Sin City (35 page)

“Cigarette?” I offer.

He shakes his head. He's put his pen away now and is glancing at the stage. Fattie's got her bucketful and is well and truly drenched, looking still more bulbous as wet fabric clings to bulges and spare tyres. Reuben shrugs, dismissing her, then turns back to me.

“Aren't you going to enter, Carole?”

I stare.

“You're beautiful. You'll win.”

I'm dumbfounded. I'm beautiful. He's used my name, remembered it. “No, I thought I'd better not.”

“You enter.”

It's an order. Whispered, but an order. I sit there, still half paralysed. What about my principles, my scruples? I try to find my voice. “But I've never … I mean, I don't think I approve of …”

“I'll bid for you. Go on.”

I drain my glass, drain Angelique's as well. They're only froth, those pina coladas. I stagger to my feet, turn to look at Reuben. Did he mean it?

“Good luck,” he murmurs. His eyes are so intense, I could be going to fight a Holy War or spread the Gospel. I can feel the full force of his conviction wrapping me around, giving me courage to walk up to that stage, whisper to Leroy that I want to enter and I hope I'm not too late.

“Never too late for a stunner.”

I'm beautiful. I'm stunning. I'm also boiling hot. It's a relief to take my blouse off, unhook my bra, put on just a tee shirt. I've been pushed behind the curtains, left with the girl who fills the buckets, kits us out with clothes. It looks a lot less glamorous from this side of the stage. The girl passes me a pair of shorts, yellow ones, frayed around the hems.

“No, I'll leave my skirt on, thanks.”

“You'll get it soaked.”

“That's okay.”

I daren't take anything else off. I'm shivering already, sweltering and shivering at once; curse myself for being such a prat. There must be some escape. I glance round quickly, searching for a door, even a low window; feel a hot hand on my back, stern fingers digging in my spine.

“Go on, hon. They're calling you.” The girl's marching me straight back, pushing me towards the spangled curtains. “It's your turn now. You're
on.
”

“No, don't. I can't. I'm sorry. I've changed my mind. I've got to leave. I …”

My words are drowned in a fusillade of music. Everybody's firing. Bang bang bang. Booming cannon. Ricochet of bullets. Lights as well, fierce and blinding-hot, circling over the battlefield, searching for the casualties. I'm a casualty myself. Paralysed. Legs shot off, voice clogged up, sweat beading on my forehead. No, it's not a battle, it's a zoo. Pack of wild animals closing in around me, yawping, yowling, bellowing. Feeding time. White fangs, scarlet claws, roars of maddened hunger.

Damp and heavy pressure on my arm. Leroy. He's walking me downstage, right down near the animals. He's making jokes. They're laughing. Cackling jackals, hysterical hyenas.

“Say ‘Happy New Year, folks', Carole.”

“Happy New Year, folks.” I'm an animal myself, a talking parrot.

“Donja just love that accent? Where you from, beautiful?”

“London.”

“London, Ontario, or London across the ocean?”

“London across the ocean.” An English parrot: hot and heavy feathers, flaming face.

“Carole's come all the way from England, folks, just to enter our contest. Isn't she cute? Give Carole a big hand.”

War again. Bombing. The whole room exploding as they clap. I wince against the blast, dodge the flying shrapnel. Leroy grabs my shoulder. “Now, listen, doll, this is your debut in the theatre. You're in Vegas, baby, so this could be the start of something big, the biggest night of your life, the night you become a star. Look at this great audience. At least three of them have jobs. Ha ha. How many guys out there like the looks of this girl? She's got a great body, hasn't she? How many of you guys like English girls? How many guys want to wet a girl from London?”

The response is quite amazing. The animals have faces now, mouths open, teeth bared. They're not snarling, they're smiling, roaring with approval. They like me, yes, they like me – or maybe they like England. I reward them with my most dazzling English smile. There are mirrors round the walls and on the ceiling. I'm everywhere – three of me, four of me – grinning blushing me, trying to prance around a bit, show my body off. My boobs look bigger than they are. The tee shirt is too tight, straining over them. The bidding's started, jumped straight to twenty dollars. I can't hear Reuben's voice, but I try and pick him out from the jammed and jostling bodies, dance for him alone.

