Rubout Read online

  Fortunately, Stephanie was distracted by her duties. She was raising money for the night’s charity, the Troubled Children’s Foundation, by letting bikers stuff bills in her already bulging cleavage. I counted several hundred dollars sticking out of the gaps in the lace when she strolled by, and Sonny tucked another ten in there. “I like a gal who’s up front about her money,” he said, and this time he was definitely leering. Stephanie leered back. But when she turned to the dance floor, she tensed. What she saw wiped the smiles off everyone’s face.

  Sydney the society lady had asked Jerry to dance, and Jerry had lived up to his name by being crazy enough to say yes. They were slow-dancing to some tune with a lot of sax. You’d need a crowbar to pry their pelvises apart. Sydney had her arms around Jerry’s waist, and she was grasping his cheeks—and I don’t mean on his face. Sydney must have a death wish.

  Stephanie stalked over, grabbed Sydney by her artfully tossed hair, and pulled it back so hard I saw the dye line on her roots. It must have been a sobering experience. Sydney looked terrified.

  “Get your hands off him, bitch,” Stephanie said in a low hiss, like a deadly snake. “Or I’ll kill you.”

  I thought she meant it. So did Sydney. She was too scared to say a word. She didn’t even straighten out her hair, which stuck out at a stupid angle when Stephanie let go. Sydney looked around to see if anyone would help her, but we all pretended to be interested in the dancing or the drinks. Her date, Jack, was nowhere in sight, and nobody went looking for him. Sydney got herself into this, and she could get herself out. She worked her way toward the edge of the dance floor and then slunk up the steps toward the ladies’ room. Good. Let her hide out there for a while until she sobered up and Stephanie cooled off. Jerry had a sheepish grin on his face and looked rather pleased with himself, but I didn’t see him dance with anyone else. Stephanie went back to collecting money, and the bills the guys stuffed down her front were bigger than ever. I guess they were afraid not to contribute. I lost sight of Stephanie, Jerry, and Sydney, while I danced with two different guys. One worked at a furniture factory and the other wore the most gorgeous turquoise jewelry. He designed it himself. He was fun to talk to, but I wished Lyle, had been there, and I was mad at myself for missing him. This was one night when I didn’t have to work. I was there as a guest, not a columnist. I wouldn’t have to stay up late to write afterward. We could have had fun.

  Then Sonny tapped me on the shoulder for a dance, and I didn’t waste any more time thinking about Lyle. When I looked at my watch next it was almost midnight. I was dancing with a skinny biker named Mitch. He’d had enough beer to loosen up into a first-rate dancer. Sonny was dancing nearby with his cute blond wife, Debbie. When the music stopped suddenly, I heard Sonny tell her, “Oh, shit. Sydney’s started another commotion. Stay here while I see what it is.”

  I couldn’t see or hear anything wrong, but I followed Sonny as he pushed through the crowd. Near the bar, I saw Gilly, a big ugly biker with a beer gut. He had his arms wrapped around Sydney in a bear hug. He was crushing her up against his chest and saying loudly “I thought you was looking for a big man, honey. I’m bigger than that Crazy Jerry and I can prove it.”

  Sydney was struggling to get free, but she couldn’t. Gilly weighed three hundred pounds, and there was a lot of muscle embedded in that beer fat. Sonny walked up to Gilly. He was at least a hundred pounds lighter and a foot shorter, but he stared at the giant and tapped him on the arm. That’s all. Just tapped him. Gilly let go of Sydney like she might scald him. I wish I had that kind of power.

  It looked like this encounter was going to end quietly. But then Jack, Sydney’s biker boyfriend, walked up out of nowhere and punched Gilly in the mouth, which hurt Jack’s hand pretty bad. Sonny and two of the other Harley wrestlers pulled them apart. It wasn’t much of a fight. Jack wasn’t really mad at Gilly. He just felt he had to do it. He saved his harsh words for Sydney. “You slut!” he screamed, while she cowered against the bar. “I’m not enough for you, huh? Huh? You gotta go after two guys in one night? Rich bitch gotta have everything and everyone. Oh, bring your bike, Jack,’” he said, doing a simpering imitation of a woman. “‘I want to wrap myself around you and ride home with you in the rain.’ You’re so good at gettin’ guys, you can get another one to take you home.” Jack left her there and stormed down the stairs. Gilly seemed to be gone too, although I don’t know when he took off. Probably sometime during Jack’s speech.

