Men thrusted. Women held. Of course in some cases it was reversed. Of course women could do what men could do. Intellectually we were, if not identical, then certainly equal.
But our most basic hormonal sexual selves were not always similar. Men were more excited about a woman they had never tasted or touched before than one they already knew intimately. A stranger whose pheromones a man had not yet become immune to was more desirable than a trusted lover.
But all this scientific jargon, this polite way to try to make the best of something that irks, pains and annoys women, didn’t make it any easier to do the dance.
Some enlightened men did more than pay lip service to the idea of change, could outsmart their instincts, but they were not at the Diablo Cigar Bar. Here, protected by a steel door with a fine wood veneer and armed guards who sat almost invisibly by the front of the room, there was no pretense. No wives or girlfriends allowed. This was a men’s club and every woman present was for sale.
And so, even though in any other circumstance I would have turned away from the stares, I could not do that here. Not even allow myself the indignant narrowing of my eyes. I could not shoot back a comment that would put the guys in their place. This was their place. I was either the interloper or the entertainment. And I had two seconds to make up my mind what it was to be.
If I chose one way, I would have to leave and be no closer to helping Cleo-if, indeed, she was in trouble. If, indeed, it was not already too late. The other way, I could stay and take my chances, betting on my ability to find something out.
And if I didn’t, there was no one else who could.
Gil excused us and took me off to the bar.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked.
“I’ll just have a sparkling water.”
“No. A drink. You look like a deer caught in the headlights. You need something. What’ll it be?”
“A vodka martini, then.”
“A Diablo martini, then.”
When the bartender put it down I took a sip.
“What is it?”
“Do you like it?”
I nodded, though I couldn’t quite figure out what made it taste just a little hotter and saltier than I was used to.
“A few red peppercorns dropped in for color, a splash of the brine from the olives.”
I took another sip.
“A dirty martini,” I said. And then smiled. “Appropriate.”
He gave me what was an attempt at a smile, but it slipped at the end and wound up marking his face like a wound.
“I appreciate your doing this,” he said.
“Don’t thank me yet. I have no idea if I can pull it off. And even if I do, there’s no guarantee we’re going to find out anything.”
“No, but it’s better than sitting and waiting. The police haven’t done a thing. It’s been over a week.”
“They don’t have any evidence that Cleo is-”
He interrupted me. “We shouldn’t talk about this. Not here. Not now.” He looked around. Besides his fear of our being overheard, I knew it wasn’t smart for me to be having this conversation. I was slipping back into being Cleo’s therapist, and I had to get out of that frame of mind if I was going to be meeting her clients and pretending to be a possible assignation.
“He just walked in,” Gil said as he got up to greet his client.
Cleo’s name for the first man I was going to meet was Judas. According to her book, he was fifty years old, married, with two grown children. His wife was a judge who heard children’s rights cases.
A client for more than two years, Judas had seemed like the best place for me to start because he had a lot to lose if Cleo’s book was published, and because, sexually, he was one of her least-demanding clients.
I’d only had a few sips of my drink when Gil returned to the bar with a man who looked familiar. Of course. I knew who he was from photos that had been in the newspapers and magazines over the years. Judas wasn’t only married to a high-powered woman, he was one of the leading fund-raisers for the Democratic Party in New York and was often seen at gala events and balls for the state senators, the governor and the administration.
“Morgan, this is Nelson.”
Unlike the two men I’d met minutes ago, Nelson-or Judas, as I thought of him-didn’t give me an immediate once-over. He was too practiced and political for that. I was still a stranger to him, and he was too used to meeting people to let go of the routine of shaking hands, focusing on your eyes and offering back a sincere look of comradeship for the introduction to have any sexual overtones. He could have been meeting me at a fund-raiser, instead of in a men’s club where high-class prostitutes discreetly took men to a room in the adjoining hotel and engaged in the ancient art of the courtesan.
“Well, let’s sit you two down so you can get to know each other a little bit,” Gil said as he led us over to a table against the wall, exchanged a little more small talk and then left us.
Almost immediately a waiter appeared with a beer in a frosted glass for Judas and what was still my mostly full martini.
For fifteen minutes we talked about politics. Judas made no pretense about what he did for a living. That was part of their attraction to being with one of Cleo’s girls. The men knew they could be themselves, however and whatever that meant, and trusted that not a word would ever get out. They paid for that privacy. Which was why Cleo’s deciding to write a book, no matter how well she ultimately disguised the men, would be such a betrayal.
Which was why she had been so very careful about whom she had told.
Was it even possible she would have confided in one of her clients? There might not be a single man among her regulars who knew that she had a brand-new laptop and had been typing out a tell-all tale of the sexual innocence and depravity of some of the richest men in New York, L.A. and the world. And if that was the case, this whole charade might be a waste of my time. But I had nothing more to lose than a few evenings. Dulcie was at her father’s for the week. I certainly wasn’t dating anyone. Working on Cleo’s disappearance this way was better than sitting at home alone, brooding about it and feeling helpless.
“Well, at least I know you’re a Democrat. That’s one hurdle we’ve jumped,” Judas said after I’d admitted to my political party affiliation.
“Is that part of your criteria?” I tried to tease with my voice. But I hadn’t flirted in a long time. And it was awkward for me to ask questions and lace them with attitude. As a therapist I did the exact opposite. I cleaned my questions up, erased the emotional tones and tried not to give away how I was feeling.
He smiled. I felt relieved. My question had been all right. Under the table I felt my legs shaking. This was never going to work if I was this nervous. But I had nothing to draw upon from my own life to help me with this. I had foolishly assumed that, because I wanted to figure out this mystery, I would be able to. What made me think I could just walk in here wearing a low-cut silk blouse, a skirt that was four inches shorter than I normally wore and shoes that were like nothing else I’d ever owned, and just pretend to be someone I wasn’t?
“I could never have any kind of meaningful arrangement with a woman who votes for an ass.”
Laughter, from both of us.
Dulcie had been telling me about her acting classes over the phone that afternoon. She’d had an assignment to be a liquid. Any liquid she chose. And act the essence of it. She’d chosen honey. She’d told me that she’d thought about how slowly it spilled and how she’d walked across the stage making each step take forever, all the while just thinking over and over that she was honey. How, after the first step, just lifting her foot had been such an effort that she hadn’t been sure she was ever going to get to the other side of the room. Finally she’d just slid to the floor. She couldn’t walk. Then she inched her way across, moving her arms, then her torso, then her legs, all separately. And when she reached the other side and the teacher told her how good a job she’d done, Dulcie had said that it had taken her a minute to remember she wasn’t honey and just get up normally.