Free Who is Charlie Conti? by Claus von Bohlen Page A

gherkin were good – small and sharp tasting, not like the huge watery ones you sometimes get. So, when I told Pete that I thought that it was the best burger I’d ever eaten, I wasn’t just being polite. And boy, it made him happy like you wouldn’t believe. We had another beer and from time to time he’d say, ‘Didn’t I tell you Big Al makes the best burgers?’ but he said it in a kind of whimsical way, so I didn’t feel I had to reply.
    We had another couple of beers and Big Al’s really started to fill up and I found it pretty hard to hear what Pete was saying. I started thinking about maybe driving back to the diner to sleep in the Buick when Pete leant across and shouted in my ear, ‘Wanna go see the girls?’
    ‘What?’ I shouted back.
    ‘Wanna go see the girls?’
    ‘What girls?’
    ‘Come along, I’ll show ya.’
    I was kind of reticent about this after hearing about Pete’s demons, whatever they were, and being told to keep him out of trouble and all. But I didn’t want to be unfriendly, especially since he had insisted on paying the check, though I had tried to stop him. Anyway, Pete seemed pretty lively all of a sudden. He jumped up from his stool and steered me out of the bar by the shoulder before I could think up a good excuse.
    Outside the night was cold and clear and sobering, a real desert night. We stopped on the veranda for a moment. I thought Petewas admiring the thin sickle moon, thin and pale as the end of a finger nail. Then in a wistful voice he said, ‘There she is,’ and motioned to a squat building a couple hundred yards away lit by garish pink neon lights. I’d seen it when we arrived and assumed it was another bowling alley. Now it was dark I could read the neon lettering, ‘The Palace of Pleasure’, but by then Pete had already grabbed my arm and was marching me towards the entrance.
    I’d been to a couple of strip clubs before, once in New York by myself and once in LA, but I didn’t enjoy either very much. I mean, I don’t really like girls who are all make-up and silicone. I just think they’re kind of fake. But sometimes you get a girl who’s really cute and wholesome and natural looking, and in fact that’s even worse. It’s corny as hell, but I kind of fell for one of the strippers in New York. She was petite and brunette and she smiled like she actually found it pretty funny that she was taking her clothes off in front of me. If I’d seen her someplace else she was the kind of girl I’d have liked to talk to, if I were feeling really brave or really drunk. But if you meet a girl like that in a strip club, I mean, there’s no way you can talk to her. I know there’s a load of guys who say they’ve gone home with strippers, and I’m sure it happens, though probably less often than guys pretend; but all I’m saying is, if you see a girl you like, the chances of anything happening are a lot smaller if you meet her in a strip club. Sure you can go have a private dance or whatever, but then you’re just like all the other guys she’s danced for. I guess that’s the other thing I don’t like about strip clubs. They’re some pretty seedy guys in there most of the time, and if you’re in there, well, I guess that makes you pretty seedy too, even if you’re not married and on a business trip and smoking a fat cigar.
    As we approached the pool of light around the entrance I caught sight of the doorman. He was a pretty tall guy anyway, but on top of his head he had a beautiful undulating rockabilly pompadour. The hair itself was black and oiled and occasionally reflected the pink light of the neon sign above him. It extended a good couple of inches in front of his forehead before being swept back upon itself in a gleaming parabola. It was really something.
    The doorman saw Pete and called out, ‘Hiya Pete, figured you might be here tonight. It’s not so busy – I think your table’s still free.’
    We were ushered past the coat-check, into the large,