The Lover's Children

Chapter 102 – Summer’s Inferno – Part 12

KLEMPNER

She’s a beauty. I’ve seen the Surgeon’s choice in victims. Lily fits the bill perfectly.

“It sounds like stalking to me. Whatever you want to call it, it seems you’re bothered enough by his

behaviour to flag it up.”

Her lips flatten and her eyes flash. “I didn’t flag it. Danny did. She said someone was asking around if

any of us were being bothered by anyone. She knew I’d had this creep on my tail.”

Lily blows air, then falls silent. I wait for her to decide to speak. When she does, “So who are you

anyway? Or what are you? And why are you so interested? Danny said you’re not a cop, but she

wasn’t very specific otherwise.”

“No, I’m not a cop. And for the record, I have no interest in how much you earn or what you do to earn

it.”

“What then?” Her eyes tighten. “Social services? You from that new church place around the corner? I

don't need my soul saving.”

“I don’t suppose you do. And if you did, I’m hardly the man for the job.”

It’s hardly my area of interest, but for now, I want to keep her talking. For a moment, I flounder for

something to say, but Michael takes the cue. He switches on that smile he uses when he’s notching up

the charisma. “Do you get a lot of that soul-saving stuff?”

She raises brows at the question, sniffs, wrinkling her nose, then knuckles under to the charm

offensive. “The religious types? Yeah, from time to time. Here to save me from myself. Can’t stand

them, but I try to be polite. They usually mean well, even when they’re the fanatic types or just clueless.

They make no difference between the hostesses, the dancers and the hookers.”

She presses fingers to her chest, her voice turning dramatic… “They’ve come to save the Harlots and

the Painted Jezebels from an eternity in Hell.” Her smile fades and she returns her attention to me. “So,

where do you fit in?”

“Rest assured, I’m not from either the social services or the church. And for what it’s worth, I always

rather admired Jezebel.”

Michael’s face swivels my way. Lily blinks, a smile beginning to crack. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She cocks her head. “How come?”

“Most of what is said about ‘Painted Jezebel’ is wrong and comes from people who couldn’t be

bothered to read what is actually written about her. I have read the stories. She was an admirable

woman. Brave. Loyal. She was a model wife, and she had the courage of her convictions. And that

comes out from tales which were written by her enemies. In the end, Jezebel was on the losing team.

That left her with two thousand years’ worth of bad press.”

Michael’s jaw is slack. “You have read the Bible?”

I keep my voice dry. “I’ve spent a lot of my life in hotel rooms.” The girl looks equally dumbstruck. “Lily,

listen to me. I have zero interest in saving your soul, but I’m very interested in ensuring that your body

remains in one piece.”

She swallows. Swallows again. Then, “Lily’s just my working name.” She offers her hand. “Martina. My

friends call me Marty.”

“Good to meet you, Marty. Now please, tell me about this man that’s worrying you.”

She checks her watch. “I will, but I’m on in ten minutes and I need to get into my costume. Can we talk

while I change?”

“Of course.”

There are no stalls or screens. And given the nature of the joint, etiquette wouldn’t seem to require a

show of modesty. But Michael, turning away, nudges me and I follow his lead, while behind us, clothing

rustles and crinkles.

“He comes to the club…” says Marty/Lily... “… when I’m dancing. At first, I just thought he was one of

the regulars, but the guys behind the bar say he’s only watching me. He’s not interested in any of the

other girls.”

“Don't men often stare at you?” I start to turn to face her, but Michael nudges me back. “You’re a

dancer. An… exotic dancer…Surely the point is to be stared at?”

Her tone sharpens. “Yes, of course men look at me. The more they look, the more I earn. But this

one’s… different.”

Behind us, the rasp of a zipper. “You can turn around now.” She smiles slightly as we face her.

“Thanks. It’s nice to get a show of manners. Don’t often see that around here.” Taking a seat at a small

dressing mirror, she sorts through pots and jars of cosmetics. Picking out a small container and brush,

she strokes a dark shadow into the crease of her eyes.

I scrape up a chair and seat myself at eye level with her. “You say this one is different? How? Exactly?”

Pausing, she puts the brush down, rests forward on folded arms, glancing at me, then back at the

mirror. “Y’know how, when you look at someone, you sort of look, then look away, then look back

again…”

I nod understanding. “You’re doing exactly that now with me.”

“Right. Yes… This one doesn't. He just stares. It weirds me out.”

“Does he try to talk to you? When you’re not on stage.”

“Yes…” She stalls over her words. “I talk with a lot of guys at the club. It goes with the job.”

“Are you just a dancer? Or a… hostess too?” Michael raises brows at me, rolls a look.

She flushes. “Both. I’m expected to be polite to the customers. Even the weirdos. Within limits.” She

lifts her chin, this time holding my eye. “But the word is hostess. My job stops at the exit.”

“I understand. So… this man…He… What? He just stares at you?”

