Scam

replaced by the fantasy. Trust to the American entrepreneur to give the customer what he wanted. Topless bars answered the burning question Where can I see a naked woman without having to actually sleep with one?
    The only thing was, as soon as topless bars became big business, show biz took over. If big breasts were nice, huge breasts must be truly wonderful. So break out the silicone and full speed ahead.
    I don’t know if that’s universally true, but it was certainly true here. Big was the main selling point. The bartender had a microphone hooked up to a scratchy PA system, and as each new girl hit the stage he would announce, “Here she is, Wendy Whoppers,” or, “Here she is, Jessica Jugs.” And each new girl was bigger than the last.
    As soon as the novelty wore off, there was little joy in looking at what I knew was basically plastic.
    As I sat there, watching woman after woman parade by with beach balls on her chest, it occurred to me, that would be the ultimate torture. To be forced to sit and watch until one was conditioned to hate breasts.
    Which seemed a distinct possibility. “Here she is, Marla Melons,” the bartender said, and here came another young blonde down the runway. Nice face, decent figure, but breasts that stuck out like torpedoes. They didn’t hang down like flesh, they jutted out like styrofoam.
    I shook my head, wondered what could induce an attractive young woman to disfigure herself like that.
    Sandy nudged me and pointed.
    “That’s her.”

14.
    I T WAS ELEVEN-THIRTY WHEN she came out the front door. Sandy was long gone, having sauntered off with a hundred bucks in his pocket and a smile on his lips. Shortly after which, it occurred to me what a great scam that would be—the guy takes me to a topless bar, points to any large-busted blonde at random, and walks out with the cash. While I didn’t think the guy would really do that, on the other hand I didn’t know him well enough to be sure he wouldn’t. It was an unsettling thought.
    Another was whether I’d recognize her when she came out.
    I did, but just barely. She was wearing a full-length yellow rain slicker, a felt hat, and dark glasses. As I have indicated, I am not particularly fashion-conscious. Still, I wondered why one would combine a rain slicker with a felt hat.
    The dark glasses I understood. It was the cultivated incognito, or I-am-a-celebrity look. Slightly pathetic under the circumstances.
    I observed all this from across the street behind a parked car. Hopelessly theatrical, to be sure, but the strip joint had a bouncer out front, and I’d been doing my best not to let him know I was staking the place out. So far so good, and I didn’t want to blow it now. I wasn’t going near the girl until she was safely down the block.
    Unfortunately, she stepped out in the street and hailed a cab.
    I hailed one too and lucked out. The driver didn’t bat an eye when I said, “Follow that cab,” just pulled out and tailed along. The driver, who was a Pakistani or some such nationality—when it comes to pigeonholing people I am ethnically challenged—was totally cooperative, but wanted to talk to me, and his accent was so thick I couldn’t understand what he said. We were all the way uptown before I realized what he was asking me was if this was a stunt for the Letterman show.
    Good lord. Not at eleven-thirty at night, mister. But let him think what he wanted as long as he played along.
    We followed the girl’s cab up the West Side, through the park at 86th Street, then across 84th Street to Third Avenue and up Third to the corner of East 85th. She paid off her cab and got out just as I got out of mine.
    I walked up, put on my most engaging smile. “Excuse me, miss.”
    Her response was immediate. “Fuck off, mister! You get the fuck away from me!”
    To a New Yorker, that’s practically an endearment. I put up my hands, said, “Please. I just want to talk. I saw you at the bar.”
    “Yeah, well, you got the wrong idea. You keep away or I’ll scream.”
    “Don’t scream. I’m a private detective. Look. Here’s my ID.”
    “I don’t care who you are, you keep away.”
    My cab had driven off. Hers hadn’t. Now the driver got out. He was one of the largest black men I’d ever seen. As he strode around the cab and got between her and me, my first thought was, he’s her pimp. My second was that that was a horribly racist perception.
    My third was that he was going to kill me.
    “You botherin’