Live Girls by Ray Garton

profile was outlined against the passing lights outside the cab.

    “How often, uh, do you work back there?” Davey asked.

    She turned to him, almost as if she'd forgotten he was in the car. “Off and on,” she answered.

    “Do you have a ... oh, a specific schedule?"

    She arched a brow.

    “I'd like to come see you again."

    From deep in her throat came a low, honey-thick laugh, a laugh of pleasure, but with, perhaps, a touch of mockery. “A fan,” she said, cocking a brow.

    “Yeah.” Davey chuckled. “I guess you could say that."

    “The atmosphere in the Midnight Club is much more pleasant,” she said, looking out the window again. “If you want to see me perform in the future, I suggest you go there."

    With a twinge of disappointment, Davey realized she was not going to tell him when she would be at Live Girls.

    A club would be much better than that booth , he told himself. But in a club, he would not be able to touch her; she would not be able to slide his hand over her smooth, cool thighs, her breasts...

    Davey flinched and shifted in the seat, ashamed that the mere thought of being in that dark, close booth was making him erect.

    When he looked at her again, her lips were wrapped around the end of her cigarette; she looked as if she could sense his shame and was amused by it.

    She glanced through the front window and said, “We're almost there. I'll have to get you a table,” she added. “It's nearly impossible if you don't have reservations."

    “Thank you."

    “It's nothing,” she said, taking a small billfold from her coat pocket. She gave him a sidelong look, her lashes low over her deep eyes, and smiled. “I'm rather glad you came, Davey."

    The cab stopped, and Davey got out as she paid the driver. He looked around for some sign of the club, but saw nothing; the dark Tribeca neighborhood was deserted. The sidewalks were lit only by pools of light from the streetlamps. The entrance to a nearby parking lot was chained off and the lot was strewn with litter and broken chunks of cement. Davey saw only one lighted window on the top floor of an old cast-iron building; it flickered a soft grayish blue.

    “This way,” she said. Her heels clacked on the wet street. “I usually go in the back,” she told him, “but I can't take guests that way.” She led him to the end of the block and stopped at a door set in the corner of the building. She pushed the door open and Davey followed her inside.

    They walked into a vacuumlike silence. The deep purple carpet and black walls of the foyer seemed to soak up sound like a sponge. Davey heard music playing faintly, as if from a great distance, its melody no more distinct than the buzzing of a housefly.

    She turned to a man standing at the right of the entrance. There was a book open before him atop a solid black pedestal.

    “Hello, Malcolm,” she said. “This is Davey, my guest this evening. Do we have a table for him?"

    He checked the book, running a long finger down the page. The top of his skull was large and dome-shaped with thinning gray hair slicked straight back; he had sunken temples, sharp cheekbones with deep shadows beneath, and a razorlike jaw. His fair skin was smooth and clear as a child's. He wore a black tuxedo; a diamond stud sparkled just above his left nostril. Malcolm looked up and smiled.

    “Table twelve,” he said. His voice was sibilant, feminine. “Tell Cedric when you go in."

    “Your coat, sir?” A young blond girl stood behind a counter across from Malcolm. She held a tiny hand out to Davey.

    Davey slipped his coat off and gave it to her. She handed him a ticket in exchange; he stuffed it in his pocket.

    Davey turned to his companion; she was taking long strides toward a huge black door framed with red across from the entrance. With a slight wave, she said, “Later, Malcolm.” Then to Davey: “Come, Davey, I'm late."

    Davey saw Malcolm push a button on the pedestal and the black door swung open heavily;