Body Count

7

For a Monday night, the crowd wasn’t bad. The Fast Lane actually was filled with customers. In that sense, it wasn’t a bad crowd. But there was no line of people waiting to get in.

Pat Lennon and Pringle McPhee arrived around 9:00 P.M., which, for that establishment, was the shank of the evening.

They’d met for dinner after work. They’d been doing that with some frequency lately. After dinner, Pringle had suggested they visit The Fast Lane. The club, in a downtown section known as Bricktown, had been open only a few months and she hadn’t been there yet. Pat was not eager to go; she’d been there once and didn’t much care for it. But Pringle’s suggestion was more an appeal. So Pat agreed, with the proviso that they keep their visit brief.

The sound assaulted them as they opened the door. Pringle smiled. It was her sort of place. Pat winced and acknowledged to herself that they were doomed to shout for pretty much the rest of the evening.

They were faced with a choice: upstairs or downstairs?

“What’s down?” Pringle asked loudly.

“Pool tables. Adult-very adult-video games,” Pat answered just as loudly.

“And up?”

“Dancing. The club.”

“Then it’s up.” Pringle took the stairs, followed by Pat.

It was just a few steps to the first-actually the second-level, the dance floor. Pringle’s mouth dropped open as she beheld the surreal scene.

The building was rectangular with two rectangular tiers above the dance floor. Looking up into the high recesses of the vaulted ceiling, Pringle could imagine herself in a bullring, the Colosseum, or an ancient opera house … though it was safe to say no concert hall had ever heard a sound like this.

The noise level was several times louder than a screeching jet. The dance floor was almost choking with gyrating bodies, all amazingly there of their own volition. Except for those who were dancing so close they were almost on the other side of each other, it was difficult to tell who was whose partner. From the two upper levels, spectators enjoyed a more encompassing view. And they were enjoying the view; otherwise why would so many be crowded against the railings taking in the action below?

In a reserved spot in the uppermost tier sat a very kinetic disc jockey. He not only played the tapes, he controlled the volume, the fluctuating glitter and flash, the strobes, and the video projectors that threw much-larger-than-life images of the dancers onto the gigantic screens-not unlike those in sports palaces that endlessly repeat instant replays.

Pat and Pringle took the stairs. Arriving at the second tier, they discovered why so many of the patrons were clustered at the inner railings. All the alcoves were occupied by couples, threesomes, and quartets in various stages of assignation. Here and there fronting the outer walls were black granite-and-marble bars with soft, cushy stools These were pretty well occupied, although there was an occasional empty stool.

Not only was it impossible not to be overwhelmed by the music, they could feel it. The entire floor throbbed to the tempo that spread concussively into and through their bodies.

The scene was not much short of a full-blown bacchanal.

Pringle squeezed her way to a bar and got drinks for herself and Pat. They found a spot near one of the corners where they could watch most of the action-on the floor, at the bars, along the railings, and, if one considered sex a spectator sport, in the alcoves.

“I had no idea!” Pringle almost had to shout to be heard above the din.

“They don’t leave much to the imagination,” Pat yelled back.

As they took in the action, it was easy to spot singles mingling in the crowd. It was hard not to pity them. Most were desperate for someone-anyone-who would value them. And most would fail to find that certain someone here.

What with the haze-there were only nominal smoke-free areas in the club-and the kaleidoscopic lighting, identifying specific dancers was challenging. But even in this maze, Pringle thought she spotted someone she knew, someone everyone knew. “Isn’t that …?”

Pat tried following Pringle’s line of vision, “Isn’t that … who?”

“You know …” Pringle was uncertain. “The gossip columnist? With the Suburban Reporter?”

“Where?”

“There. Don’t you see?” Pringle was now pointing. “Dancing … there, near the far corner … see?”

Even though the two of them were almost shouting, they also had to face each other and mouth their words exaggeratedly in order to communicate through the clangor and resonance.

Gradually, Pat’s vision did manage to cut through the smoke and the strobe flashes. “Very good, Pringle. It is indeed, Sally Dean.”

“No, no …” Pringle shook her head. “Lacy De Vere.”

