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She’d left in mid-May. My room air conditioner died in July, but I didn’t replace it. The hottest summer in Portland became my hair shirt, my punishment for my aiding and abetting her career crashing and burning. I landed a part-time job in the fall, adjunct professor at the University of Maine, a basic Intro to Composition course plus a “Writing Poetry” elective. It was up in Lewiston, which is not a bad drive from Portland. My classes were on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. I used the half-hour commute each way to indulge my newfound fondness of cello music.
At Christmas I thought I’d try to mend some fences and send her a card. I made several calls for an address but got nowhere. Either her few contacts truly didn’t know where she was or weren’t telling. Spring of the following year came along, close to the one-year anniversary of our debacle, and I was set to hire a private detective. Just in time, an acquaintance of hers called me back. Soon Rae had stayed with her in December. Then she’d gotten a job. It paid great money, but Yuki, a violinist who’d been part of a chamber group Soon Rae had done some Schubert Trios with, had uneasy vibes about the employment environment (she wasn’t specific other than it involved the music). “I think she’s mixed up with a bad man.”
Don’t tell me there are two of us on the planet.
~~~
Yuki fed me a name. Eddie Fortunato was the guy Soon Rae worked for. He ran a chain of clubs, men’s clubs. I sweet-talked a receptionist at the 800 number. There was a Soon Rae Suks on the books. Her stage name was Sunny Rays. Right now she was in Edison, New Jersey, for two weeks, then up to Bayonne to finish out the month. She had some sort of musical talent act.
Some men’s clubs bill themselves as catering to gentlemen. Most, however, get right to it. “Strip” is the main verb on the web site, with a few phrases to indicate how much flesh can be exposed before the politicians require bribes. Evidently, New Jersey-based clubs leave nothing to the imagination. Mr. Fortunato had a string of joints on the East Coast. The one is Edison was Big Ed’s G Spot.
It took me nine hours to drive from Portland to West 98th Blvd, the club’s seedy Edison locale. A neon sign showed a naked woman holding a large bill above her head, possibly a grand note, and pink bulbs on her breasts that lit up every thirty seconds. It was dark at five in the afternoon, as Daylight Savings Time had gone into effect the weekend before. I had no idea what to expect if I made contact with Soon Rae. I could, if I chickened out, stand in the background, observe how far she’d fallen, then take a motel for the night and try tomorrow, or totally give up the task and head home. Running, however, would push my guilt into the red zone. All I wanted was a chance to speak my piece. If she would not give me the time of day, I planned to hand her the many pages of written apologies as well the dozen poems I’d composed, for a closure of sorts.
I sat at a darkened table in the back. A Coke packed with ice cost me $9.50. A woman on the wrong side of forty, with a whisky accent, explained the economics of a twenty-minute, private session with any of the ladies whose pictures were displayed by the bar. A pamphlet on acceptable behavior was on the back of the food menu. The turkey club sandwich was the special this evening at $22.95.
As it was a Tuesday night, the talent was not the starting lineup used on the weekends. When my personal concierge came back to see if I’d decided on anything beyond my watery Coke, I inquired about Sunny Rays.
“She’s new. Plays some orchestra instrument. She’s got no stage presence. If you yell ‘smile’ every ten seconds, then she remembers. She won’t last. No one has asked her for a lap dance. I don’t even know if she knows how. Ed has a thing for her, but he does that with all Jap girls. He’ll get tired of her, and she’ll be back waitressing at the all-you-can-eat Asian buffet over on Hosmer Ave.”
Sunny Rays’ act began with the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (taped). The lights came up kaleidoscopically to reveal her seated in a straight chair wearing a mini skirt, spike heels and nothing else. She ran the bow across the cello, but the sound was canned. They merely spliced a medley of popular songs together so she could concentrate on making sure she moved the cello often enough to provide a good view of her crotch (the commando video sprang to mind). There were catcalls, so she stood, turned her backside to the crowd and shook her tiny booty. A portly gentleman got up, waddled to the stage and stuffed what might have been a buck into a cup that protruded from the cello’s side. “That’s for implants,” he yelled, bringing down the house.
I got up, walked to the stage and unfolded a sign I’d scribbled on the back of my paper placemat. “Miss Suks, Portland, Maine.” Whether this would resonate with her from our first meeting months ago was a crapshoot. I stood in front of her. She looked right through me. I discovered there was a tiny speaker in the white fake cello which broadcast the music. There wasn’t even any horsehair on the bow. Someone yelled “down in front,” but I stood my ground. There were more jeers and complaints before two New York Giant ex-linemen types picked me up beneath each armpit, none too gently, and escorted me out the door. “You put too much ice in your Cokes” was my best parting shot as they slammed the door behind me.
It had begun to rain: a cold, raw, wind-driven sleet. I wondered if it would be icy driving back through Central Massachusetts, the New Hampshire Seacoast and the Maine Turnpike. I sat in my car. At least I’d tried. I had a manila envelope with my poems and other missives I’d written in the last year. I could wait until I saw someone responsible looking going in, flag them down and ask them to deliver the package to Sunny Rays. I was watching the entrance as best I could when a dark shape appeared by the driver’s side window. Don’t tell me I was in for a mob-style beating from Big Ed’s goons.
It was Soon Rae. She wore a trench coat, collar turned up like a foreign agent in Istanbul. I reached over and rolled the window down. “I’m going as far as Forest Avenue in Portland if that will help you out.”
She shrugged.
“Come in out of the weather.” I motioned an invitation to ride shotgun, but she choose the rear door on that side and slid in. She looked like a drowned puppy, hair pasted to her head. “Have you got your cello?”
“Sold for car.”
“Where’s the car?” I asked craning my neck around the parking lot.
“Sold for visa papers. Mr. Ed help me. Give job for green card work.”
“Do you want help with any suitcases, clothes, personal stuff?”
“No stuff. Negged.” She flashed open the trench coat to prove the point.
I started the car and put the heater on high. “There’s a blanket back there to help you dry off.”
“Very tired.”
“You’ve had a tough — day.” I almost used the word ‘year.’”
I pulled out of the lot and punched the GPS for home. I had 16.3 miles before I would be directed to turn right onto Route 287 headed north. I checked the rearview mirror and saw she was using part of the blanket to rub her hair dry. There were faded blue and dark maroon streaks in it, probably from a dye. In the club, I thought it was the lights. I slowed for a red light. “I was going to get a cat while you were gone but didn’t know what kind.”
“Black good. I have black when l little. Kimchee was name. You know after Korean food “kimchee.”
I smiled. An actual conversation. One for the road. Maybe there’d be others.
About D.E. Fredd
