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    Strip Tease
    Strip Tease
    Strip Tease
    Ebook612 pages7 hours

    Strip Tease

    By Carl Hiaasen

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    NATIONAL BESTSELLER • From “Florida’s most entertainingly indignant social critic” (New York Times Book Review)—an inventive tale yet of savage appetites and sweet justice.

    Only in America could an innocent, if drunken, guest of honor at a strip joint bachelor party become a mortal threat against Big Money and Big Government. Only in south Florida, land of roadside honky-tonks and sinister pleasure boats—not to mention blackmail and murder—would a virtuous topless dancer join forces with a cool but clueless cop. And only in the fiction of Carl Hiaasen do readers experience riveting suspense and razor-sharp characters along with the most wicked humor imaginable.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherVintage Crime/Black Lizard
    Release dateAug 18, 2010
    ISBN9780307767400
    Author

    Carl Hiaasen

    Carl Hiaasen (b. 1953) is the New York Times bestselling and award-winning author of more than twenty adult and young adult novels and nonfiction titles, including the novels Strip Tease (1993) and Skinny Dip (2004), as well as the mystery-thrillers Powder Burn (1981), Trap Line (1982), and A Death in China (1984), which were cowritten with fellow Miami Herald journalist Bill Montalbano (1941–1998). Hiaasen is best known for his satirical writing and dark humor, much of which is directed at various social and political issues in his home state of Florida. He is an award-winning columnist for the Miami Herald, and lives in Vero Beach.

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    Reviews for Strip Tease

    3.5/5

    549 ratings19 reviews

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    • 4/5
      Bad people doing bad things; the stripper with a heart of gold and an adorable daughter; don't do drugs.... a mostly light look at the world of exotic dancers and the mayhem that sometimes ensues when you combine drunk men and naked women. Toss in a corrupt politician and a drug-crazed ex and you're got Strip Tease. A "fun" novel which got a bit battering (literally, figuratively) for this reader. If you don' t mind drugs, sex, and rock'n'roll in your books, it's a winner.
    • 5/5
      This was the only Hiaasen I had not read and I saved and saved it. And then I heard he has a new one just about ready, so I read it. I have not seen the movie but I can tell you that the book is great. Such good Hiaasen. The heroine, dancing in a g-string to make enough money to get custody of her little girl from her disastrous ex-husband (who makes his living stealing wheel chairs). The bad guy who is really a good guy. A strange object on an arm (first we had the dog, and then the weed-whacker and now - well, I won't spoil it). A friend of mine wonders what strange substances this author must have in his sugar packets. I just hope he has a lifetime supply.
    • 4/5
      Erin is fighting her ex-husband (and wheelchair thief), Darrell, for custody of their only child. Unfortunately, this means very big lawyer bills, so she finds a job at a strip club to pay those bills. One night, while dancing, a drunk man comes on stage and wraps his arms around her. Immediately after, another man runs on stage and starts beating the first man with a champagne bottle. The man doing the beating is an upstanding U.S. Congressman, David Dilbeck.

      I actually think this may be my favourite book by Hiaasen so far. I've only read four, but this one seemed to have a more complex storyline than the others. I also really liked some of the characters. I do normally enjoy his environmental viewpoint, but the funny thing is - even though this is probably my favourite by him - the environmental stuff was really very minimal background stuff in this one.
    • 3/5
      At first, I did not think I would like this, but once I got into it, I really did. It is a fun story, if a tad dated. I want to classify it as suspense, but it is a little too humorous for that.
    • 3/5
      Hiaasen is up to his usual tricks. This one really takes aim at politicians and sleazy lawyers, but is actually a bit "tamer" than others of his works. It all starts in a strip club when a congressman beats a drunken groom who has "overenjoyed" his bachelor party.
    • 3/5
      Entertaining as only Hiaasen can do. Very easy to read, quick to finish and satisfying. Like a palate cleanser between two heavy dinner courses.
    • 3/5
      Not one of his best books, but I still enjoyed it quite a bit. Nobody does white trash quite like this guy.
    • 4/5
      Another hilarious Hiaasen book! Crazy characters and a story line that just doesn't quit. Entertaining as usual and a great summer read.
    • 5/5
      Hiaasen tends to be VERY irreverent about everything in society.
      But you can usually point to someone you know and say 'THEY would make a good actor for THIS character."
      The book also kept our interest from start to finish.
      It DOES come with a DC alert, though - make sure your hands and mouth are empty, that you are sitting down when you read this book... or you may regret it.
    • 3/5
      Entertaining, and it was nice to have one old friend from the previous book. I enjoyed the spunk of the main character, and there were some amusing bits, but overall only ok.
    • 4/5
      Carl Hiaasen gives us a fun little romp into the Eager Beaver strip club with this story that starts with strip artist Erin trying to make enough money to get custody of her child back from her drugged-up, wheelchair stealing ex-husband who got custody of the child only because his record was removed from court files in exchange for his help catching other lowlifes (and a judge who waved the Bible at Erin for her stripping, but then ended up in the clubs with the Bible in his lap hiding the truth.)