“He turns up. He tips me. Wants to buy me drinks.”

“So, he’s approached you. When you say he tips you…? How? In your hand, when you’re talking with

him? Or he slips money into your costume? During your performance?”

“Sometimes.” She sounds defensive. “Tips are part of it. This is my living.”

“I get that. Everyone has to eat and pay the bills. Did he come on you?”

She hisses, “I tell you, I’m not a hooker. He made a move on me, but I blew him off. I blow them all off.

They don’t come home with me. They don’t get invited. He doesn’t know where I live.” She sighs.

“Look, I know you mean well but, when you’re in my line of work, you get weirdos…”

“Marty, this one may not be just a weirdo. There’s a chance…”

The curtain tugs back and a head peers round: the compere. “Lily, you’re on. One minute.”

She turns brisk. “Gotta go, Guys.” Pushing past us, she heads for the frontstage. ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

*****

MICHAEL

As she marches away, Klempner and I exchange looks. “Doesn’t seem impressed, does she?” I say.

He growls. “Let’s find out if she has good cause for being unimpressed.”

“She said she’s never taken him to her home.”

“That doesn’t mean he can’t have followed her.”

“How d’you want to play it?”

“I’ll go watch from that back table. You find out what you can talking to Danny and the rest. Don’t draw

attention to me. You don’t know me. We’re not connected.”

*****

Lily’s worth watching, a true professional.

She's good.

Really good.

This is no girl that's watched a few internet videos and taken up pole-dancing as a casual hobby or to

make some cash on the side. She must have formal training, ballet probably. But she has a woman's

figure, not the skin and muscle physique of the true ballerina.

At the bar, I make a show of talking to Danny, not exactly hitting on her, but certainly appearing to be

interested in the way most red-blooded males are when faced with an acreage of female flesh.

Klempner lounges at his corner table, nursing a beer; apparently relaxed, seemingly watching the

show. An hour he's been there, and the glass is still half full. Noticeably, he’s positioned himself with his

back to the wall and a clear view of the entrance.

How does a man lurk when he's sitting at a table in full view?

It’s a talent…

Lily’s turn comes and goes. Then it’s Danny again, followed by a stripper, starting with an acre of glitz

from neckline to ankles, gradually removing it glove by glove, sequin by sequin.

Something about Klempner changes. It's nothing overt, nothing anyone but me is going to notice, but

he shifts minutely, his attention fixing on something. Angling slightly to sight on his target I watch his

eyes follow a figure that just entered. Grey-hooded, it saunters toward the bar, toward me.

Danny, furtively, nods me to the figure. “That’s him.” Then, she raises an equally furtive finger to

Klempner, who responds with a minute lift of the chin. He doesn't seem to have moved, but now I look,

I realise that the table is set forward and away from him, and the clutter of chairs has been pushed to

one side.

A clear path to the door?

The on-stage stripper drops a final square inch of glitter and sequins, then marches smartly off the

stage. The figure in grey seems barely to notice.

The compere’s voice… “By popular request, Lily!” The hooded figure, bottle in hand, turns for the

stage.

Lily takes the floor, resting her hand on the pole, performing a graceful pirouette before raising one leg

almost vertically to slide it up the length of shining steel.

All the while, the figure in grey watches intently. There’s something about his degree of attention. It’s…

It’s…

It’s too focused. Too single-minded.

Too much…

Ambling to the bar, I position myself next to the figure, flagging down the barman. “Another beer here.

And some nuts.” He tugs a bag of dry-roasted from one of those weird cardboard displays that

encourages you to buy an extra packet to uncover some bimbo’s left nipple.

Passing me the packet, he drops a wink, rolling eyes at Lily. “She's not bad, is she.”

I sniff. “She's okay, but I've got better at home.” I’m speaking more loudly than I need, intending to be

heard.

The hood tugs down and its owner casts a look at me calculated to freeze the balls off a statue. “Oh?

You reckon?” But now, hood lowered, I can see his face.

An ordinary face.

Mid-brown hair.

Medium height.

Completely nondescript.

I give my best brush-it-away-and-needle-the-bastard shrug. “Yeah, I reckon. She’s got a decent pair of

tits, but what else can you say?”

His face reddens. “You shouldn’t talk like that. She’s a great dancer. Show her some respect.”

I shrug again. White rims his eyes but the barman breaks in. “Calm down, you two. Pat, everyone’s

entitled to an opinion. You…” He levels a finger at me… “… whoever you are. Pat’s right. Show the girls

some respect.”

I paint on a sheepish look. “Maybe you’re right.”

‘Pat’ moderates to a crooked smile. “I’ll have another beer too.”

From across the floor, Klempner wears an expression of veiled boredom. But he’s watching closely and

doing something under the table.

In my pocket, my phone vibes.

Klempner.

get one of his beer bottles

ok why?

fingerprints & DNA

reckon its him?

yes thats my man

*****