  We stared at Sydney. Her lip trembled and she started to cry silently. Dark streaks of eyeliner ran down her face. Some braid trim had pulled loose on her sleeve and a button was missing. She stumbled a little on her high heels, picked the gold button off the floor, and looked around for her little gold purse. Holding the handrail, she started unsteadily down the stairs. Everyone looked relieved.

  “Shouldn’t someone go with her?” I asked. “She looks drunk.”

  “She can call a cab from the lower lobby,” said Sonny. “There are guards out front. Let her alone. She’s caused enough trouble tonight.”

  She wasn’t through causing trouble. But we didn’t know that.

  “This is why we don’t want RUBs at the ball,” Sonny said. “They don’t know how to act.”

  The bikers watching nodded, and I could feel the mood turning sour. Then the band broke into the official bikers’ anthem, “Born to Be Wild.” The King of Hearts wailed this song of freedom almost as well as Steppenwolf. Sonny revved up his black Harley and rode the centerpiece around the outside of the dance floor. It rumbled over the music and vibrated the floor. I danced with Panhead, lost in the wild, roaring sound. After the song, I heard the band paging Crazy Jerry. They must have paged him on and off for half an hour. Finally Sonny came up to me, looking worried. “Francesca, we need you to be a judge for the Leather and Lace contests,” he said. “We can’t find Jerry, and he’s one of our judges. I don’t want to stir up any more trouble looking for him.”

  You never know when a woman is going to have to represent her sex. I knew I shouldn’t have said yes. But it was after midnight, he was cute, and I was weak. So I agreed to be the only female judge at the Leather and Lace Ball. There were three other judges. Parker had gray hair, a broad, calm face, and a vest with the Viet Nam Veterans colors. Will was a lean guy in a black T-shirt. Streak was named for the speed he rode and the iron-gray streak in his black hair. I also heard he got his name for riding bare-assed through the downtown police lot on a dare. Streak just grinned when you asked where he got his name. He smoked incessantly.

  Sonny explained our duties. “You gotta judge the Best in Leather—Female, the Best in Leather—Male, and the Best in Lace. Ladies’ leather competition first.”

  “What are the criteria?” I asked.

  “Just pick the best,” Sonny said, and shrugged. I could tell this wasn’t going to be the Pillsbury Bake-Off.

  Eight women lined up in front of the bandstand. The first Best in Leather wore a lace body stocking and leather chaps. The second entry wore almost the same outfit, but dropped her leather chaps and wiggled her butt. The men in the crowd cheered.

  “Yeah!” cried three of the four judges.

  The third contestant looked like a leather cheerleader. She wore a white leather skirt that was short and flippy, lace-trimmed white leather boots that were short and frilly, and a look of innocence that charmed the men and didn’t fool the women. The next woman had a leather vest and the cheeks cut out of her jeans. She wiggled her rear, to the delight of every judge but me. After that, bottoms started jiggling like Jell-O in an earthquake. “We need to look again,” cried Will, so the contestants wiggled some more, but the sight didn’t inspire me.

  “Who are you picking?” asked Streak, wrapped in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  “I’m not voting this round,” I said.

  “Hey, yes, you are,” Parker said gravely. “We need a woman’s view.”

  I thought there were plenty of women’s views, but I peeked at the othe
r scorecards. The judges had given the leather cheerleader high marks. I could go along with that. “Number Three,” I said.

  “Good choice,” Streak said, letting out an approving puff of smoke. I was one of the guys.

  Sonny presented the winner with the brass plaque to huge applause. I wondered where you hung an award like that.

  “Best in Leather, Men’s Division,” Sonny announced, and a string of leather-clad guys stumbled to the front.

  All three male judges said simultaneously, “I’m not judging men.”

  “Yes, you are,” I said. “If I had to judge the women, you have to judge the men.”