      Too many plot twists and turns; lots of characters with their own side stories. This would have been better had it been tightened up in length, but overall, entertaining.
    • 3/5
      Sometimes all it takes is a simple incident to set the wheels of chaos in motion. A drunken man celebrating his bachelor party, starts to hug and grope a topless dancer, inciting rage in another customer who hits him repeatedly on his head with a champagne bottle, until the bouncer drags him off. A photograph happened to be taken by another patron of this entertainment venue.

      The photograph becomes the catalyst for a number of incidents. Political fixers attempt to protect an unraveling Congressman, an ex-husband drug addict stealing wheelchairs while retaining custody of a child, scorpions and roaches being used in scams to extort money from corporations, murders and a dancer and homicide detective looking to set things right.

      This is a thriller set on a simmering boil all the way till the end.
    • 5/5
      Only in America could an innocent, if drunken, guest of honor at a strip joint bachelor party become a mortal threat against Big Money and Big Government.
    • 4/5
      Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen is a fun book, chock full of interesting all too human characters, whose stories are inextricably intertwined. A fast paced book, Strip Tease will make you laugh out loud at times. I definitley reccomend to lift your spirits after a depressing or gruesome book!
    • 4/5
      Erin Grant, a former FBI employee has been dancing in a strip club in order to raise enough money for an appeal to gain custody of her daughter, Angela. Her husband, a petty crook, lied to the judge and got a couple of his buddies to back up a story about Erin's sexual habits.

      As the story begins, Congressman Dave Dilbeck, who can't control his libido, is a the strip club when a drunken party goer gets on the stage and begins grooping one of the dancers. An intoxicated Dilbeck jumps on the stage and begins hitting the other patron with a champagne bottle. This is unfortunate because this is an election year.

      Another customer, Jerry Killian, nicknamed, Mr. Peepers, takes a photo. Killian sends Erin a message that he might be able to get her daughter back. He intends to use the photo to have Congressman Dilbeck use his influence to get a judge to change his custody ruling. Later, Killian turns up dead.

      Malcolm J. Moldowsky is Dilbeck's "fix it" man. In a situation like Killian approaching Dilbeck and talking about a photo, Malcolm knows how to put a stop to an unpleasant situation.

      A subplot has the club bouncer, Shad, working with an attorney named Mordecai, to sue the Congressman. Mordeccai is playing customers against each other in that the fiance of the first patron wants to sue Dilbeck for damages in hitting her fiance.

      Sgt. Al Garcia is on vacation when he finds Killian's body. Garcia is an honorable man and this makes solving Killian's murder personal.

      This is an uproariously funny novel. Erin's dry sense of humor had me smiling throughout the crazy happenings in the novel. Dilbert is also an excellent character whose one mindedness and absence of any moral values was depicted magnificantly. A wonderful caper but perhaps, a bit too long.
    • 4/5
      Hiaasen is the undoubted master of the crime caper. Full to the brim of irony and twisted justice, Strip Tease delivers to expectation. The unfortunate characters in this tale work or frequent the Eager Beaver strip club, their unlawful deeds impacting upon one another in the usual Hiaasen fashion, frequently with amusing results. The plot, as ever, twists and turns at a rapid pace, always well narrated as not to lose the reader. Strip Tease meanders a little before the finale; it's a fraction too long, however it's definitely still a good read.
    • 4/5
      I spent several weeks listening to this on my way home in the evenings. This was a great book to listen to. I'm going to have to look for more Hiaasen books in audio, because they're perfect. They're light and funny and the plots aren't so convoluted that you have a hard time following what's going on. The characters are colorful and interesting and unique. I thought this was really good.
    • 1/5
      I picked up a paperback copy of this book to take on vacation. I usually take library books but I wanted to cut down the weight. I didn't get around to reading it until just now.

      I like Carl Hiaasen and have read and enjoyed several of his books including his young adult novels like "Hoot."

      "Strip Tease" is what I call a "Corner Chucker." A Corner Chucker is a book that is not so bad that you can just put it down. You like something about it but don't want to continue reading it. So years ago, before I discovered free books at the library, Sweetie and I would be in bed reading at night and I would just launch such a book to the corner of the room, startling Sweetie and scattering our various dogs and cats. It was my way of pyschologically separating myself from the book.

      I wanted to like this book but I chucked it at about page 238. I didn't like the last 220 pages. The book is about a nude dancer named Erin who works at a bar called the Eager Beaver trying to earn enough money to pay a lawyer to get custody of her child back. She gets involved in all sorts of escapades. The book has no sex scenes, just lots of naked dancers and a whole bunch of leering adolescent jokes and asides. Meanwhile the story didn't go anywhere and many of the events taking place didn't make sense.

      So I chucked it.
    • 4/5
      Hiaasen has the ability to make some really reprehensible people come out looking decent, and making others look like monsters. In this novel and stipper wants custoday of her daughter, while the father, who steals wheelchairs from nursing homes for a living, is working crooked cops to keep the little girl. Throw in a politician who has a bad habit of falling in lust with the wrong girls, and you get a rousing read.

    Book preview

    Strip Tease - Carl Hiaasen

    1

    On the night of September sixth, the eve of Paul Guber’s wedding, his buddies took him to a strip joint near Fort Lauderdale for a bachelor party. The club was called the Eager Beaver, and it was famous county-wide for its gorgeous nude dancers and watered-down rum drinks. By midnight Paul Guber was very drunk and hopelessly infatuated with eight or nine of the strippers. For twenty dollars they would perch on Paul’s lap and let him nuzzle their sweet-smelling cleavage; he was the happiest man on the face of the planet.