Pat grinned. “I knew her when she was Sally Dean.”

“Really?” Pringle turned to look at the subject in question and then back to face Pat. “She changed her name? I didn’t know that.”

“Pringle, she-“ Pat stopped and jerked her head toward a justvacated alcove. She and Pringle made a beeline for the space and settled into the chairs. They were as grateful for the quasi haven from the noise as they were for the seats. Now at least they could carry on a conversation without immediate threat to their vocal cords. “Pringle, she changed just about everything. Her name-legally; her hips-liposuction; her breasts-implants; her nose-plastic surgery; her hair coloring-her hairdresser knows; and several husbands-divorce.”

“Wow! I would have guessed the hair-that’s amost unlikely shade. But I didn’t know the rest.”

“We worked together-no, at the same time-at the Free Press. A long time ago, maybe ten years. She was Sally Dean then, a staff writer-and not a very good one either.”

“I knew you’d been at the Freep,” Pringle said, “but … Sally Dean? I never heard of her.”

“Don’t feel bad. Not many people remember the name. I’ll never know how she got past the personnel director. Ordinarily he was one of the best in judging prospective employees, but he sure blew that one. Or maybe,” she added, “he was away on vacation.”

“She was that bad?”

“Walking proof that a good copy editor really can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. She couldn’t spell. She had no concept of grammar. She paid no attention to detail. She put streets on the wrong side of town. She misidentified people in her stories.”

Pringle’s eyes widened. “How did she ever make it through probation?”

“She slept well.”

“She-? Oh, I get it.”

“Seemed like her only talent. It was unerring the way she could pick out whose star was rising at the paper. Then she’d practically throw the poor boob into bed and almost literally rape him.”

Pringle giggled. “Poetic license?”

“Only a little. But not grossly exaggerated.”

“Well, what happened to her? I mean at the Freep?”

Pat half smiled at the memory. “She picked the right guy, as usual, but he moved.”

“Moved?”

“Moved on. He’s in Hollywood now. He writes for TV mostly.”

“She couldn’t go with him?”

“Uh-uh. He didn’t need a waif then and he needs one even less now. Like the song from Pajama Game says, ‘He’s living in the Taj Mahal/In every room a different doll.’”

“And at the Freep?”

“Karma at last. When the winner she picked left town, the guy who took his place near the top of the totem pole was someone she had royally screwed-and I don’t mean sexually.”

“Aha! A variation on the Golden Rule: Be nice to people on the way up; you’re likely to meet the same people on the way down.”

“Exactly. It was a foregone conclusion; he made life so miserable for her, she had no alternative. Somehow-and I’ve never been able to figure out how-she walked away with a fat severance check.”

They rested their voices for a few moments and sipped their drinks. Pringle got up and moved to the railing to watch the action. Having again spotted Lacy De Vere, nee Sally Dean, she could scarcely take her eyes off her. Pat sat and sipped. After a couple of minutes Pringle returned to the alcove.

“I still don’t get it,” she said at length. “According to your story, when she left the Free Press, she was at the bottom of the heap. Now she’s got practically a new body and one of the most feared word processors in Detroit. I mean, how did she get from there to here?”

Pat shrugged. “You can’t keep a bad apple down. As far as her body is concerned, as some astute observer once remarked, Lacy doesn’t get a new wardrobe; she just gets reupholstered.”

Pat was thoughtful for a moment. “Actually, I’m one of the few who knows where she went after the Freep. For some incomprehensible reason, she confided in me-and I have no idea how many others-just before she left the paper and this town. She got a job-if you can believe this-teaching journalism at Mankato College in Minnesota. With that cachet in her suitcase, she got a few honest jobs and began the overhaul and repair of her body. Her ultimate aim was just what she’s accomplished: to return and become a force to be reckoned with.”

“But to really get even, wouldn’t she have to be back with the Freep … or the News?”

“Don’t sell the Reporter short. Especially since the JOA, the Suburban Reporter has become a pretty popular and potent vehicle with a growing circulation. Personally, I don’t think she’s done settling the score. But God knows what she’s got in mind-uh-oh.” Pat nodded toward the far end of the railing along the stairs. “That’s what comes of talking about her. The ESP is working: She must have spotted us. Here she comes.”