  “Fair is fair,” said Streak, and the other judges nodded and went to work.

  Contestant Number One was just Busched enough that he switched his rear saucily when he paraded in his black leather chaps. “Hey!” a woman in the audience cried. “We saw the women’s butts, now what about the men’s?”

  He ignored this request. So did Number Two. But contestant Number Three unbuckled his chaps, dropped his trou, and showed a really nice set of buns. They were fat free and tanned to a golden brown. There were no unsightly dimples or pimples. The women in the audience cheered his courageous move. The Catholic schoolgirl buried inside of me came out and disapproved. She knew I was going to hell for watching bikers drop their pants. The rest of me thought it was pretty funny.

  Contestant Number Four was an impressive sight. He had a strong jaw, stronger shoulders, narrow hips, and sexy sun wrinkles around his blue eyes. He wore a brilliant blue jacket made of zillions of leather scales, blue jeans, and blue lizard boots. “That’s a really bad-ass jacket,” Parker said respectfully. Streak and Will agreed. In a fairer world, Number Four would have the plaque. But sex wins every time.

  The women in the audience were screaming “Number Three! Number Three!” I explained the facts of life to the judges. “If you don’t vote for Number Three, you’re dead meat.” They looked out at the beer-bottle waving audience. The people had spoken, and they were pretty drunk. Number Three won.

  “Now it’s time for our Ladies in Lace!” said Sonny. This was clearly the climax of the contest. Contestant Number One was a repeat from Ladies’ Leather, the bottom-waver in chaps and a lace body stocking. The judges waved her on. Next was a woman with rippling blond hair and a ruffly sheer red gown cut to reveal red lace panties. “Yeah!” three of the judges said. They barely had time to wipe off the drool before an even more astonishing outfit paraded by—a Spandex suit cut into a spiderweb of strange and wonderful holes. She waggled her rear and the men did everything but sit up and beg.

  The Spandex Wonder was followed by a woman wearing only a black-lace body suit, cut high on the thigh. It was an awesome display of smooth skin from hip to heel. “That’s the best wax job I’ve ever seen,” I said. “That woman deserves to win for the pain endurance alone. I’d need a full anesthetic to be that hairless.” The guys didn’t get it, but the women sitting near me applauded her.

  Another contestant wore an animal-print outfit that was two strips of cloth over her bosom and one on the bottom. The three male judges looked dizzy, but Judge Will brought them back to duty. “Impressive,” he said, “but this is not the Leopard and Lace Ball.” They admired the view and crossed her off the winner’s list.

  The next woman belonged on a New York fashion runway. She was tall, bone thin, and bore up an intricate arrangement of leather and lace strips that moved every time she did. I couldn’t figure out how she kept the strategic parts covered. I had more leather on my keychain.

  The final contestant wore a body stocking made of black Harley lace. Her body was covered with lacy Harley cycles. She had the generous womanly proportions that painters in another age loved.

  The male judges were having a tough time deciding on a winner, and I wasn’t any help. “Let’s see them again,” they said. All the women paraded past and some waggled their rear ends, which thrilled three of the judges.

  And, then to my delight, the male judges chose the handsome and generously proportioned woman. She was rejected by fashion, but these male bikers saw lightning in those thunder thighs.

  “Gentlemen, I’m proud to confirm your decision,” I said.

  The loser in the lace and leather chaps was not. She snarled, “You are all on my shit list.”

  “I’m dead anyway,” Parker said, with resignation. “You eliminated the woman I’m sleeping with.”

  “Correction. Used to sleep with,” Streak said. Everyone laughed but Parker.

  Speaking of sleeping, it was almost two A.M. I was tired. I told Sonny and his wife Debbie good night, waved good-bye to the judges, found my purse and walked down the staircase. The night was still cold, but now, after the heat and cigarette smoke at the ball, it felt good. There was a light drizzle, and mist rose up from the rain-slicked streets.

  Just outside the Casa Loma, I saw a buxom young woman, with pale hair like a spring dandelion. I watched Dandelion slug a young man right in the jaw with surprising strength. Young women certainly have improved their upper body strength since I was growing up. The young man rubbed his jaw and shouted, “I said I was sorry. What else am I supposed to do?”