    Paul’s friends carried on with rowdy humor, baying witlessly and spritzing champagne at the stage. At first the dancers were annoyed about being sprayed, but eventually they fell into the spirit of the celebration. Slick with Korbel, they formed a laughing chorus line and high-kicked their way through an old Bob Seger tune. Bubbles sparkled innocently in their pubic hair. Paul Guber and his pals cheered themselves hoarse with lust.

    At half-past two, a fearsome-looking bouncer announced the last call. While Paul’s buddies pooled their cash to pay the exorbitant tab, Paul quietly crawled on stage and attached himself to one of the performers. Too drunk to stand, he balanced on his knees and threw a passionate hug around the woman’s bare waist. She smiled good-naturedly and kept moving to the music. Paul hung on like a drowning sailor. He pressed his cheek to the woman’s tan belly and closed his eyes. The dancer, whose name was Erin, stroked Paul’s hair and told him to go home, sugar, get some rest before the big day.

    A man yelled for Paul to get off the stage, and Paul’s friends assumed it was the bouncer. The club had a strict rule against touching the dancers for free. Paul Guber himself heard no warning—he appeared comatose with bliss. His best friend Richard, with whom Paul shared a cubicle at the brokerage house, produced a camera and began taking photographs of Paul and the naked woman. Blackmail, he announced playfully. Pay up, or I mail these snapshots to your future mother-in-law! Everyone in the club seemed to be enjoying themselves. That’s why Paul’s friends were so shocked to see a stranger jump on stage and begin beating him with an empty champagne bottle.

    Three, four, five hard blows to the head, and still Paul Guber would not release the dancer, who was trying her best to avoid being struck. The bottle-wielding man was tall and paunchy, and wore an expensive suit. His hair was silver, although his bushy mustache was black and crooked. No one in Paul Guber’s bachelor party recognized him.

    Raw sucking noises came from the man’s throat as he pounded on the stockbroker’s skull. The bouncer got there just as the champagne bottle shattered. He grabbed the silver-haired man under the arms and prepared to throw him off the stage in a manner that would have fractured large bones. But the bouncer alertly noticed that the silver-haired man had a companion, and the companion had a gun that might or might not be loaded. Having the utmost respect for Colt Industries, the bouncer carefully released the silver-haired man and allowed him to flee the club with his armed friend.

    Amazingly, Paul Guber never fell down. The paramedics had to pry his fingers off the dancer’s buttocks before hauling him to the hospital. In the emergency room, his worried buddies gulped coffee and cooked up a story to tell Paul’s fiancée.

    By the time the police arrived, the Eager Beaver lounge was empty. The bouncer, who was mopping blood off the stage, insisted he hadn’t seen a thing. The cops clearly were disappointed that the nude women had gone home, and showed little enthusiasm for investigating a drunken assault with no victim present. All that remained of the alleged weapon was a pile of sparkling green shards. The bouncer asked if it was okay to toss them in the dumpster, and the cops said sure.

    Paul Guber’s wedding was postponed indefinitely. His friends told Paul’s bride-to-be that he had been mugged in the parking lot of a synagogue.

    In the car, speeding south on Federal Highway, Congressman David Lane Dilbeck rubbed his temples and said: Was it a bad one, Erb?

    And Erb Crandall, the congressman’s loyal executive assistant and longtime bagman, said: One of the worst.

    I don’t know what came over me.

    You assaulted a man.

    Democrat or Republican?

    Crandall said, I have no earthly idea.

    Congressman Dilbeck gasped when he noticed the pistol on his friend’s lap. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Don’t tell me.

    Without emotion, Crandall said, I had no choice. You were about to be maimed.

    Five minutes passed before the congressman spoke again. Erb, he said, I love naked women, I truly do.

    Erb Crandall nodded neutrally. He wondered about the congressman’s driver. Dilbeck had assured him that the man understood no English, only French and Creole. Still, Crandall studied the back of the driver’s black head and wondered if the man was listening. These days, anyone could be a spy.

    All men have weaknesses, Dilbeck was saying. Mine is of the fleshly nature. He peeled off the phony mustache. Let’s have it, Erb. What exactly did I do?

    You jumped on stage and assaulted a young man.

    Dilbeck winced. In what manner?

    A bottle over the head, Crandall said. Repeatedly.

    And you didn’t stop me! That’s your goddamn job, Erb, to get me out of those situations. Keep my name out of the papers.

    Crandall explained that he was in the john when it happened.

    Did I touch the girl? asked the congressman.

    Not this time.

    In French, Crandall asked the Haitian driver to stop the car and wait. Crandall motioned for Dilbeck to get out. They walked to an empty bus bench and sat down.

    The congressman said, What’s all this nonsense? You can talk freely in front of Pierre.

    We’ve got a problem. Crandall steepled his hands. I think we should call Moldy.

    Dilbeck said no way, absolutely not.

    Somebody recognized you tonight, said Crandall. Somebody in that strip joint.

    God. Dilbeck shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It’s an election year, Erb.

    Some little twerp, I didn’t get the name. He was standing by the back door when we ran out. Some skinny jerk-off with Coke-bottle glasses.

    What’d he say?

