He explained that normally, with a victim in her profession, they plea bargain out with greenhorn defense attorneys who don’t know they’ve got a winner with the jury. But the college’s legal team was top notch. And they’d be sure to mention the woman’s criminal record for aggravated assault: in her second trimester, beating the snot out of an abortion protester blocking the clinic entrance.
Oh, and more bad news. She was expelled.
The now ex-student went numb in the face.
The prosecutor offered to call the victims’ assistance unit, even drive her over.
She refused.
Did she have family?
No.
Need any money?
She got up and left.
Every stripper, before she was a stripper, was a little girl.
Story Long wanted to be a teacher, astronaut, veterinarian. And to stop the beatings from her alcoholic mother’s boyfriends.
Most children who are dealt such hands withdraw and withei. Some lash out antisocially. A rare few, like Story, overachieve. Straight A’s, clawing for every crumb, hiding the shame of her welts with makeup or long sleeves. No dances or proms. Just a one-in-a-thousand thermonuclear survivor’s drive. If you stepped in front of her dreams, prepare to get run over.
By the time she was kicked out of the house, it became an instant calculation of math and desensitization. Stripping was the best way to make it through college.
Her first job lasted a week.
“What do you mean I’m fired?”
“You kicked that guy in the nuts!”
“He tried to grope me.”
“It’s a fuckin’ strip club!”
That was eight jobs ago, all ending more or less the same.
The evening after the expulsion and leaving the D.A.‘s office, Story arrived for work at her ninth gig, a high-roller Fort Lauderdale lounge. The bouncer shook his head and barred the door with a thick forearm.
“What?”
“Owner says you can’t dance here anymore.” “Why not?”
“Lawyers came around.”
“What lawyers?”
“The college. Threatened to sue.”
“But you didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Doesn’t matter. Owner said we can’t afford the legal bills.”
Another wave of numbness. Then she raised her chin, turned and walked back to her car.
The bouncer had been one of her best friends at the club. Tutored him for his G.E.D at no charge. He wanted to say something but instead just watched her ten-year-old Taurus leave a trail of Valvoline as it disappeared down Old Dixie Highway.
Nothing left but to drive back home to Jacksonville. At least there were a few old friends where she might bunk a night or two before regaining her footing. No money for the Turnpike, so it was I-95. She reached Lantana by midnight. The engine block cracked by Tequesta.
She began walking.
NEXT AFTERNOON
Another sweaty day on U.S. 1.
Below Daytona Beach, a small bridge crosses picturesque Rose Bay, and a little north of that sits a tiny brick building pressed up against the sidewalk, somewhat alone on a sparse stretch of highway featuring traffic intent on getting anywhere else. Many of the building’s bricks were painted with people’s names. A cinder block propped open the front door. Inside: darkness and the vague outline of clientele. On the roof, a plywood sign: the last resort bar.
Coleman sat on the penultimate stool of the infamous biker dive, staring up at bras hanging from electrical conduit. Bloodshot eyes drifted to layers of ever-present graffiti representing mankind’s existential yearning to write on shit while drinking: The Hedz, Slut Puppies, T-Fox, Deap (sic) Dick, Zippo, Kroakerhead, Bike Week, Total Eclipse, “1500 miles to get here!” then doodling of boobs, a rodent and a pentagram.
Serge came running through the bright doorway, sweating rivers. He hopped aboard the stool next to Coleman.
“Hey, Serge, how’d it go at the Fairview Motel?”
“Excellent. We’re booked into room 9 on the north shore of the bay, where Aileen Wuornos-America’s so-called first female serial killer-holed up with her lover while picking off Johns. Then I traced Aileen’s footsteps up the side of U.S. 1, where she stumbled each night from the Fairview to this bar …” He pulled out his trusty digital camera. “… Documenting her route every ten yards.”
The bartender came over. “What’ll it be?”
“Bottled water. And one of every souvenir you’ve got, including that T-shirt, ‘Home of ice cold beer and killer women.’” Serge turned on his camera. “I need to document this with total photographic coverage.”
“But you already took a bunch of pictures this morning.”
Serge aimed the camera at a wall. “No I didn’t.” Click.
“Yes you did,” said Coleman. “Must have shot hundreds.”
“You’re messing with me.” Click. “I wasn’t even here this morning.”
“If you don’t believe me, just ask the bartender.”
Click. “Why?”
“Because you talked to him for a long time, bunch of questions like you always do.”
The bartender arrived with water and a pile of keepsakes.
“Thanks,” said Serge. “Maybe you can help settle something. My friend says I spoke to you this morning.”
“Quite a while.”
“Really? What did I say?”