  Dandelion didn’t answer. Head high, she walked past him to the end of the building and turned down the alley. The off-duty cop guarding the Casa Loma door shrugged but didn’t follow her. The wide alley was lit so we could see her progress. Dandelion walked past an old garage with gray wooden doors and an abandoned plaid couch. Why are couches in alleys always plaid? The young man went to the alley and stood there. “I said,” he shouted at Dandelion, “what else do you want from me?”

  Silence. Dandelion had almost reached a big Dumpster, tall as an upended van.

  “Answer me,” he pleaded.

  She screamed. It wasn’t a scream of rage. This was sheer fright mixed with horror, as if she’d seen some hellish sight. She backed away from the Dumpster, still shrieking, ran straight to the young man, stumbled and buried her pale face in his chest. She began rocking back and forth and crying “No! No! No!” He looked bewildered. The off-duty cop knew what her behavior meant: She had seen something so horrible, she didn’t want to believe it. The cop ran down the alley toward the Dumpster, and I ran after him.

  Behind the Dumpster, a woman was lying on her side. She wasn’t moving. Her blond hair was damp and oozing big clots of something that looked black. Oil? Who would smear oil in her hair? As I got closer, I saw her hair was thick with blood, not oil. It covered her face like some exotic native mask. Her nose and cheekbone were strangely flattened. Blond hair and black blood were smeared across her eyes. Her lips looked mashed. A gold button winked in a puddle near her shoulder, and dirty gold braid trailed from one bloody wrist.

  I didn’t recognize the face—not in its current condition—but I’d know that outfit anywhere. It was Sydney, very dead in her designer leather.

  Red police lights pulsed on the Casa Loma’s walls and mist rose from the alley potholes, turning the murder scene into a hell’s parody of the biker ball. For music, we had the shriek and wail of sirens. Yellow police-line tape festooned everything like some failed festive decoration. The T-shaped alley behind the Casa Loma was blocked at all three entrances, by what seemed to be every police car, marked and unmarked, in St. Louis. There was even a hook and ladder truck. The Evidence Technician Unit arrived, and police searched the alley carefully with flashlights to make sure they didn’t miss anything before they brought in the bulky vehicle. The ETU pulled up near the murder scene. Harsh lights on the roof illuminated the alley. An evidence technician snapped Sydney’s photo from every angle, and they were all bad. Sydney had been beaten until the fragile bones in her face cracked and collapsed. I could see some of the brutal damage even through the thick blood. I saw her small, blood-smeared hands, still trying to protect her face. Two nails were broken, but her hands were still beautiful, well tended, and useless. Like Sydney.

  She’d been beaten with what looked like
a motorcycle drive chain. It was artlessly draped near the shoulder of her leather jacket, as if the designer put it there for a prop. I’d just about convinced myself that the gobs of dark stuff on the chain were grease. Then I saw the clump of pretty silky blond hair, the size of a skein of embroidery thread, clinging to the drive chain. One end had a saucy curl. The other had a bloody bit of scalp.

  I made it to the back of the old garage before I was sick. I managed to miss my suede boots, which were already sodden from the pothole puddles. I squatted by the garage for a bit, woozy and shaking. Actually, it was a good spot to observe things without being in the way. I could hear the crackle of police radios, see uniformed officers interviewing people in the alley, watch the brass standing around looking important and posing for the TV crews. Four unlucky cops were taking the Dumpster apart. Others had a dangerous assignment inside the Casa Loma. They had to close the bar in a roomful of one thousand bikers and then start interviewing people.

  In the alley, several officers seemed awfully interested in a scrawny biker I’d danced with earlier. I thought his name was Mitch. I caught snippets of questions aimed at him: “Can you describe the person? How tall was the person?” I wanted to hear more, but then I was sick again.

  When I stood up, sour-mouthed and shivering, a man handed me his white silk handkerchief. Terrific. Homicide Detective Mark Mayhew had been watching me barf my guts out.

  “Francesca, are you okay?” he asked, and he sounded like he meant it.

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  “Do you want to go inside and sit down? Can I get you a drink? Have someone drive you home?”