    "‘Attaboy, Davey.’ He was looking right at you."

    But the mustache—

    Then he said, ‘Chivalry ain’t dead.’ Crandall looked very grim.

    Congressman Dilbeck said, Did he seem like the type to stir up trouble?

    It was all Crandall could do to keep from laughing. Looks are deceiving, David. I’ll be calling Moldy in the morning.

    Back in the car, heading south again, Dilbeck asked about the condition of the man he’d attacked.

    I have no earthly idea, Crandall said. He would phone the hospital later.

    Did he seem dead?

    Couldn’t tell, replied Crandall. Too much blood.

    Lord, said the congressman. Lord, I’ve got to get a grip on this. Erb, let’s you and me pray. Give me your hands. He reached across the seat for Crandall, who shook free of the congressman’s clammy fervent paws.

    Knock it off, Crandall snapped.

    Please, Erb, let’s join hands. Dilbeck flexed his fingers beseechingly. Join together and pray with me now.

    No fucking way, said the bagman. You pray for both of us, David. Pray like hell.

    The next night, Erin was taking off her clothes, getting ready, when she told Shad that she’d checked with the hospital. They said he’s out of intensive care—the man who got hurt.

    Shad’s eyes never looked up from the card table. Thank God, he said. Now I can sleep nights.

    The gun frightened me. Erin was changing into her show bra. He sure didn’t look like a bodyguard, did he? The one with the gun?

    Shad was deeply absorbed. Using a surgical hemostat, he was trying to peel the aluminum safety seal from a four-ounce container of low-fat blueberry yogurt. The light was poor in the dressing room, and Shad’s eyesight wasn’t too sharp. He hunched over the yogurt like a watchmaker.

    I gotta concentrate, he said gruffly to Erin.

    By now she’d seen the dead cockroach, a hefty one even by Florida standards. Legs in the air, the roach lay on the table near Shad’s left elbow.

    Erin said, Let me guess. You’ve had another brainstorm.

    Shad paused, rolling a cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. He sucked hard, then blew the smoke in twin plumes from his nostrils.

    The hell does it look like? he said.

    Fraud, said Erin. She stepped behind a door and slipped out of her skirt. Fraud is what it looks like to me.

    Triumphantly, Shad lifted the foil (intact!) from the yogurt container. Carefully he placed it on the table. Then, with the hemostat, he lifted the dead cockroach by one of its brittle brown legs.

    Isn’t that your music? he said to Erin. Van Morrison. You better get your ass out there.

    In a minute, Erin said. She put on her G-string, the red one with seahorses. When Erin first bought it, she’d thought the design was paisley. One of the other dancers had noticed that the pattern was actually seahorses. Laughing seahorses.

    Erin came out from behind the door. Shad didn’t look up.

    Have the police been around? she asked.

    Nope. Shad smiled to himself. Cops—they usually got about as far as the front bar and then forgot why they’d come. They’d wander through the Eager Beaver bug-eyed and silly, like little kids at Disney World. Cops were absolute saps when it came to bare titties.

    Erin said she’d never seen a man get hit so hard with anything as the bachelor who got clobbered with the champagne bottle. It’s a miracle there wasn’t brain damage, she said.

    Shad took this as criticism of his response time. I got up there as quick as I could. His tone was mildly defensive.

    Don’t worry about it, Erin told him.

    He didn’t look the type. Of all the ones to go batshit.

    Erin agreed. The man wielding the Korbel bottle was not your typical strip-show creep. He wore a silk tie and passed out twenties like gumdrops.

    Erin checked her stiletto pumps for bloodstains. This is a lousy business, she remarked.

    No shit. Why’d you think I’m sitting here fucking with a dead roach? This little bugger is my ticket out.

    As steady as a surgeon, Shad positioned the cockroach in the low-fat blueberry yogurt. With the beak of the hemostat, he pressed lightly. Slowly the insect sank beneath the creamy surface, leaving no trace.

    Erin said, You big crazy dreamer.

    Shad absorbed the sarcasm passively. "Do you get the Wall Street Journal?"

    No. She wondered where he was heading now.

    "According to the Journal," Shad said, the Delicato Dairy Company is worth one hundred eighty-two million dollars, on account of Delicato Fruity Low-Fat Yogurt being the fastest-selling brand in the country. The stock’s at an all-time high.

    Erin said, Shad, they won’t fall for this. She couldn’t believe he was trying it again.

    You’re late, babe. Shad jerked a thumb toward the stage. Your fans are waiting.

    I’ve got time. It’s a long number. Erin slipped into her teddy (which would come off after the first number) and her heels (which would stay on all night).

    Shad said, That song, how come you like it so much? You don’t even got brown eyes.

    Nobody looks at my eyes, Erin said. It’s a good dancing song, don’t you think?

    Shad was scrutinizing the yogurt. A hairy copper-colored leg had emerged from the creamy bog. Was it moving? Shad said to Erin: "You ever see Deliverance? The movie, not the book. That last scene, where the shriveled dead hand comes out from the water? Well, come here and look at this fucking roach."

    No thanks. Erin asked if Mr. Peepers was in the audience tonight. That was the nickname for one of her regulars, a bony bookish man with odd rectangular eyeglasses. He usually sat at table three.

    Shad said, What, all of a sudden I’m supposed to take roll?

