course,” she said. “How are you? It’s so good to see you again. Thanks for coming back.”
“You’ve never seen me before, have you?”
“No, I have, really. You’re so sweet, and so good-looking, how could I not remember?”
“Then what’s my name?” I said.
“Your name?”
She pushed herself off my chair and slowly straightened her long torso. She took her lovely shoe off the table, stepped back, stared at me for a moment like I was crazy, looked at Skink, then again at me.
“Is it Bob?” she said.
The humiliation of it all brought me back to my senses. I straightened my pants, stood up, closed my jacket as best I could. “Let’s go, Phil.”
“Wait just a second,” said Skink. “No need to rush away when things is just getting interesting. Do us a favor, sweetheart, and tell us your name?”
“I told you already,” she said, her voice suddenly not so silvery.
“But you only told us half. Chantal what?”
“Just Chantal,” she said. “We only have first names here. Like Cher. And Beyoncé.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just like. And I suppose Chantal’s your real name.”
“Sure,” she said with a light laugh. “Just like Desirée is Desirée’s real name and Scarlet is Scarlet’s real name. And don’t even get me started on Lola herself.”
“Lola, huh?” said Skink. “Who is she really?”
Chantal leaned forward toward Skink, lowered her voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “Sid,” she said.
Skink burst out in appreciative laughter.
“What’s this all about?” she said. “Why are you asking so many questions? Are you guys cops?”
“Do we look like cops?” I said.
“He does,” she said, indicating Skink. “You look more like a high school guidance counselor.”
“We’re looking for someone,” said Skink, “and we thought you might be her.”
“Am I?”
“No,” I said. “You’re not. We’re sorry to take up your time.”
“So who is it you guys are looking for?”
“A girl name of Chantal,” said Skink. “Just like you.”
“Chantal who?”
“Chantal Adair.”
She stared at us for a long moment, stared at us like we were specters from another world who were shimmering in and out of her reality. “Are you kidding me?”
“Why?” said Skink. “You know her?”
“Look,” she said, backing away and crossing her arms over her chest. “I have to dance, okay. It’s my turn on the stage.”
“Are you her?” I said.
“The farthest thing,” she said.
“But you do know her.”
I took a step forward, gently put a hand on her wrist. She looked down at my hand, then up at my face.
“What’s your game?” she said.
“We’re just looking for a dame, is all,” said Skink.
“Well, if you’re looking for her, you’ll be looking for a long time,” she said. “Chantal Adair was my sister. But she disappeared two years before I was born.”
She smiled tightly, put her hand on my chest and pushed me away before she turned around and walked toward the bar. She leaned over it, arms still crossed, looking as if she had stomach cramps. She began talking to the bartender, talking about us, we could tell, because he was glancing our way. He gave her a drink, she downed it quickly.
“I guess she’s not the one,” I said.
“Worth a tattoo if she is, mate. Got to give her that.”
“Yeah, but the name isn’t hers.”
“Her real name’s Monica, Monica Adair,” said Skink. “But it seemed worth a shot, what with the fake dance name and the real last name both matching the tattoo.”
“Yeah, I suppose. It’s a little weird, though, don’t you think, using her missing sister’s name to dance to?”
“She’s a stripper, which explains a lot. I knew a girl out in Tucson-”
“I bet you did,” I said, “but I don’t really want to hear about it right now. I’m going home.”
“I think I’ll stay around a bit longer.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Research, mate.”
“Your enthusiasm for the job is heartwarming.”
“I got a second possibility on the tattoo front. Since this didn’t pan out, I’ll set up that one.”
“Another strip joint?”
“Nah, something a little more technical. I got me a guy what-”
Skink stopped in midsentence, which was a rare and wondrous feat. I followed his gaze, to see what had interrupted his chain of thought. It was Monica Adair, coming back our way, a strange smile on her face. She walked right up to me and put her hand on my arm.
“You never told me your name,” she said to me.
“Victor,” I said.
“Are you leaving, Victor? So soon?”
“I have to get home. Big day tomorrow. Big day.”
“I’m up next on the stage, but then I can get out a little early. Sid owes me. Are you hungry?”
“It’s kind of late, don’t you think?”
“Oh, Victor, it’s never too late to eat. And if you want, while we eat, we can talk about my sister.”
19
It’s not every day you sit in a diner with a stripper while she talks about a saint.
“Did you ever learn about St. Solange?” said Monica, her voice still silvery and childlike. Inside the confines of Club Lola, where every woman was there solely to satisfy a man’s most puerile urges – long limbs to wrap you tight, abundant breasts to suckle – the voice fit in perfectly. But here, in the Melrose Diner on Passyunk Avenue in the hard heart of South Philly, it was more than passing strange.
“No, never,” I said. “My people weren’t much for saints.”
“Not Catholic?”
“Jewish.”
“That’s too bad. Nothing is as comforting as a saint in times of stress.”
“I prefer beer,” I said.
She had taken the night off after her stint on the stage – a stint full of enough tricks and stunts to make even a politician blush – so she could talk about her sister. And I must say she cleaned up nice, did Monica Adair. Usually that expression refers to someone all dolled up for a change, but it was the opposite with her. In a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, sneakers, her makeup wiped off and her glossy hair pulled into a ponytail, she looked like the prettiest, most wholesome college kid you’d ever want to meet. But all it took was for her to open her mouth for you to realize she was also a total wack job.
“My mother is crazy for them,” said Monica. “Saints, I mean. Saints and plates with paintings of clowns. My sister and I were each named after the saint on whose feast day we were born. Chantal was named for St. Jeanne de Chantal, the patron saint of parents separated from their children, which I suppose is a little sad, considering how things turned out.”
“What about you?”
“August twenty-seventh, the feast day for St. Monica of Hippo. The patron saint of disappointing children. Are you going to eat that pickle?”
“No,” I said. “Help yourself.”
She reached over and plucked the long green sliver from my plate, snapped it between her teeth.
“It could be worse, though,” she said. “We could have been named after the clowns. Could you do me a favor and straighten your tie?”
“My tie?”
“Yeah, it’s a little off to the side. The other way, right. Stuff like that drives me crazy. Or untied shoelaces, or specks of dust on a lapel. And I wash my hands a lot. Is that weird?”