I skip along the catwalk, puffing out my chest, wiggling my hips – all for Reuben's benefit. I hear him yell “Bravo” through a hundred throats and larynxes, clap wildly with his thousand hands. I pout and simper, copying Alexis. I've more right than those male strippers to copy what the dancers did. I'm a female, same as them, a natural mover. And beautiful – Reuben said. He's wolf-whistling and cheering, bidding higher higher in fifty different voices. I'm worth a lot of money. All those guys are proving it, all trying to buy the chance of getting near me.

I listen to the figures. Fifty dollars, sixty, eighty-five. I can't believe it. I'm valuable. I'm going up and up, I'm a Titian now, a Rembrandt. I prance some more, feeling newly confident. The bidding goes still higher, soars way above a hundred. I've broken all the records. I whirl. I pirouette.

“Any advance on a hundred and sixty-five?” Leroy sounds dazed himself.

I hold my breath, feel the perspiration prickling on my back.

“Two hundred,” shouts a deep male voice, one I haven't heard before. The room is strangely quiet now. You can almost hear the tension. Most bids go up in fives, not in thirty-fives, and no other bid this evening has gone above that fifty bucks for Eunice. Two hundred! I simply can't believe it. Just to fling a pail of water over a dropout on the dole. Two hundred dollars would buy the most fantastic high-tech camera, or quarter of a motorbike, or a dozen Sunday brunches at the Gold Rush, or a whole week in a deckchair on some perfect golden beach, or …

“Going …” shouts Leroy.

I can hardly bear to listen. It was probably just a joke. That fellow didn't mean it, has already bolted out and is speeding down the highway to New York or San Francisco.

“Going …”

I keep jigging like a lunatic to try to hide my fear. What a fool I'll look when Leroy screams “Gone!” and there's no punter with the cash.

“Gone!”

The word is swamped in a tidal wave of clapping. I'm being hugged, I'm being kissed, I'm being squeezed to glorious death. A huge six-foot-six joker with a handlebar moustache has come to claim his prize. I smell whisky, sweat and aftershave in roughly equal parts, feel bristly beard tickling on my mouth, metal belt-buckle digging in my ribcage. “Thanks,” I whisper to his Adam's apple. He's saved my face, my reputation.

“Ha ha ha ha
ha
!” Leroy is quite ecstatic. “Here's a guy that can eat and sweep at the same time. Do you like moustaches, Carole? Yeah, Carole loves moustaches – can't put this guy down. Are you from the convention, Sir? What d'you do? Electrical engineer. Right – you can give Carole here a charge, light her fuse.”

I open my mouth to make a risqué joke myself and suddenly I'm spitting out not steamy words, but ice-cold choking water, blinking it from my eyes, shocked with it, soaked with it, struggling, drenched and gasping. How could so much water fit in one small pail? I scream, fight, wriggle, shake my dripping hair. Three more crazy girls do antics in the mirrors, girls with transparent breasts, nipples sticking out like the sticks on ice lollies. Everybody's laughing. I jig and shake some more. I like them laughing. It warms me up, makes me feel hot and good inside. The lights are hot as well, flashing on and off my body, wild and scorching scarlet, peacock blue. I try and move in time with them – dance, spin, circle, arabesque. Leroy yells encouragement.

“What a girl! We love her. That's it, Carole. Work that body, swing it round, shake those great big boobies. This girl's got some tits. Tits are like potato chips. You can't have just one. Ha ha.”

Men are rushing up to me, pressing dollar bills into my hands, sneaking them down my neck, sticking them in the waistband of my skirt, kissing me, stroking my wet breasts. I'm making them all wet as well. They don't care. They can't get enough of me. There're emptying out their wallets. Bank notes whirling through the air. I catch the notes, kiss them, kiss their generous owners. I've got to earn this cash. Okay, you guys, you'll get everything I've got. Watch me, Reuben. Watch me, Daddy. Watch me, everyone! I'm dancing, I'm dancing for my Daddy. I'm so light and free, it's easy. I'm all froth like those pina coladas, all bubbles, bubbling over. I think they had some rum in them as well as just the froth. I can feel the rum, helping me, supporting me, strong and sweet and just a little dizzy. The music's laced with rum as well, swoopy boozy music, going to my head.

“Boy! This one's really somethin'. How many guys wanna see her take her top off? Not so loud, you'll scare her. Carole's never ever in her life taken off her top in front of a whole bunch o' people. Is that right, Carole? Yeah, Carole says that's right. She's English, don't forget. They're very shy in England. You'll have to give her some support. Now, everyone, get up off your asses and make all the noise you can – really make her nipples sit up! Hear that, clappin', Carole? They're goin' crazy out there.”

