Free The Dog Collar Murders by Barbara Wilson Page B

butterfly clamp; she was wearing a small forest of fake lashes and lots of black eyeliner; her armpits and legs were shaved and her fingernails were painted fire engine red.
    “I’ve always wondered what my customers did when they left the Espressomat,” Hadley joked, but her light tone changed when she saw the screen going down. “Quick—put another quarter in!”
    The music had gotten slower, sexier. Nicky swayed into it and threw back her head, singing the bluesy lyrics. The other two women didn’t seem quite as much into it. They were younger, a little vague about the eyes. One of them moved as if the lower half of her body didn’t really belong to her. She went up to one of the windows and, still dancing, spread her legs and thrust her pelvis out casually.
    Hadley put in two more quarters.
    “I can’t help it, Pam,” she said. “This is turning me on. Is she going to do that to us?”
    “Hadley, look at her eyes. Don’t just look at her crotch. She’s doing a job for money—she’s probably thinking about something completely different, like whether she took the hamburger out to thaw for tonight’s dinner.”
    I found Nicky far sexier. And I think it was partly because she was good at her job, which was to create the illusion that she was in a state of sexual heat, easy and uninhibited with her body, ready to satisfy and be satisfied. She really seemed to be enjoying herself, enjoying dancing and moving her limbs—not so much exposing herself as showing off. I wondered how it would feel to know that a dozen men (or women, perhaps, like us) were staring avidly at your naked body.
    Hadley was putting more quarters in. I tried to stop her. “We’ve got to move to a two-way booth—so we can communicate with her.”
    “All right,” Hadley agreed, unenthusiastic. “But it’s going to be different. They’ll know two women are watching them. And I bet they won’t like it.”
    The dancer with the detached eyes and flexible pelvis had made her way over to our booth and was pressing her crotch up against our window like a sea anemone at an aquarium.
    “Oh my god,” said Hadley. “I can’t decide whether it’s horrible or it’s wonderful.”
    “Come on, Hadley—didn’t you ever do one of those women’s self-help health groups? If it weren’t for the music and the sinful atmosphere, it’d be just like doing a cervical check-up.”
    Our screen went down for the last time. We’d spent $2.50 in ten minutes. Out in the corridor a couple of men were waiting; they looked surprised and embarrassed when they saw us. One of them hastily ducked into the booth we’d left and the other stared at the floor. He was a middle-aged businessman in a suit.
    “You’ll like the girls,” Hadley told him enthusiastically. “One of them’s got a great pair of tits.”
    He turned and fled down the corridor.
    After a few minutes a two-way booth opened up and we went in. We put all the rest of our quarters in the slot and our screen went up. One of the dancers gave us a casual glance and then looked again, her mouth tightening. Hadley smiled, to try to put her at her ease, but she turned away with an emotion we couldn’t read, and moved over to another window.
    “I knew they wouldn’t like it,” said Hadley. “She probably thinks we’re perverts.”
    “Well?”
    “Look—Nicky’s looking our way. Hold up your sign.
    I held it flat against the window. It said: NICKY COULD WE PLEASE SPEAK TO YOU DURING YOUR BREAK? IF YES MEET US AT THE FRANKFURTER ON THE CORNER AT 7 P.M.
    She stared at the sign, then at us. Without changing the tempo of her dancing she nodded her head slightly.
    “I guess we have to go now?” said Hadley.
    “We’ve gotten what we came for.”
    “More or less,” said Hadley.
    We had an hour to kill so Hadley suggested having a drink in the market. “That’s beer—not coffee.” She shuddered slightly.
    We went to the Copacabana and sat out on the balcony. Two Tecates and a plate of