    He called and left a message, Erin said. Said he had a big surprise for me, which is just what I need. She dabbed on some perfume—why, she had no idea. Nobody got close enough to smell it. Unlike the other strippers, Erin refused to do table dances. Ten bucks was ridiculous, she thought, to let some drunk breathe on your knees.

    Shad said, You want me to, I’ll throw his ass out.

    No, if you could just hang close, said Erin, especially after what happened last night.

    No sweat.

    It’s probably nothing, Erin said. Next came the lipstick. The boss preferred candy-apple red but Erin went with a burgundy rose. She’d hear about it from the other dancers, but what the hell.

    Shad sat back from the yogurt project and said, Hey, come and see. It’s just like new!

    They could put you in jail. It’s called product tampering.

    It’s called genius, Shad said, and for your information, I already got a lawyer can’t wait to take the case. And a Palm Beach shrink who swears I’m totally fucking traumatized since I opened a yogurt and found this damn cockroach—

    Erin laughed. Traumatized? You don’t even know what that means.

    Grossed out is what it means. And look here— Shad lifted the foil seal with the hemostat. Perfect! Not even a rip. So the bastards can’t say someone broke into the grocery and messed with the carton.

    Clever, Erin said. She checked her hair in the mirror. Most of the dancers wore wigs, but Erin felt that a wig slowed her down, limited her moves. Losing a wig was one of the worst things to happen on stage. That, and getting your period.

    How’s my bottom? she asked Shad. Is my crack showing?

    Naw, babe, you’re covered.

    Thanks, Erin said. Catch you later.

    Go on and laugh. I’m gonna be rich.

    Nothing would surprise me. She couldn’t help but envy Shad’s optimism.

    The way it goes, he said, them really big companies don’t go to trial on stuff like this, on account of the negative publicity. They just pay off the plaintiff is what the lawyer told me. Major bucks.

    Erin said, The customer’s name is Killian. Table three. Let me know if he comes in. Then she was gone. He could hear the heels clicking on stage, the applause, the gin-fueled hoots.

    Shad peered into the container. The roach leg had resubmerged; the surface of the yogurt looked smooth and undisturbed. A masterful job of sabotage! Shad placed the foil seal in a Ziploc bag and closed it by sliding his thumb and forefinger along the seam: evidence. Gingerly he carried the yogurt container to the dancers’ refrigerator. He placed it on the second tray, between a six-pack of Diet Sprite and bowl of cottage cheese. Over the Delicato yogurt label he taped a hand-written warning:

    Do Not Eat or Else.

    He reread the note two or three times, decided it wasn’t stern enough. He wrote out another and taped it beneath the first: Property of Shad.

    Then he went out to the lounge to see if any asses needed kicking. Sure enough, at table eight a pie-eyed Volvo salesman was trying to suck the toes off a cocktail waitress. Effortlessly Shad heaved him out the back door. He dug a Pepsi out of the cooler and took a stool at the bar.

    At midnight, the skinny guy with the square glasses came in and staked out his usual chair at table three. Shad strolled over and sat down beside him.

    On stage, Erin was grinding her heart out.

    She’s wrong about one thing, Shad thought. I notice her eyes, every night I do. And they’re definitely green.

    2

    Malcolm J. Moldowsky did not hesitate to address United States Congressman Dave Dilbeck as a card-carrying shithead.

    To which Dilbeck, mindful of Moldowsky’s influence and stature, responded: I’m sorry, Malcolm.

    Pacing the congressman’s office, Moldowsky cast a cold scornful eye on every plaque, every commemorative paperweight, every pitiable tin memento of Dilbeck’s long and undistinguished political career.

    I see problems, said Malcolm Moldowsky. He was a fixer’s fixer, although it was not the occupation listed on his income-tax forms.

    There’s no problem, Dilbeck insisted, none at all. We were gone before the police showed up.

    Moldowsky was a short man, distractingly short, but he made up for it by dressing like royalty and slathering himself with expensive cologne. It was easy to be so impressed by Moldy’s fabulous wardrobe and exotic aroma that one might overlook his words, which invariably were important.

    Are you listening? he asked Dave Dilbeck.

    You said there’s a problem, I said I don’t see any problem.

    Moldowsky’s upper lip curled, exposing the small and pointy dentition of a lesser primate. He stepped closer to Dilbeck and said, Do de name Gary Hart ring a bell? Fuckups 101—you need a refresher course?

    That was different, the congressman said.

    Indeed. Mr. Hart did not send anyone to the emergency room.

    Dilbeck felt the heat of Moldowsky pressing closer—smelled the sharp minty breath and inhaled the imported Italian musk, which was strong enough to gas termites. Dilbeck quickly stood up. He was more at ease speaking to the crown of the man’s head, instead of eye to eye. The congressman said, It won’t happen again, that’s for sure.

    Really?

    The acid in Moldowsky’s remark made the congressman nervous. I’ve been doing some soul-searching.

    Moldowsky stepped back so Dilbeck could see his face. David, the problem is not in your soul. It’s in your goddamn trousers.

    The congressman shook his head solemnly. Weakness is spiritual, Malcolm. Only the manifestation is physical—

    You are so full of shit—

    Hey, I can conquer this, Dilbeck said. I can control these animal urges, you just watch.