“That’s okay,” Pringle said. “Now that you’ve filled me in on her background, she’s not nearly as intimidating.”

“Good. But don’t let down your guard for an instant. Just remember: The first ten priorities in Lacy De Vere’s life are the things she wants. And she’ll do anything and use anybody to get them. So watch it.”

For a fleeting instant Pat considered bailing out. She would never be in the mood to mingle socially with Lacy De Vere. But actually, the urge to beat a hasty retreat was more for Pringle’s sake. Pat glanced at Pringle, who had stood and moved to the railing with a smile of anticipation. Pat rose to join Pringle. This did not bode well. Why was she put in mind of the unsuspecting doe in the sights of the hunter?

As she approached them, Lacy resembled a powerboat sweeping aside from its path all lesser obstacles, in this case, people.

When she reached them, Lacy dove directly at Pat, embraced her, and kissed the air. “Pat,” she enthused, “how good to see you again.”

“Hi, Lacy.” Pat’s tone was noncommittal, several degrees less enthused than Lacy’s.

“It’s been too long,” Lacy said. “Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”

“Working. Writing.”

“Of course you have. I read you just about every day. As usual, your stuff is good and, more often than not, on page one.”

It was obvious that this last remark was a fishing maneuver for a reciprocal compliment. But Pat withheld comment.

“And who’s your lovely friend here?” Lacy pursued.

“Lacy De Vere, meet Pringle McPhee.”

“Pringle McPhee! At last! I’ve wanted to meet you but our paths haven’t crossed till now.”

“You know who I am?”

“Of course I do. I’ve read your byline in the News Frequently. Everybody says you’re the next Pat Lennon.”

“Lacy,” Pat said, “there’s no need for a new Pat Lennon. I’m not retiring. And I’m not writing my autobiography-or my obit.”

“Of course you’re not, dear,” Lacy said with mock affection. “It’s just that Pringle here is going to be knocking you off the front page one of these days.”

“Oh, no!” Pringle protested.

“Page one is big, Lacy-no ads. There’s plenty of room for lots of bylines,” Pat said.

“Well, of course there is, sweetie.” Lacy regarded Pat head-on. One of them had thrown down a gauntlet and the other had picked it up. It didn’t really matter which had done what; the battle was joined.

“Besides,” Lacy continued to address Pat, “there have been rumors lately that your work has begun to slip a bit. I mean, ever since your lover boy … your significant other-my glory! what do they call paramours these days? — anyway, ever since good old Joe Cox slipped the tether and ran off to Chicago.” The touche was implicit.

Pringle gasped. It was common knowledge that Joe Cox had been lured from the Detroit Free Press to the Chicago Tribune by an offer he found impossible to refuse-especially in the face of the hodgepodge that the JOA had made of Detroit’s newspapers. It was also common knowledge that Cox and Lennon had been living together for more than ten years. Common knowledge, that is, mostly to the local media people. Readers of both metropolitan dailies knew only that Cox and Lennon were the premiere reporters on their respective papers, and that Cox had moved on.

But now, that information was grist for Detroit’s foremost gossip columnist.

Pringle went livid. “Pat’s work hasn’t slipped one bit. She’s as sharp as she ever was. And that means she’s the best. And besides, you’re insinuating that she and Joe have broken up. That’s not only untrue, it’s malicious!”

Only by a stretch of the imagination could Lacy’s smile be described as sincere. “Whether Pat’s stuff is as good as it ever was is in the eyes of the reader. And an informal Reporter poll says she’s slipping.”

“And when you publish the results-as I’m sure you’re about to,” Pat said, “I suppose you’ll qualify it as ‘unscientific’”

“What’s science got to do with anything?” Lacy was still smiling. “As for absence making the heart grow fonder, my sources tell me Mr. Cox’s testosterone has gone berserk. He’s at Chicago’s Playboy mansion more often than Hugh Hefner.”

“That’s a lie!” As she took a threatening step toward Lacy, Pringle stumbled.

“Careful, sweetie,” said Lacy, “you don’t want to depend too much on that gimpy leg.”

