The Price of Candy (20 page)

“Total nudity?”

“I’m so glad you’re paying attention. You see
the psychology, Freddy? The longer they stay, the more they have
invested in time and money. All the while, we’ve been showing them
more and more. They want it all but they can’t have it. The more
they pay and the longer they have to wait, the more important it
becomes to them. Women figured out all this stuff ten thousand
years ago. The men want the dance.”

“Oh, sure they want the dance. And men buy
Playboy
to read the articles.”

“No, you’re not getting it. Believe me. The
men are essentially there for the dance. Sure, they’re dying to see
that G-string come off, but not before they get excited with the
dance. If at the start, I sat down in a chair on the stage in front
of them and took my G-string off they’d say, ‘Oh, okay,
goodbye.’”

“So, the G-string is more like a symbol.” I
glanced over politely to show I understood her point. “Do you have
it with you?” Damn, why did I say such a dumb thing? I must have
sounded like a twelve-year-old.

“Sure, Tiger, I’m wearing it now. Momma told
me to always wear a clean one in case I’m in an accident.”

“I was joking, Betty Jo.” I said, trying to
get off the hook. She smiled a little. That was good. She probably
assumed I was just teasing.

“Acting is hard work. The idea is to make
every man in the room think I’m dumb enough to actually have sex
with him.”

“Are you acting now?” It occurred to me that
all this sexy talk could be part of a dance aimed at me, to get me
in the proper mood. Making me ready for whatever scheme was in
store.

“No, Freddy. If I turned it on, you’d go up
in smoke. So there I am, for six hours every night hiding my true
self. Like Superman, Betty Jo jumps out of a phone booth a hot and
sexy stripper.”

“But aesthetically pleasing.”

“If you say so.” She turned toward me
slightly and smiled. “Everyone says I talk too much. Am I talking
too much?”

I couldn’t help looking over at her. I’d
decided her hair, now that I thought about it, was tolerable. It
didn’t look harsh as I first thought. In fact, it appeared somewhat
soft and feathery. I also liked the shape of her full red lips and
the way they parted slightly to show her perfect white teeth.

“Keep your eyes on the road, please. I know
most people look down on what I do. They believe it’s slimy
back-alley stuff. They think I should burn in hell. I don’t care
what they think. Take a look at your own life, I’d tell them. How
many people did you exploit this week? How many did your ancestors
screw to get your family to where it is today? I’m paying my own
way in life and not hurting anyone.

“I don’t think God is out there applauding,
but I don’t think he’s much concerned about me dancing naked
either. He has more important things to worry about. In fifty
years, what I do on stage will be old stuff on prime time TV. And
the same God will be up there still unconcerned about whether Betty
Jo has her clothes on or off.” She smiled. “By then I suppose I’ll
mostly keep them on.”

“Not everyone is offended,” I said. “Many
people think it’s not part of their world, but live and let live.”
I meant that honestly. I thought it was mostly correct. “What name
do you use? On stage I mean.”

“Candy.”

“Of course, Candy. I should have guessed.
That’s cute. It all sounds like fun.” Another mistake. I was trying
to empathize with her. I shouldn’t have implied her work was
easy.

She scowled. “Try staying out of the coke
scene when it’s ass deep all around you. And it’s free...if you’re
willing to do a string of guys. Yeah, lots of fun staying
clean.”

That stopped me. The drug scene never
occurred to me. It always seemed so low-class. Then again,
Hollywood stars are into coke. Was her lifestyle sordid or
glamorous? I had no idea.

Somehow, I felt better about strippers in
general. I’d lost any paranoid thoughts about her being involved in
some nefarious plot to set me up. Clearly, we had come together by
chance. How interesting fate had placed a stripper in my car. I saw
no point in putting her out, after all.

Just after noon, we were nearing South
Carolina and I asked if she was hungry. Just wanted some comfort
munchies, she said. I wasn’t too concerned about lunch but I wanted
a coffee. I exited I-95 and parked at a convenience store. I held
out a ten-dollar bill but she shook her head. She swung those long
legs around and got out. I fell in behind her, watching all that
curly hair bouncing, her hips swaying, and her shoulder bag
swinging.

