The Pardon

Chapter 40

At 3:30 A.M., just as Jack and Manny had finished planning a case-saving cross-examination of Gina Terisi, bare-breasted women were dancing one last set at Jiggles, a rundown, smoke-filled strip joint where stiff drinks came as cheap as the thrills. A buxom black woman wearing only spike heels and a holster was lit by an orangey-red spotlight as she strutted up and down the long bar top, thrusting her hips to the delight of the drunk and howling crowd each time the rap vocalist on the jukebox screamed “I like big butts!” Around the room women danced on little round tables, each wearing only boots or bow ties or maybe a Stetson, and all of them wearing a garter on one thigh so the men they teased could stuff them with cash and extend their fantasies.

Just before closing, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a clean-shaved head and a diamond-stud earring presented himself at the entrance. A bearded bouncer who looked like he was moonlighting from the pro wrestling tour stepped in front of him. “We close in fifteen minutes,” he said.

“That’s all the time I need,” the man replied as he started inside. The bouncer grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Ten-dollar cover, chief.”

“Shee-it.” But he was in a hurry, so he paid it and stepped inside. He looked around the room, first checking the bar top and then each individual table for the woman he knew as Rebecca. She knew him as Buzz, a name she’d given him not simply because of his shaved head, but because of his whole look. She said his hook nose, folds of leathery skin, and skinny neck made him look like a buzzard. Especially at night, when his eyes were bloodshot. Rebecca usually worked until closing, but Buzz didn’t see her anywhere. Then his eyes lit up as he saw her standing by the cigarette machine, having a smoke.

She had short, wavy hair-black, this week-and the best body of all the dancers. She was dressed tonight, or as dressed as women ever got here. A sleeveless V-neck undershirt with the neck-line ripped down to her navel revealed ample cleavage and a long chain necklace as thick as a dog leash. Tight black leather shorts with silver studs on the pockets were cut up to the middle of her round rear end, and shiny patent-leather boots rose up to the butterfly tattoo on her inner thigh. He caught her eye from across the room and walked over to her.

“I’m done for the night,” she said, blowing smoke in his face.

He shook his head, as if he knew better. “How much?”

“Three hundred.”

“Fuck you.”

“That would be extra.”

He emptied his pants pockets. “I got a hundred sixty dollars. Take it or leave it.”

“Deal.” She snatched the money and stuffed it into the top of her boot. “But I ain’t goin’ back to the car with you for no hundred sixty. We do it in here.”

“Here?” he winced.

“Over there,” she said, pointing to a dark and isolated corner. “Meet you there.”

He nodded in agreement, then headed for the corner. Rebecca stepped up to the bar. “The crazy-man’s usual,” she told the bartender. “Margarita, just salt.” The bartender smirked and handed her a glass filled only with margarita salt, moistened with a squirt of lemon juice. “Thanks,” she said, then strutted toward the darkest corner of the bar.

“I missed you,” he said when she returned.

Rebecca put the glass on the table, threw her shoulders back, and placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t talk shit,” she barked like a drill sergeant.

“You’re right,” he said in a husky whisper. “I’ve been bad.”

“Just as I thought,” she spat, her voice growing menacing. “You know what happens when you’re bad.”

He nodded hungrily.

She raised her index finger, stuck it in her mouth, and sucked it sensually, from base to tip. She immersed it in the glass of lemony margarita salt and stirred, then removed it and held it before his eyes. The crystals stuck to her moistened finger. “How bad were you?” she demanded.

He got down on his knees and looked up sheepishly. “Very bad,” he assured her.

Slowly, she lowered her coated finger and rubbed the salt deep into his eye. He cringed and moaned, his head rolling back with perverse pleasure. His intermittent cries of pain were drowned out by the loud music. She knew he liked her to remain tough, but she had to fight to keep a look of fear from crossing her face. She’d seen men approach ecstasy in the bar before, usually the creeps who got tossed out for masturbating. But he was beyond ecstasy. This was utter rapture.

He regained his composure, still on his knees. He looked up at her through his one good eye. The other was puffy and closed. Lemon and salty tears streamed down his cheek. For a hundred sixty bucks, he knew he’d have her for at least another song. “Put the salt away,” he said. “I’ve been very, very bad.”

Rebecca sighed; she knew what that meant. She lit up another cigarette. “What did you do?”

He took a deep breath, then with his left hand he reached deep inside his pocket and discreetly squeezed a handkerchief that contained two bloody nipples. “Nothing I haven’t done before,” he whispered, a thin smile coming to his face. Then his body jerked and his head rolled back in another fit of ecstasy, as Rebecca crushed out the glowing end of her cigarette in the burn-scarred palm of his right hand.