Or maybe she wasn’t such a beginner, because I suddenly wondered if she hadn’t planned this — I’d noticed her taking extra napkins when we bought our popcorn and now, as I reached my climax and her sweet little right hand pumped me, her left hand settled the rough couple of napkins on me and gently captured what we’d produced together.
I took it upon myself to put my dick back in my pants — she’d done enough for me already — and she was smiling at me impishly, ashamed and proud.
Then I put my arm around her and the movie got even dirtier.
The Climax Club kept hours on Sunday identical to every other day of the week, opening at four P.M. But on Sunday the girls didn’t go on till six, because business was slow. Not a table had a customer, with only a handful of blue-collar guys seated at the bar, watching football on the mounted TV, outnumbering the trio of bartenders.
It was about five. I’d dropped Corrie at her apartment house after another Huey’s burger. I was in a dark blue polo and jeans, the little .25 in my windbreaker pocket.
I approached Leon, the shaved-headed bartender who looked like a slightly less muscular, unbearded Isaac Hayes.
“You got a minute, Leon?”
“Sure, Mr. Quarry. What you need?”
“Let’s take a table.”
“Sure. Bring along a couple beers?”
“Why not?”
He drew two pilsners of Coors and came around the bar. As always, he was in a white shirt, black bow tie and black trousers. I had taken a table across the room and in the far corner where, if a girl had been dancing, we’d have had the worst seat in the house. I wanted privacy, even with such a limited potential audience.
He set the beers down and we sat across from each other at the tiny table.
“Leon, you know what it is I’ve been doing around here.”
He nodded and gave me that practiced, easygoing smile that got a bartender good tips.
“Sure do, Mr. Quarry, and I’m all in favor of what you been up to. This place bein’ run way too loose and sloppy. Nice guy like Mr. Max? People can take advantage, bigtime.”
“And I guess you’d know.”
It was like I’d slapped him.
He said, “Pardon?” But the inflection was, What the fuck?
I had a sip of beer. Smiled easily. “You’re aware that Mr. Climer... Max... doesn’t see anything wrong with the girls here doing a little grass, occasional lines. And he seems to know you’re the one providing the stuff, and I don’t think he minds.”
Leon was staring at me, his dark brown eyes cold and barely blinking now.
I went on: “What I don’t think he knows is that you’re providing his fiancée Mavis with smack.”
He started to get up. “I think we done here.”
My voice was calm and nearly a whisper. “No. We’re just getting started. You’re short a bartender, aren’t you? And a bouncer? Maybe you’ve heard Max needs a new driver?”
He was taking that in with a frown, still standing there, half-turned to go; but not walking off.
“So what?” he said. “They quit. People quit.”
“They didn’t quit. I killed their asses. Sit down.”
His eyes opened just a shade wider, and then he sat.
“They tried to kidnap ‘Mr. Max,’ and I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt that you weren’t in on it.”
“You best—”
“A friend of mine and I stopped the snatch from going down, and it got messy, but we cleaned it up. Probably in a day or two, you’ll be questioned by the cops about the help who didn’t show up on Saturday. You should get your story straight with Mr. Max, as soon as you can.”
He said nothing, but a tightness around his eyes was pulsing.
I gave him a friendly smile. Took another sip of beer — he hadn’t touched his.
“We all have our secrets, Leon. Me, I take care of security in my own way, and if you’re wondering, Mr. Max approves. You have your secrets, too, like dealing smack to Mavis. But what I want to know is... why?”
His voice was a low rumble now. “Why what?”
“I’ve kept an eye on you. I don’t think you’re dealing smack to anybody but Mavis. Now I have my own notion about why that may be, so maybe the real question is... who?”
When a bald guy frowns, his whole forehead wrinkles. “Who? Now what the fuck are you—”
I raised a palm as if in court being sworn in. “Who was it that wanted you to deal that shit to Mavis? Who, Leon?”
He let air out from down around his toes; shifted in the seat. Made a show of shrugging. “Well, girl wanted it. What you think?”
“I think it wasn’t your idea. That somebody told you to be her connection. Sure, she asked you, because you were giving her the softer stuff. It’s natural. And I’m sure it wasn’t hard for you to lay hands on what she wanted. But who were you doing that for? And if you say ‘Mavis,’ my next stop will be Max Climer, to tell him you’re poisoning his sweetie.”
His eyes and nostrils flared, like a rearing horse. “What is this, fuckin’ blackmail?”
“No. It’s a threat.” I got very quiet and put some crazy in it. “I know you’re a big guy. But you’re not a killer. I took out somewhere between thirty and sixty little yellow bastards in Vietnam, and adding one big black bastard back home to the list won’t lose me any sleep. Who made you Mavis’ connection, Leon?”
He swallowed; his expression showed no fear, following my little rant, but a weariness had set in.
He said, “Mr. Climer — his deal all the way. I mean, not Mr. Max Climer, but...”
“Mr. Vernon Climer. Cousin Vernon.”
The bartender nodded glumly. “Why the man wanted her on that stuff, I couldn’t tell you.”
“Guess.”
“Well... she... she got a lot of sway over the other Mr. Climer. Mr. Max. She got ideas for the magazine. Was her idea to buy that fancy new house in Germantown. She wanted to star in movies Mr. Max Climer is plannin’ to make, and she not somebody who looks good in front of a camera, believe you me. She kind of a hard, skanky-lookin’ bitch.”
“I noticed. But Max loves her. The heart wants what it wants.”
“Don’t it the fuck. But when she on the spike, Mavis, she easy to handle. She got one thing on her mind — just floatin’ dreamy-like till next time, make it to the next high. All that ambition, out the window. Is my opinion. My observation.”
“Okay, Leon. Thanks.”
His eyebrows lifted. “That it?”
“Not quite. Who is the woman?”
Another endless forehead of frown. “Who is what woman?”
“The other day I needed to see Vernon, but he was in conference. When he finally came out, he looked like a sailor who just got back from shore leave. Who was the woman he was ‘in conference’ with?”
Leon cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. “You know, Mr. Quarry, that’s the man’s personal business.”
He was willing to talk about Cousin Vernon paying him to keep Max’s fiancée on H, but betraying sexual indiscretions? That was another thing entirely. A real breach of the understanding between men.
“Who, Leon? We’ve come this far.”
He shrugged. “His cousin’s wife. Dorrie. What’s the harm? Mr. Max, he’s divorcin’ the bitch, ain’t he? I mean, who cares?”