imagining dinner, a drink, and a bath, when Petra texted me: rgent biz cll @ 1s—urgent business, call at once. I felt young and hip when I realized I had translated it effortlessly.
“Vic, you have to come over right now!” she cried when I phoned.
“Over where?” I demanded.
“The club! Someone just tried to kill the Body Artist.”
I ducked into a building entrance so I could speak to her away from the street noise and the cold. “When? Have you called the cops?”
“She won’t let us. She says it’s nothing. Can you please come?”
“Let you? You don’t need her per—”
Petra cut me off with a hasty, “Gotta go, table 11 is screaming for their drinks,” and hung up. I thought wistfully of my bath, and my bottle of Johnnie Walker, but hopped around the slushy curbs on Dearborn and continued east to Wabash and the Lake Street L.
This time of night, the L is full, with students getting out of night school and weary late workers like me heading home. Most of my companions had little white wires snaking from pockets to ears, making them look as though their heads were being transfused. A number of them were texting at the same time or listening to their earclips. They looked like the descendants of Alien Nation getting commands from the mother ship.
I got off the train at Ashland and hurried to Club Gouge as fast as I could on the icy sidewalk. Even though it was a weeknight, the parking lot was almost full. The people coming and going through the club’s doors seemed to be chattering normally, not with the hushed excitement they’d show around a crime scene.
The bouncer was inspecting people’s bags and backpacks before letting them in. That was the only sign that something unusual had happened. No one protested—we’re all inured these days to being searched. Pretty soon, we’ll have to get undressed before we walk into our apartment buildings at night, and we’ll probably submit to that without a murmur.
When I reached the front of the line, I showed the bouncer my PI license and explained that Petra had summoned me. The bouncer, Mark, looked me up and down but nodded me into the club.
“I don’t know if the Artist’ll talk to you,” he said, “but she’s in the back. Her performance starts in about twenty minutes—I’ll get Petra to take you to her.”
“What happened?”
Mark shuffled his feet.
“She’ll tell you herself. I’m not a hundred percent sure.”
I looked at him narrowly, wondering what he didn’t want to reveal, but went into the club. Olympia was behind the bar, helping the two bartenders keep up with the orders. As the Body Artist’s performance time was drawing near, the club was filling, and drink orders were piling up.
Olympia was striking, with her dyed black hair and the thick streak of white over her left eye. She was dressed in black and white, too, as if she, like the Body Artist, were a canvas on display. Tonight she was wearing a pantsuit that shimmered like oilcloth under the lights. The jacket was open to her breastbone, where you could see the fringed top of a white camisole.
My cousin was easy to find. At five-eleven, with her halo of spiky hair adding another three inches, she towered over most of the room. When I tapped her arm, she finished delivering drinks to four tables without missing an order and then waltzed me behind the stage to the small changing room set aside for performers.
She knocked perfunctorily on the door but opened it without waiting for an answer. The Body Artist was sitting in the lotus position, eyes shut, breathing slowly. She was already naked except for her thong, which was covered with the same kind of cream foundation paint as her body. Close up, she looked more like a mannequin than before, which was somehow more disturbing than her nudity.
Petra cleared her throat uncertainly. “Uh, this is my cousin, the detective, you know. I told you I was calling her when you said you didn’t want the police here. Vic, Body Artist. Body Artist, Vic. I’ve got to get back to my station.”
She backed out of the room, the feathery ends of her hair brushing against the top of the door frame.
The Artist looked up at me. “I don’t want to be disturbed before my performance. Come back later.”
“Nope,” I said. “Later, I’m going to be home. I’ve been working since eight this morning and I’m beat. Who attacked you?”