    Moldowsky raised his hands impatiently. You and your damn urges. It’s an election year, Davey. That’s number one. Only a card-carrying shithead would show his face at a nudie joint in an election year. Number two, your man pulls a gun, which happens to be a felony.

    Malcolm, don’t blame Erb.

    And number three, Moldowsky went on, during the commission of the act, you are recognized by a patron of this fine establishment. Which raises all sorts of possibilities, none of them good.

    Whoa, whoa, whoa. Dilbeck wedged his hands to signal time-out, like a football coach. Let’s not jump to conclusions.

    Malcolm Moldowsky laughed harshly. That’s my job, Congressman. Once again he started to pace. Why did you hit that man with the bottle? Don’t tell me—you got something going with the stripper, right? She’s carrying your love child, perhaps?

    Dilbeck said, I don’t even know her name.

    But still you felt this uncontrollable impulse to defend her honor, such as it is. I understand, David. I understand perfectly.

    It’s a sickness, that’s all. I should never be around naked women.

    All the fight had gone out of the congressman. Moldowsky circled the desk and approached him. In a softer voice: You don’t need this shit right now. You got the campaign. You got the sugar vote coming up. You got a committee to run. Moldowsky tried to chuck the congressman on the shoulder but wasn’t quite tall enough. He wound up patting him on the elbow. I’ll take care of this, he said.

    Thanks, Mmm—Malcolm. Dilbeck almost slipped and called him Moldy, which is what everyone called Moldowsky behind his back. Fanatically hygienic, Moldowsky hated the nickname.

    One more request, he said. Keep David Jr. in your pants until November. As a personal favor to me.

    Dilbeck’s cheeks flushed.

    Because, Moldowsky went on, I’d hate to think how your constituents would look upon such behavior—all those senior citizens in those condos, those conservative Cubans down on Eighth Street, those idealistic young yupsters on the beach. What would they think if Congressman Davey got busted with a bunch of go-go dancers. How’d you suppose that would play?

    Poorly, admitted the congressman. He needed a drink.

    You still an elder in the church?

    A deacon, Dilbeck said.

    Is that a fact? Malcolm Moldowsky wore a savage grin. You get the urge to chase pussy, call me. I’ll set something up. He dropped his voice. It’s an election year, deacon, you gotta be careful. If it’s a party you need, we’ll bring it to you. That sound like a deal?

    Deal, the congressman said. When Moldy had gone, he cranked open a window and gulped for fresh air.

    Every few years, the Congress of the United States of America voted generous price supports for a handful of agricultural millionaires in the great state of Florida. The crop that made them millionaires was sugar, the price of which was grossly inflated and guaranteed by the U.S. government. This brazen act of plunder accomplished two things: it kept American growers very wealthy, and it undercut the struggling economies of poor Caribbean nations, which couldn’t sell their own bounties of cane to the United States at even half the bogus rate.

    For political reasons, the government’s payout to the sugar industry was patriotically promoted as aid to the struggling family farmer. True, some of the big sugar companies were family-owned, but the family members themselves seldom touched the soil. The closest most of them got to the actual crop were the cubes that they dropped in their coffee at the Bankers’ Club. The scions of sugar growers wouldn’t be caught dead in a broiling cane field, where the muck crawled with snakes and insects. Instead the brutal harvest was left to Jamaican and Dominican migrant workers, who were paid shameful wages to swing machetes all day in the sweltering sun.

    It had been this way for an eternity, and men like Malcolm Moldowsky lost no sleep over it. His task, one of many, was making sure that Big Sugar’s price supports passed Congress with no snags. To make that happen, Moldowsky needed senators and representatives who were sympathetic to the growers. Fortunately, sympathy was still easy to buy in Washington; all it took was campaign contributions.

    So Moldowsky could always round up the votes. That was no problem. But the votes didn’t do any good unless the sugar bill made it out of committee, and this year the committee of the House was in bitter turmoil over issues having nothing to do with agriculture. No fewer than three formerly pliant congressmen had been stricken with mysterious attacks of conscience, and announced they would vote against the sugar price supports. Ostensibly they were protesting the plight of the migrants and the disastrous pollution of the Everglades, into which the growers regularly dumped billions of gallons of waste water.

    Malcolm Moldowsky knew the dissenting congressmen couldn’t care less about the wretched cane workers, nor would they mind if the Everglades caught fire and burned to cinders. In truth, the opposition to the sugar bill was retaliation against the chairman of the committee, one David Dilbeck, who had cast the deciding vote that killed a hefty twenty-two-percent pay raise for himself and his distinguished colleagues in the House.

    Dilbeck had committed this unforgivable sin by pure accident; he had been drunk, and had simply pushed the wrong lever when the matter of the pay raise was called to the floor. In his pickled condition, it was miraculous that Dilbeck had found the way back to his own desk, let alone connected with the tote machine. The following noon, the bleary congressman turned on the television to see George Will praising him for his courage. Dilbeck had no idea why; he remembered nothing of the night before. When staff members explained what he’d done, he crawled to a wastebasket and spit up.

    Rather than admit the truth—that full credit for the deed belonged to the distillers of Barbancourt rum—David Dilbeck went on Nightline and said he was proud of voting the way he did, said it was no time for Congress to go picking the public’s pocket. Privately, Dilbeck was furious at himself; he’d needed the extra dough worse than anybody.