Once inside she slowly circled all the
aisles. I used the restroom, got my coffee, and waited by the door.
She was a minor event sweeping through the store and men stared.
They’d pretend to look at something to buy, but were positioning
themselves to keep her in sight. Imagine their surprise if I told
them their dream of seeing that woman without clothes was not an
impossible one. My own amusing secret.

At last, she decided on a tiny bag of chips.
Obviously, she had no money, at least didn’t want to spend any. I
went over. “You know, Betty Jo, I think I’m hungry after all. Why
don’t we stop for a regular lunch, okay?”

“I don’t have money for a big lunch. Don’t
want to take advantage of you.”

“Think of it as part of the trip. One takes a
trip, one stops and eats. I’d have to eat anyway. I’ll get it this
time.” Most likely she’d say no.

She hesitated then nodded okay.

A buffet was in progress at a nearby Holiday
Inn. A good choice, I thought, as she could load up and go back for
seconds, even cram a few items in her handbag for supper. But she
didn’t. The hotel guests and the lunchtime crowd were dressed down
wearing jeans and all; she’d have attracted attention even if not
the only one wearing a skirt. I’m sure she was quite accustomed to
accepting abundant amounts of attention.

Two men eating together at a table nearby
noticed her. They exchanged comments, laughed loudly, and stared at
her in a way that would melt the clothes off an ordinary woman.
Apparently, they assumed we had stayed at the hotel overnight and
she was my mistress. I enjoyed that. I’d never considered taking a
mistress, but it was fun to sit there and pretend for the benefit
of those two men.

I wondered about mistresses. Not necessarily
Betty Jo, just in general. I know you set them up in an apartment.
Do they expect you to pay all the other bills, or do they have some
kind of token employment? I could easily cover all her living
expenses. We had a second home in New England and a summer place in
Aspen. I could easily hide her expenses in there somewhere. Does
your mistress just wait for you to show up? What do they do all
day?

She seemed a pleasant young woman and I
didn’t mind sitting opposite her although we had nothing in common
to talk about. She did say her mother lived in Ft. Lauderdale,
that’s where she was heading. From the sound of it, Momma wasn’t
doing so well, sounded like money problems. That was nice, a
daughter putting herself out, enduring hitchhiking on a long trip
to see her mother.

She was eager to get underway so we didn’t
sit in the restaurant any longer than necessary. Back in the car,
we were soon off again down I-95. I had that after-lunch feeling of
well being and was enjoying the trip and being with Betty Jo, the
stripper. I supposed her being in my car wasn’t such a terrible
situation. We were growing used to each other. In fact, you might
say I’d become quite taken with her.

Abby Olin sat obediently across from State
Attorney Lawrence Moran with her hands folded in her lap. She
didn’t answer immediately.

Moran leaned forward on his desk. “I asked if
you’ve been advised of your rights.”

“Again and again,” she answered, “and don’t
tell me I need an attorney. All I did was shoot a prowler.”

“Miss Olin you stood before a judge twice for
arraignment. The first time for shooting a prowler. The second time
the court appointed some legal aid guy and you pleaded innocent to
the second-degree murder of Bruce Banks.”

“I didn’t like him. Told him to get lost. I
might not need him anyway. He told me I could continue to claim
that I thought I shot a prowler even if you charged me with Bank’s
murder. So I’m sticking to that story. So what do you want, Mr.
Moran.”

“I have some questions for you and I want to
be certain that you understand you have the right to have an
attorney present.”

“That depends on the questions. What do you
want to know?”

“How was Sandra Reid involved in the shooting
of Banks?”

“She wasn’t really. She ran in my house
later.”

“But she plotted with you to get Banks down
here from Delaware.”

“She did?”

“Look, this is just between us. I permitted
you to post bond and stay out of jail, however I can revoke bail
and put you in jail anytime I want. Also, when your trial comes up,
and your attorney wants to plead to a lesser charge or something, I
have power over that.”

