False Allegations by Andrew Vachss Page A

payment,” she whispered against my mouth. “See you soon.”
     
     
    W hen she let me in, she was wearing a midthigh black spandex sheath and black spikes. Her hair was down and her makeup was fresh, red lipstick glistening in the reflected light from one of the baby spots. The rest of the living room was dark. “Sit down, honey,” she said, pushing me toward the two–person chair.
    “You want a smoke?” she asked, bringing over the glass ashtray without waiting for an answer.
    She turned her back and walked over to a cabinet that held a stereo and a stack of CDs. The black sheath had a zipper all the way down the back, anchored at the top with a big brass pull–ring. Stripper’s gown. The sheer stockings had thin black seams, a faint metallic glitter pattern in the mesh. She slipped in a CD. Heavy, pulsating music throbbed out of the speakers— all bass, baritone sax, and low–register piano— nothing I recognized. She played with the volume control until it was so muted I could feel it more than hear it.
    She turned and walked back over to me. Stopped when she was still a few feet away. “Did Sybil dance for you?” she asked softly.
    “She danced for the money,” I told her.
    “Was she good?”
    “Good enough, I guess. Good as a lie can be.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You said it yourself— did she dance for me ? That’s the lie. She’s not— in that club, anyway, she’s not— a woman, she’s a jukebox. You shove the money in, she wiggles and jiggles. The money runs out, the music stops.”
    “But the men all know— “
    “I didn’t say she was a crook, Bondi. A lie’s what they’re paying for. They’re not getting cheated.”
    “Did you think she was pretty?”
    “Pretty enough.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Nothing spectacular.”
    “Her bloody boobs are spectacular, right?”
    “Not in a place like that, they’re not. You just dial the size you want, right?”
    “What did you want?” she asked, bending forward like the answer was really important.
    “Just to have her tell you I’d be calling. So you wouldn’t spook.”
    “Why would I spook?”
    “Because it wasn’t about that…job you wanted.”
    “What was it all about, then?”
    “What I told you. A date.”
    “You wanted to go to bed with me again?”
    “Yes. But I wanted to…be with you too.”
    “Because you like me?” a film of sarcasm over her soft voice. “And you thought if I knew you better, I’d like you too?”
    “That’s right,” I said, my voice soft but strong against her mockery.
    She turned her back on me, standing quiet for a minute. “And that’s not a lie?” she asked, looking over one shoulder. “What you just said?”
    “No. That’s not a lie at all, Bondi.”
    She was still another minute, looking at me steadily. Then she started to roll her hips to the music, standing in place, the spike heels riveted to the carpet. She reached back and pulled the zipper halfway down as she turned. Her back was bare.
    She did the whole routine, prancing in a tight circle. All she had under the dress was a black thong and the sheer stockings. She moved back so I could see all of her: a graceful swan’s neck, small, rounded breasts with tiny nipples sitting high on her chest over a sharp–cut waist, slightly flaring hips, long smooth legs. A model’s body with a stripper’s curves. She worked it hard, a clear coat of sweat popping out to the soft–pounding music.
    It was a real dance— she never left her feet until she dropped to her hands and knees. Then she crawled over to me, head up, purring like a tigress. When she got close enough, she pulled down my zipper as easily as she had her own.
     
     
    T he first time was quick. Hard and quick. She recycled faster than I did, but she was patient. Then we went slower, quieter.
    I think I fell asleep then, but I wasn’t under very deep.
    A couple of hours later, she prodded me awake, her nose rubbing my chest. “You don’t… start