    And now his fellow politicians were striking back. They knew Dilbeck depended on Big Sugar for his campaign contributions, and they knew Big Sugar relied upon Dave Dilbeck for the price supports. So the House members decided to screw with him in a major way; they aimed to teach him a lesson.

    Malcolm J. Moldowsky saw the ugliness unfolding. It would require all his subterranean talents to save the sugar bill, and he couldn’t do it if Dilbeck got caught in a sex scandal. After years of slithering through political gutters, Moldowsky was still amazed at how primevally stupid most politicians could be, on any given night. He hadn’t a shred of pity for Congressman Dilbeck, but he would help him anyway.

    Millions upon millions of dollars were at stake. Moldy would do whatever had to be done, at whatever the cost.

    The other dancers knew something was bothering Erin. It showed in her performance.

    Darrell again, said Urbana Sprawl, by far the largest and most gorgeous of the dancers. Urbana was Erin’s best friend at the Eager Beaver lounge.

    No, it’s not Darrell, Erin said. Well, it is and it isn’t.

    Darrell Grant was Erin’s former husband. They were divorced after five rotten years of marriage and one wonderful child, a daughter. The court battle was protracted and very expensive, so Erin decided to try out as an exotic dancer, which paid better than clerical work. There was nothing exotic about the new job, but it wasn’t as sleazy as she had feared. The money just about covered her legal fees.

    Then Darrell got cute. He filed a petition charging that Erin was an unfit mother, and invited the divorce judge to come see for himself what the future ex-Mrs. Grant did for a living. The judge sat through seven dance numbers and, being a born-again Christian, concluded that Erin’s impressionable young daughter was better off in the custody of her father. That Darrell Grant was a pillhead, a convict and a dealer in stolen wheelchairs didn’t bother the judge as much as the fact that Erin took her undies off in public. The judge gave her a stern lecture on decency and morality, and told her she could see the child every third weekend, and on Christmas Eve. Her lawyer was appealing the custody ruling, and Erin needed dancing money now more than ever. In the meantime, the divorce judge had become a regular at the Eager Beaver lounge, sitting in a dim booth near the Foos-ball machines. Erin never said a word to the man, but Shad always made a point of secretly pissing in the Jack Daniel’s he served him.

    Urbana Sprawl said to Erin: Come on, don’t make me beat it out of you. They were taking off their makeup, sharing the chipped mirror in the dressing room.

    A customer, Erin admitted. Mr. Peepers, I call him. His real name is Killian.

    Table three, said another dancer, who was known as Monique Jr. There were two Moniques dancing at the club, and neither would change her name. I know the guy, Monique Jr. said. Funny glasses, bad necktie, shitty tipper.

    Urbana Sprawl said to Erin: He giving you a problem?

    He’s missed a couple of nights is all.

    Wow, said Monique Jr. Call the fucking FBI.

    You don’t understand. It’s about my case. Erin opened her purse and took out a cocktail napkin, which was folded into a tiny square. She handed it to Monique Jr. He gave me this the other night. He wanted to talk, but Shad was sitting right there, so he wrote it down instead.

    Monique Jr. read the note silently. Then she passed it to Urbana Sprawl. Mr. Killian had printed carefully, in small block letters, with an obvious effort to be neat:

    I CAN HELP GET YOUR DAUGHTER BACK. I ASK NOTHING IN RETURN BUT A KIND SMILE. ALSO, COULD YOU ADD ZZ

    TOP TO YOUR ROUTINE? ANY SONG FROM THE FIRST ALBUM

    WOULD BE FINE. THANK YOU.

    Men will try anything, Monique Jr. said, skeptically. Anything for pussy.

    Erin thought it was worth listening to Killian’s pitch. What if he’s for real?

    Urbana Sprawl folded the note and gave it back. Erin, how does he know about Angela?

    He knows everything. It was her first experience with a customer who’d gone off the deep end. For three weeks straight Killian had been swooning at table three. He says he loves me, Erin said. I haven’t encouraged him. I haven’t told him anything personal.

    This happens, Urbana said. Nothing to do but stay cool.

    Erin said he seemed fairly harmless. It can’t hurt to listen. I’m at the point where I’ll try anything.

    Monique Jr. said, Tell you one thing. The little prick needs to learn how to tip.

    Shad poked his head in the doorway. Staff meeting, he announced, coughing. Five minutes, in the office.

    Beat it, snapped Urbana Sprawl, who was largely nude. Shad truly didn’t notice. Eleven years of strip joints had made him numb to the sight of bare breasts. An occupational hazard, Shad figured. One more reason to get the hell out, before it was too late.

    Erin said, Tell Mr. Orly we’re on the way.

    Shad withdrew, shutting the door. To Erin, he resembled a snapping turtle—his vast knobby head was moist and hairless, and his nose beaked sharply to meet the thin severe line of his lips, forming a lethal-looking overbite. From what Erin could see, Shad also had no eyebrows and no eyelashes.

    Creep, Monique Jr. said.

    He’s not so bad. Erin slipped into a blue terrycloth robe and a pair of sandals. She told the other dancers about Shad’s plan for the dead roach.

    Yogurt! Monique Jr. cried. God, that’s disgusting.