“Okay, so you’re the big deal who can decide
if things go good or bad for me...oh, I see what you’re getting at.
You want me to do you some favors now and then.” She made a quick
glance back at the door to his office, scooted her chair forward,
and lowered her voice. “I get it. And it would just be between you
and me. Well, that’d be very interesting for both of us.” She
moistened her lips with her tongue and smiled at him. “I give
good...favors.”

He squirmed slightly in his chair. “You
misunderstood. I’m talking solely about what you’re going to say in
your defense. I know you could give testimony that would
incriminate Sandra Reid if you really wanted to. If you thought
hard, there must be many things she did and said. She really hated
Banks. That’s why she encouraged you.”

“She did that?”

He raised his eyebrows and looked at her
expectantly.

“Well, she did tell me she had kept track of
him and he should be punished for what he did. You mean stuff like
that?”

He smiled. “You see, there’s no reason for
you to take all the blame. Now go get yourself an attorney.”

By mid-afternoon, we were several hours and
hundreds of miles south of Richmond and continuing down I-95 to
Florida. We were now definitely in the American South. Noticeably
less traffic and none of the early winter bleakness of the
northeast. We’d soon be in South Carolina. As a traveling
companion, I found Betty Jo rather enjoyable. She was smiling at me
more frequently. And now I didn’t care whether she was a
stripper.

I had learned a bit about her and her job in
Baltimore. Although I suspected that dancing in a men’s club was
less glamorous and more sordid than she implied. Yet, she herself
seemed an acceptable person. She had yet to express an interest in
my profession. I wasn’t certain I wanted her to know much about me.
They say power is the ultimate aphrodisiac and after fourteen
years, I’d accumulated significant power in Congress, at least on
my side of the aisle. However, I’d keep quiet about my position. I
naturally wanted her to like me, yet I didn’t want to make too much
of my favorable situation and invite undue attention.

Although growing weary of the particular
subject of stripping, she was at ease talking about herself
otherwise. For my part, it wasn’t that I found stripping so
intriguing. The fascination was with the stripper herself and my
increasingly favorable interaction with her. “Tell me about you,” I
said. “Just to pass the time.”

“You don’t want to hear about me. You just
want to hear me talk about taking my clothes off, right?”

Perhaps I was thinking that. “Not at all.
However, I must admit I do think what you do is exciting. You know,
like show business.” In truth, I thought it was a grimy way to make
a living. No doubt, she had limited job choices. “But it’d be fine
if you wanted to talk about something else, like where you grew
up?”

“Okay, just to pass the time. But nothing
about stripping, okay? Nothing special to tell. How far back should
I go? Let’s see, grew up in Fort Lauderdale...” She brushed back
some of her wonderful curly hair and turned to me. “Oh, you want to
hear a good story about this guy George and me? It’s a long, long
story.”

“It’s a long, long drive.” I was betting
George was one of the lucky men in her life. I was interested to
hear how he made out with her.

“Okay. George was Momma’s boy friend. I was a
cute thirteen when he first came to the house. Big middle-aged guy,
like an aging football player with a beer gut. Ran some type of
contracting business. Nice to me and I liked him immediately. Momma
wasn’t as tall as I was and I guess she was a little overweight,
but she had a pretty face. The boob thing runs in the family so she
was okay in that department.

“They didn’t date steady, but whenever he
showed up, he’d be certain to speak to me and ask how I was doing.
He was interested in what I did at school and about my friends and
if I had a boyfriend. He guessed I drove all the boys at school
crazy. He had that right. Nice to have him around now and then. I
felt safe with a man like George in our house.”

“What about your father?”

“Never really knew him, took off early. He
wasn’t a nice man, was all Momma would ever say about him. Now this
George was a gentle type. At thirteen, I thought he was very cool.
The next time he came over, he gave me a little bracelet with my
name. He said it wasn’t expensive. He could have saved his breath.
It looked like it came out of an arcade vending machine. Too cheap
to wear. I didn’t care. It was from George. More than Momma ever
got from him.