AS WE BECOME OLDER,
AS SPREADING OAK GIVES MORE SHELTER.
Two minutes later, Spoon said, “It’s a quote from Richard Jefferies, a nineteenth-century English nature writer noted for his depiction of English rural life in essays, books of natural history, and novels.”
We looked at him.
“What? I just Googled the quote and read his bio on Wikipedia. There is nothing on that childhood lost for children quote, so I don’t know what that’s about, but I can do more research later.”
“Good idea,” I said.
“Why don’t we all meet after school and go to the library?” Ema suggested. “We can see what we can find out about Bat Lady from the town archives too.”
“I can’t today,” I said.
“Oh?”
“I have a basketball game,” I said.
I didn’t want to go into detail. I had a plan. I would go down on the bus to Newark like I did most days. I might even play a little with Tyrell and the gang. Then, with Ema and Spoon safe here in town, I would visit Antoine LeMaire at the address near the Plan B Go-Go Lounge.
So that was what I did. As soon as school ended, I walked to the bus stop on Northfield Avenue and hopped on the number 164. First, I took out my cell phone. I had one picture of Ashley, dressed in her prim sweater, her smile shy. I made it my default screen so if I needed to show it to anyone, I would have it at the ready.
There was a light mist of rain, so we had fewer guys show up for pickup basketball. Tyrell wasn’t there. One of the other guys told me that he was studying for some big test at school. We started playing, but the rain kicked in, so we called it off. I changed back into my school clothes, and using the directions I’d gotten online, I started to walk over to Antoine LeMaire’s address.
The rain was coming down hard now. I didn’t mind. I like rain. I was born in a small village in the Chiang Mai province in northern Thailand. My parents were helping out one of the hill tribes called the Lisu. The shaman—the sorcerer, medicine man, one who acts as a medium between the visible world and the spirit world—gave my father a list of things I must do during my lifetime. One was to “dance naked in the rain.” I don’t know why I’ve always liked that one, but I do. I’ve done it, though not recently, but ever since I was old enough to understand the list, I have always had a funny appreciation for the rain.
When I arrived at the address, I was surprised to see that it wasn’t a residence near the Plan B Go-Go Lounge—it was the Plan B Go-Go Lounge. I looked for an apartment on the top, but there was only the lounge entrance. A huge black man stood in front of it. There was a frayed velvet rope and a big pink-once-red awning. On the awning was a silhouette of a voluptuous woman. The door was blacked-out glass with faded lettering. A sign read: 50 LIVE BEAUTIFUL GO-GO SHOWGIRLS—AND TWO UGLY DEAD ONES.
Funny.
The huge man—a bouncer—frowned at me and pointed to another weathered sign: NO ONE UNDER 21 PERMITTED.
I was going to ask the bouncer whether he knew Antoine LeMaire, but that seemed like the wrong move. I took out my wallet and produced the fake Robert Johnson ID saying I was twenty-one. He looked at it, looked at me, knew it was probably a fake, didn’t much care. It was five P.M., but business was brisk. Men entered and left in drifts and waves. There were all kinds—jeans and flannel shirts, sneakers and work boots, suits and ties and shined shoes. Some fist-bumped the bouncer as they came and went.
“Thirty-dollar cover charge,” the bouncer said to me.
Wow. “Thirty dollars just to enter?”
The big man nodded. “Includes buffet dinner. Tonight is Tex-Mex.”
I made a face at the thought. He let me through. I pushed open the door and was greeted by darkness. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. A bikini-clad woman/girl who looked about my age stood by a cash register. I gave her thirty dollars. She handed me a plate, barely looking up at me. “For the buffet,” she said by way of explanation. “That way.” She pointed to the curtain on the right.
I looked at the plate. It was white with the same voluptuous silhouette as on the awning, plus the rather obvious slogan: Plan B—Where You Go When Plan A Doesn’t Work Out.
My mouth felt dry. My step slowed. I will make a confession to you now. I was nervous, but I was also, well, I was curious. I had never been in a place like this. I realize I should be above that and be mature about it and all that, but a part of me felt pretty naughty and a part of me kind of liked that.
The music was loud with a driving beat. The first thing I passed was an ATM that let you get your cash in fives, tens, or twenties. This, I could see, was to tip the dancers. Men hung at a stage-bar, mostly drinking beer, while the women danced in stiletto heels so high they doubled as stilts. I tried not to stare. Some of the dancers were indeed beautiful. Some were not. I watched them work the men for tips. A sign read: YOUR STAY HERE IS TOUCH AND GO—TOUCH AND YOU GO. Despite that, the men jammed the paper money into G-strings with little hesitation.
Behind me was the buffet. I took a quick glance. The chips were Doritos. The ground beef was marinating in so much lard it looked as if it were encased in Jell-O. The whole place, even in the dark, felt more than looked dirty. I wasn’t a germaphobe, but even without the warning, I didn’t want to “touch” anything.
So now what?
I found an empty booth in a dark corner. Seconds after I sat down, two women approached me. The one with the plunging neckline and fire-engine-red dye job slid next to me. It was hard to tell her age. Could be a hard twenty-year-old or an okay thirty or a good forty. I bet on the youngest. The other woman was a waitress.
The fire-engine redhead who sat down smiled at me. She tried her best to make the smile real, but she couldn’t hide the fact that it was an act, that it was like someone had just painted it on her face. None of it reached her wary eyes. It was a bright, wide smile and yet one of the saddest I had ever seen.
“I’m Candy,” she said to me.
“I’m M—uh, Bob,” I said. “I’m Bob.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. Bob.”
“You’re adorable.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Even when I’m nervous, even in a place like this, I still know how to deliver the smooth lines.
Candy leaned forward a little, making sure to offer a peek. “Buy me a drink?”
I didn’t quite get it, so I said, “Huh? I mean, I guess.”
“This your first time here?”
“Yes,” I said. “I just turned twenty-one.”
“That’s sweet. See, it’s customary to buy a drink for yourself and one for me. We could just split a bottle of champagne.”
“How much would that cost?”
The smile flickered when I asked that.
The waitress said, “Three hundred dollars plus tip.”
I was in a booth, which was good—if I was in a chair, I would have fallen off it.
“Um, how about if we both have Diet Cokes?” I asked. “How much is that?”
Now the smile was all the way gone. Clearly I was no longer adorable.
“Twenty dollars plus tip.”
That would pretty much clear me out, but I nodded. The waitress left me alone with Candy. She was studying me now. Then she asked, “Why are you here?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you had really just turned twenty-one, you’d be here with friends. You don’t look like you really want to be here. So what’s your deal?”
So much for working undercover, but maybe this was better anyway. “I’m looking for someone,” I said.
“Aren’t we all?” Candy replied.
“What?”
She shook her head. “Who you looking for, honey?”
“A man named Antoine LeMaire.”
The color drained from her face.
“You know him?”
A look of pure terror came to her. “I have to go.”
“Wait,” I said, putting my hand on her arm. She pulled away fast and hard, and I remembered the Touch and Go sign. She hurried away. I sat there, not sure what to do. Unfortunately my mind was made up for me. The big bouncer from the entrance was hustling his way over to me. I took out my cell phone, prepared to call someone, anyone, so I’d have a witness, but I wasn’t getting service. Terrific.