The proprietor took his hand and shook it. “They call me that.” He smiled. “It’s because of the sign outside. Real name is Dick Hobart. When I bought this place twelve years ago, the sign said ‘Nolan’s Paddock Club.’ I wasn’t sure how it was going to work out, so I left the sign for whatever good will it was worth. Wasn’t much, I can tell you. Otherwise they wouldn’t have gone under. But by the time I knew things were going to work out for me, I was stuck with the name.”
Prescott nodded. “I’ve seen it happen that way before.”
“What about you? What business are you in?”
Prescott said, in an affable, confident tone, “I’m kind of between things right now. I’ve been out in California for a few years. Had a couple of car washes, and did pretty well. I sold out a few months back, and I’m looking around here for the right opportunity.”
He could tell that Hobart had instantly evaluated the story and taken it as Prescott had hoped. He knew Bob Greene was a liar. Greene had some money to spend, but he probably had not come into it a few dollars at a time operating car washes in California. Hobart said, “Well, I’m sure you’ll find something you like. This is a good place to do business.” His own words seemed to remind him that he had to keep an eye on his men. He turned toward them.
“It sure seems to be,” said Prescott. “Thanks for the drink.”
At one o’clock, when Prescott heard the distinctive change in the music, as though someone had turned the bass all the way up to vibrate so he could feel it, he left the bar and sat at a table. The noon crowd consisted of men who looked older and more settled than the evening crowd. About half of them were wearing coats and ties, having come from offices. Two of them had been reading newspapers in the dim light while they ate lunch, but when the music changed, they folded them and set them aside.
The woman who came from behind the curtain was announced only as “Jean.” She had her dark brown hair pinned up, and she was dressed in a business suit and wearing glasses to begin with. She looked very convincing. She took off the glasses and undid her hairpin so her dark hair came down in a cascade, shook it out, and went into her routine. The theatrical lacy garter belt and push-up bra she had beneath the suit were not what the female business executives Prescott had known well usually wore to work, but he judged it didn’t destroy the effect.
It was not until she was wearing only her tiny G-string that she did one of her turns, looked over her shoulder, and seemed to notice that Prescott had returned from his trip. She looked directly at him, let her fixed, professional smile relax for a second, then resumed the mask again. He stepped to the stage and slipped a fifty into her G-string, then returned to his table. He drank through the next two women’s performances to see whether Hobart had told them all to notice him. They were women he had not seen before, and they went through their tasks without enthusiasm, largely ignored by most of the customers and ignoring them in return.
When Prescott went out to the parking lot to get into his car, he realized that his experiment had made him drink more than he had intended. The sun was impossibly bright, bouncing off the chrome of the cars into his eyes in little semaphores. The red surface of his Corvette seemed to have an aura around it, and the gravel on the ground was like a photograph of the surface of Mars, each tiny pebble bright on top with its own black shadow behind it. But as he carefully steered the car across the lot toward the street, he looked into the rearview mirror and saw Jean and Hobart beside the delivery door outside the building, watching his departure.
Over the next few days, he confirmed his impression that noon was the time to go to Nolan’s. The nights in a strip club were businesslike and concentrated. The customers crowded in, and the men behind the bar were frantic, pushing glasses onto the bar and snatching money as quickly as they could move, working like fishermen in a tuna run, making the most of their catch in a three-hour period.
During daylight, the atmosphere was calm and sleepy. The volume of the recorded music was so low that people could speak in normal voices except when a dancer was on the stage. The bartenders had time to talk with customers. Prescott exchanged greetings with Dick Hobart when he came in for lunch each day, and sometimes when he left. He was always good-natured and friendly, always careful to give the impression that he had no desire for a longer conversation but had no reason to avoid one, either. There was an odd easiness to the atmosphere, and Prescott insinuated himself into it subtly and patiently, until he suspected that several of the employees were not sure just how long he had been around—maybe for years, coming in during some other shift. Hobart met with the couriers from Cincinnati once every three weeks, and met with other men more frequently, always during the day.
Prescott waited two more weeks before he decided he was ready to ease himself in further. He was in the bar before the businessmen’s lunch when Hobart came past him, checking the tables to see whether they had been positioned and set properly. When he came to Prescott’s, he said, “Hey, Bob. Didn’t anybody come to take your order yet?”
“Thanks for thinking about it, Dick, but I just sat down,” said Prescott. “While you’re here, though, there was something I wanted to talk to you about. Got a second?”
Hobart studied his face, as though deciding whether he really wanted to hear this, then said, “Sure. Let’s go over to the bar so I can take care of some chores while we talk.” Prescott went to the bar and watched Hobart taking inventory of bar supplies: olives, cherries, swizzle sticks, bitters. He emptied old bottles, moved new ones in. “What’s on your mind?”
Prescott said, “I was just wondering what your policy was on employees going out with customers.”
Hobart put his elbows on the bar and blew out a breath wearily. “Who did you have in mind?”
“Jean,” said Prescott. “I was considering trying to talk to her, but I won’t if it’ll get her fired or something.”
Hobart clamped his lips together and nodded sagely, as though it had been obvious. “You were right to ask me first. That’s sensible, and I appreciate it. We do have a rule against fraternizing. You start having that kind of thing going on, and the authorities get on you. As it is, every time there’s a city council election, everybody in the entertainment business has got to fear for his livelihood. But the truth is, I wouldn’t have that rule if the girls didn’t want it. This way they can say no, and it isn’t their fault. The guy who’s been a big tipper doesn’t get hurt feelings and go away.”
Prescott shrugged. “Okay. I can understand that. No hurt feelings. I’ll forget the idea.”
Hobart said, “I didn’t say that. This is a little different. You’re a good customer, and you’re not a kid. You seem like a serious man, and the fact that you asked me means you’re sensitive to other people’s problems.” He let a mysterious little smile play about his mouth and disappear. “Jean happened to ask me about you a week or two ago. She’s not married at the moment, so it could mean she’s interested. Of course, it could mean nothing, too.”
“So you think it might be okay if I had a talk with her?”
“I’ll tell you what. I have a couple of conditions. You talk to her in private, where the other customers don’t get the idea this is a regular thing here. And if she wants to go out, pick her up at her place, not mine, and stay the hell away from here.”
“That’s not much to ask,” said Prescott.
Hobart leaned closer. “There’s only one more unpleasant thing to say, and I apologize in advance for having to say it. Jean is a grown woman, and she’s free to decide. But if you should happen to be one of those guys who’s carrying around some weird fantasy in his head that he’s planning on working out on Jeanie, then it had better be one that she likes.”