Pringle gasped again. “How did you-?”

“It’s my business to know … and to tell. That car that ran you down did a lot of damage, didn’t it? Any scars left, my dear-to discourage pouring that beautiful body into a bikini?”

Pringle’s lips were a thin line. “No scars, Sally Dean! How about you? Some stretch marks? Some remnants of the stitches?”

Lacy threw back her head, laughing uproariously. “Ancient history, sweetie! I see Pat’s filled you in. Well, once upon a time there was a Sally Dean. But she is no more. Once I was on the bottom, struggling. Now I’m on top. Like some of the saints who started out not all that good, then turned their act around and got to be perfect at what they did.”

She laughed again. “Yes, dear Pringle, there are those who would like to dig up old Sally Dean. But most of them are too busy worrying about what Lacy De Vere knows about them. And what Lacy De Vere is going to write about them.

“All’s fair, Pringle, dear. And by all, I mean everything.”

Pringle was strongly tempted to throw the dregs of her drink in the woman’s face. Pat, sensing Pringle’s impulse, shook her head “no.” Lacy too perceived what had almost happened.

She wagged her finger close to Pringle’s face. “Don’t even think about it, sister. You’ve got to learn to look one step ahead. You need to stay on the good side of me. Otherwise I’ll destroy you. Not right away. When you least expect it. Now, that’ll give your phobias a chance to work overtime.”

Again, Pringle was caught with her mouth hanging open. How does she know …? How can she know …?

Sensing the unspoken sentiment, Lacy repeated, “It’s my business to know. And it’s my business to tell.”

“Come on, Pringle,” Pat said, “let’s get out of here.”

As they turned to leave, Lacy called after them, “Oh, and Pat dear, let’s do lunch someday soon.”

“Maybe,” Pat said over her shoulder. “Then we’ll see who eats what.”

Outside The Fast Lane, everything was refreshing. They’d left behind the smoke and the noise and, above all, Lacy De Vere.

Although Pat Lennon lived in a nearby high rise, she would not consider walking these streets at this hour. She would have taken a cab; however, Pringle’s car was only a few steps away.

When they arrived at the car, after having paid the parking attendant, Pat noticed Pringle scanning both the front and rear seats before entering. Sound procedure, but in Pringle’s case it was, along with her growing list of obsessions, one more manifestation of her frame of mind.

They drove the few blocks to Pat’s apartment building in silence.

Before leaving the car, Pat turned and asked, “You okay?”

“A little shook up. This is the first time I ever met anybody I could so thoroughly dislike so quickly. But there’s not much she can do to me, as far as I can see. She seemed to be aiming mostly at you. So I guess I ought to turn the question around: You okay?”

Pat smiled and nodded. “It’ll take much more than Lacy De Vere to reach me.”

“But that poll she was talking about-“

“Remember, Pringle, and don’t ever forget: Lacy De Vere is out for number one, first and foremost and always. If she can make a point, she won’t let anything as insignificant as a mere lie inhibit hen”

“So?”

“So I seriously doubt that the ‘poll’ ever saw the light of day. You poll readers on features, comics, columnists. You don’t poll readers for their opinions on reporters. Most readers don’t know whose byline is on what. Pringle, you and I don’t get our pictures in the paper. We do our job, but nobody knows who we are. That ‘poll’ was one of Lacy’s less spectacular inventions, okay?”

“I suppose. But what about what she said about Joe?”

Pat’s smile was tight. “Probably nothing but an educated guess. I don’t think Joe will ever run out of wild oats. It’s one of the reasons we never married-not by any means a major reason, but a reason nonetheless.”

“You and Joe are okay, then?”

“I guess. We get together once or twice a month. But this commuting between Detroit and Chicago gets tiring after a while. I’ll be honest: It hurt like crazy when he left. Now it’s not so bad. I even kind of enjoy the peace and quiet. I never thought I would. But now it would be tough to go back to living with someone again.”

As Pat stepped out of the car, she stopped and turned back to Pringle. “Just remember: Lacy De Vere looks out for number one exclusively. If you get in her way, you gotta know you’re at very least in for a head-on collision.”