    Urbana Sprawl said, I hope it works. I hope he gets a million bucks and goes off to live in Tahiti.

    Dream on, thought Erin. Shad wasn’t going anywhere unless Mr. Orly told him to go.

    Orly’s office was done in imitation red velvet. He hated it as much as anyone. The vivid decor had been the choice of the club’s previous owner, before he was shot and dumped in the diamond lane of Interstate 95. Orly said the crime had nothing to do with the man’s taste for imitation velvet, but rather with his inability to account for gross profits in a timely fashion. Meaning he’d skimmed. The imitation velvet remained on Orly’s walls to remind employees that, unless one is very good at it, one does not skim from professional skimmers.

    As the dancers assembled before Orly’s desk, he became overwhelmed by the commingling of fruity perfumes, and began to sneeze and cough spasmodically. Shad brought a box of tissues and a can of Dr. Pepper. Orly made quite a spectacle of blowing his nose and then examining the tissue, to see what had been expelled. Erin looked at Urbana Sprawl and rolled her eyes. The man was a pig.

    All right, Orly began. Tonight let’s talk about the dancing. I been hearing complaints.

    None of the strippers said a word. Orly shrugged, and went on: Basically, here’s the problem: You girls gotta move more. By that, I mean your asses and also your boobs. I was watching tonight and some of you, I swear, it’s like watchin’ a corpse rot. Not even a twitch. Orly paused and popped open the Dr. Pepper, which foamed out of the can. When he licked the rim with his tongue, several of the dancers groaned.

    Orly glanced up and said, Has somebody got a problem? Because if they do, let’s hear it.

    Erin raised a hand. Mr. Orly, the style of our dancing depends on the music.

    Orly motioned with the can. Go on.

    Erin said, If the songs are fast, we dance fast. If the songs are slow, we dance slow—

    We been through this before, he cut in. You wanted to pick your own songs, and I says fine on the condition that they’re good hot dance songs. But some a this shit, I swear, it’s elevator music.

    Urbana Sprawl said, Janet Jackson, Madonna—I don’t call that elevator music. Paula Abdul? Come on.

    This was the wrong approach with Orly, who didn’t know Janet Jackson from Bo Jackson. He put down the soft drink and rubbed the moisture into his palms. "All I know is, tonight I see a guy sleeping like a baby at table four. Sleeping! His face is maybe twelve inches from Sabrina’s fur pie, and the guy is fucking snoring. With my own eyes I gotta see this. Orly sat forward and raised his voice. Tell me what kind of a stripper puts a customer to sleep!"

    Sabrina, who was combing a chestnut wig on her lap, said nothing. The dancers preferred not to argue with Mr. Orly, who was boastful about his connections to organized crime. Besides, some of the women weren’t very good on stage, and they knew it. Listless was a charitable way to describe their dancing. Erin tried to help with the routines, but generally the other dancers were not keen on rehearsals.

    Orly said, Fast, slow or in between—it doesn’t matter. The point is to take what God gave you and move it around. He sneezed suddenly, reached for a tissue and plugged it into both nostrils. He continued speaking, the tissue fluttering with each word: Think of it as humping. Humping to music. What counts is not the goddamn speed, it’s the motion, for Christ’s sake, it’s the attitude. I don’t pay you girls to bore my customers, understand? A man who’s sleeping isn’t buying any of my booze, and he sure as hell ain’t stuffing any cash in your garters.

    It was Erin who spoke up again. Mr. Orly, you mentioned attitude. I agree we’ve got a morale problem here at the club, but I think I know why.

    This got everybody’s attention. Even Shad perked up.

    It’s the name, Erin said. Eager Beaver—it’s a very crude name.

    Orly yanked the tissue out of his nose. Normally he would’ve fired a woman for such a remark, but Erin brought in lots of business for the club. She was one of the few dancers who could actually dance.

    I like ‘Eager Beaver,’ Orly said. It’s catchy and it’s clever and it damn near rhymes.

    Erin said it was crude and demeaning. And it’s bad for morale. It gives the impression we’re a bunch of whores, which we’re not.

    Orly told her to lighten up. "It’s a tease, darling. We’re a strip joint, for Christ’s sake, who’s gonna pay a seven-dollar cover to watch nice girls?"

    The man had a point, yet Erin persisted. I’m aware of the nature of our business, but it doesn’t mean we can’t have some pride. When friends and relatives ask where we work, some of us lie about it. Some of us are embarrassed to say the name.

    Orly seemed more amused than offended. He looked at the other dancers and asked, This true?

    A few nodded. Orly turned to Shad. How about you? You embarrassed to work here?

    Oh no, Shad said. It’s my life’s ambition. He winked at Erin, who tried not to laugh.

    Orly rocked back in the chair and folded his hands behind his head. His white shirt was stained the color of varnish at both armpits. The name stays, he announced.

    What about a contest? Erin suggested. To come up with a better one.

    No!

    Urbana Sprawl said, I remember when it was the Pleasure Palace. And before that, the Booby Hatch.

    Monique Jr. said, And I remember when it was Gentleman’s Choice, until the state shut it down for prostitution.

    Orly cringed at the word. Well, now it’s the Eager Beaver, and it will stay the Eager Beaver as long as I say so. He still owed two grand on the new marquee.

    Fine,

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