I suddenly spot Reuben. He's looking straight at me. His eyes are on my breasts. He wants to see them naked. Okay, Reuben, I'm easing off my top. I'm doing it for you, no one else. There's only you and me. We're alone and I'm stripping off to please you, slowly, very slowly.

“Oh, my goodness gracious, look at those! Real big English titties. See that smile on Shogun's face. The Japanese are goin' wild down there. Give it to ' em, Carole, let 'em have it.”

I shan't. I won't. I don't like Japanese. I'm doing it for Reuben, only Reuben, fondling my bare breasts, squeezing them together, pulling at the nipples – all for Reuben. I dance right down the catwalk so I'm nearer him. Men are reaching out their hands, touching me, stuffing money up my skirt – Reuben's Jewish shekels, Reuben's long thin hands. I stop in front of a table, pick up an empty glass, cup it over my right breast, hold it in place while I do a sort of tap dance. I learnt that trick from Tyger, and another one as well. Tyger grabbed a beer bottle, stuck her nipple in the top and poured beer across her breasts. I'm wet already, so a bit of beer won't hurt. I flounce up and down again until I spot a lager bottle, snitch it for my party-piece. The beer feels icy, snailing down my breasts. Men rush up to lick it off. Cold beer, warm tongues; Reuben's tongue more sensuous than the rest. I've lost him again in the blur and smudge of faces, but I know he's watching still, clapping till his hands ache. I'm loving it, loving this applause, all these people thinking I'm fantastic. I
am
fantastic. I'm a dancer, a professional one, who's trained for years and years. Watch me do the splits! They're watching, more and more of them, still pouring in at the door, fighting for a seat. The word's got round: there's a new fantastic English girl at Ritzy's. Drop everything and see her. Even the music's getting quite aggressive – war drums, jungle trumpets, making them sit up.

“What a body, huh? What a girl! How many guys wanna see Carole raise her skirt?”

Reuben does – they all do – so I raise it. Got to please them. Got to earn my money. They go wild at the suspenders. Okay, if they want to see suspenders, I'll take my skirt right off. It's soaking, anyway – uncomfortable and tight. Slowly, Carole, slowly. Do it like Alexis. Don't forget your training. Right, Reuben, look at this. This is how the pros strip. Inch by panting inch. I'm dancing in my stockings now, stockings and high heels. Wish I had a g-string instead of Marks and Spencer pants. At least they're brief, though, brief and black, and the men all seem to like them, judging by the bank notes. I've got to pick them up, stow away my tips. It's all part of the act. Alexis did it, and Cheryl, all the dancing girls. They didn't make it blatant, but sexy and provocative, pressing bills against their naked breasts, holding them between their teeth, playing with the loot a bit before darting off backstage with it, freeing their hands to receive the next instalment. I try my own variations, squeezing my tits together with a wad of notes between them, stroking dollar bills down each leg in turn, first down the outside, then up the inside thigh. The men join in, stuffing generous contributions down both my stocking tops.

“Strip her down!” a Negro shouts. “Strip her to her skin.”

I suddenly feel nervous. Too many rough and eager hands stretching out towards me, too much raucous noise. I remember Dangerous Dave, the stripper with the whips and chains – all that male aggression threatening us mere women, reminding us who's boss still. These guys could lynch me, rape me. I'm one against the lot of them, small and almost naked, while they're huge and fierce and hairy, stamping in their heavy boots, armed with belts and beer-bottles. I can feel my body running down, feet turning into wood. I stand paralysed a moment, until a female voice shrills above the crowd. Angelique – cheering me, reviving me, keeping me on course.

I snatch up a whisky glass from the table nearest me, gulp a burning mouthful. It's bitter, very strong, but gives me courage, hypes me up again. I take another swill, feel it scorching down my throat. My hands are busy with the glass, so I let the guy who owns it unfasten my suspenders. That's only fair – payment for his drink. He tries to grab my stockings, but I wrest them firmly back. I'm a dancer, so I need my props, must use them like Alexis did. I toss my suspender belt into my crowd of eager fans, watch them battle for it, men doing rugby tackles to try and get their hands on it. They'd be fighting for my toenail clippings if I got my scissors out.