“I don’t know. I’ve never been in one.”
“Honest?”
“Honest.”
“Well, then, this should be interesting. Listen to this. This is the description of the place that’s posted on the Web. ‘This gentlemen’s club isn’t just for bookworms. The club actually does have volumes lining the entrance, but the clientele comes here for a different type of learning experience. And they visit often enough to keep The Library busy even on school nights.’ That’s hilarious.”
“Not to me,” I said. “I really don’t like this.”
I heard him sigh. “I’m sorry you don’t like it, Doc. I’m not asking you to like it. But I am asking you to do it. Remember, this guy’s gonna want you — at least we hope he’s gonna want you — to break federal laws for him. If you balk at setting foot in a strip club, he might have deep doubts about your scofflaw sincerity.”
“So if he wants me to hire a hooker or snort cocaine, am I supposed to do that, too, Rooster? How much of me’s for sale here?”
“Not that much,” he said. “So no, don’t do hookers or cocaine. But do this meeting. Please.”
“Hang on while I think about this.” The meter’s digits glowed bright red in the darkness below the dashboard; currently it read $17.50.
A finger tapped my window, and I fumbled for the button to roll it down. “Sorry, I’m almost done,” I turned to tell the driver.
But it was not the driver. “Take all the time you need,” said Raymond Sinclair. The cab’s meter flipped to $18.00.
“I need to go,” I said into my cell phone. “I’m meeting a friend, and he just got here. I’ll talk to you later.” I snapped the phone closed, got out of the cab, and walked into The Library with Raymond Sinclair.
The front door opened into a short hallway with a counter along one side; behind it sat a burly man wearing a bored expression, a tight black T-shirt, and a dusting of ashes from the cigarette that dangled from his lips. Sinclair flashed the man a plastic card labeled VIP PLATINUM MEMBER, which he acknowledged with a nod. A battered clipboard lay on the counter. The man nudged it toward me.
“Sign in,” he said, “and I need to see a driver’s license.”
I added my name to the list of other men and then fished my license out of my wallet and handed it to him, feeling embarrassed and vaguely guilty. He compared the names, handed my license back across the counter, then pressed a button beside the counter to buzz us into the main room.
The room was loud and dark, with a lighted square stage in the middle. A few men sat on low stools surrounding the stage, a handful more sat at tables dispersed throughout the room, and several others were tucked into booths with flashy young women beside them. A pair of waist-high bookshelves, lined with battered paperbacks — presumably the “volumes” Rankin mentioned — flanked the doorway through which we’d entered. Clearly The Library had pulled out all the stops in its effort to provide a highbrow experience.
As we entered, a tall young blond woman — naked except for a tiny G-string and a lace garter encircling one thigh — shinnied up a brass pole at center stage. Once she was at the top, she let go with her hands and leaned back, extending her arms and arching her torso to accentuate her breasts. They were, I had to admit, quite impressive. Then, extending one willowy leg, she hung by the other and began to slide downward, spiraling slowly around the pole, her descent set to throbbing music and strobing lights. During her final spin, timed to coincide with the end of the song, her long hair swept the stage, then fanned out behind her head as her body came to an artfully posed stop at the base of the pole. “That’s Desirée workin’ it for you, guys,” intoned a DJ’s unctuous voice. “Give her a big hand, fellows, and don’t forget to tip. These girls dance only for tips.” I felt obliged to applaud, but no one else did, so after a few self-conscious claps I stopped. One of the men sitting stageside extended a folded bill in the dancer’s direction; she squatted in front of him, hooking a finger under the garter to raise it off her thigh, and he slid the bill beneath the elastic band. The two men sitting beside him studiously looked away, their hands cupped around their beer cans. I wondered how much detail the tiny camera clipped to my tie was relaying to the FBI agents in the van.
Something about the woman’s face looked familiar, and I realized with a start that I’d seen her before — only hours before — in a drastically different light. I tapped Sinclair on the arm. “Isn’t that the woman who asked you the first couple of questions this morning?”
“In the flesh.” He smiled at my obvious bafflement. “Sometimes it’s a good idea to frame the questions the way you want ’em framed,” he explained. “Gives you a little more leverage over the discussion. A bit of spin control. Politicians do it all the time — salt the audience at town meetings with friendly folks who’ll lob some easy questions over the plate.”
I thought back to the end of Sinclair’s talk. “So when Glen Faust interrupted you — was that scripted, too?”
Even in the club’s dim light, I could see Sinclair flush. “It sure as hell wasn’t scripted by me,” he snapped. “If I’d been scripting it, he’d have made some lame-ass point and I’d have demolished him. He caught me by surprise, and once he brought you into it, it got away from me.” As he spoke, he watched the woman onstage wriggle into a tight tube dress and descend a short set of steps to the main floor.
“That lovely lady was Desirée,” the DJ oozed. “Next up is Mandy. Mandy’s going to do two numbers for you. Don’t be shy, fellows. If you like what you see, come up and tip the ladies. They’re available for table dances and lap dances, too.”
A petite redhead wearing a push-up bra, lace panties, and stiletto heels took the stage. As soon as the song began, she unhooked the bra and let it fall, then slid down the panties and stepped out of them, snagging one heel briefly on the lace. I wondered when the striptease — the slow, tantalizing removal of layers of clothing — had been replaced by brutally efficient stripping.
The gymnastic blonde, whom the DJ had called Desirée, sidled up to Sinclair and kissed him on the cheek. “Hi, doll,” he said. “Dr. Brockton, this is Melissa. Melissa, Dr. Brockton.”
“Hi,” she said, offering me a hand to shake. “That was very interesting, what you were saying this morning.”
“Oh, hell, not you, too.” Sinclair groaned. “Everybody loves this guy. What am I, chopped liver?”
“Aw, don’t get jealous on me,” she cajoled, kissing his cheek again. “You’re the one that’s out on a date with him.” She looked at me naughtily. “I hope you’re not the kind of guy who puts out on the first date.”
I felt myself turn crimson and was grateful for the darkness of the club. “Not to worry,” I said, unsure what to say next. Maybe, I didn’t recognize you without your clothes. Or, How’d you get so good at gymnastics? Or maybe, Doesn’t it bother you that strange men come in to stare at your body and don’t even clap or tip? I settled for the lame safety of, “Nice to meet you, Melissa.”
Sinclair nudged me. “Where you want to sit? Up by the stage?”
God forbid, I thought, but what I said — shouted, practically — was, “A booth, if that’s okay with you. Be a little easier to talk.”
He nodded. “Sweetheart,” he said to Melissa/Desirée, “could you excuse us for a few minutes? We need to talk a little shop.” She mimed a smooch at him, waved her fingertips at me, and sashayed away in her short dress and tall heels.
Sinclair led us to a booth in a far corner of the room, mercifully far from the stage. As soon as we were seated, a pretty brunette — not as young as the two twentysomething dancers — came to take our drink order. She wore a simple white blouse, a straight gray skirt that reached below her knees, and a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses. Her hair was pinned back in a loose bun, skewered by a #2 wooden pencil. Despite how completely clichéd the costume was, I found the librarian-waitress far more attractive than I’d found either of the topless, gyrating dancers.