Club Lola was a wide, spotlit room, smoke-filled, dark-walled, with scores of tables and a long bar across the far side. There was a grand stage in the middle, on which a woman with a G-string and pasties and white high heels was hanging upside down. Her legs were hooked around a shiny pole, her hands were hooked around her breasts. The music was loud, the tables were small, the chairs were plush, the dancer was licking her own breast with a long, narrow tongue. Nice family entertainment.

The joint was half full, customers sitting with strange sated looks on their faces as a pack of she-wolves in high heels and sheer bikinis, their surgically enhanced bodies adorned with bracelets and tattoos, swarmed and socialized. What is it about high heels and bikinis that sings seductive songs straight to the masculine gut? And all it took was one look at the bikini tops to know that the air conditioner was definitely on.

Skink thumbed his fedora back on his head, took a cigar out of his jacket pocket, spread his arms wide, breathed deep the foul air. “My kind of place,” he said.

“I bet,” I said.

“Classy is what I mean. It’s got ambience.”

“It’s got something, all right.”

“Oh, quit your bellyaching. Let me buys you a drink.”

“On the expense account you’ll be charging back to me?”

“Victor, mate, what do you take me for?”

“That means yes.”

“I’ll see what kind of action we can rustle up. Now, take a seat, pop a smile, and enjoy yourself.”

I sat, I smiled, but I didn’t enjoy myself. And it wasn’t just the mark of loserhood on my chest that was dampening my mood.

I know, I know, every woman believes that every man, in his secret heart, loves a strip club. But I, for one, don’t. They give me the skives, and I think I know why. Every time I enter a joint like Club Lola, I feel squirrelly about the roles available to men in the little strip-club drama.

Am I the arrogant he-man who just assumes it is his due to have beautiful women wind their naked bodies into knots for my amusement? Am I the pitiable misfit who has to pay to get this close to a woman’s bare flesh? Am I the bored husband who spends my nights getting angry at my life as I stare at the type of woman I should have married? Or, worst of all, am I the romantic sap who thinks that the dancer, there, that one, with the sweet eyes and full rack, really really likes me? No, really, she does. Really.

While I was having my existential strip-club crisis, Skink was having none of it. He knew exactly who he was and what he was doing there as he leaned back in his chair, a beer in one hand, his cigar in the other, and a dancer’s wriggling J.Lo smack in his face.

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Skink, his gap-toothed grin broad and gleaming. “Just like that. Yes. Oh, that’s just terrific.”

“Anything else you want?” said the dancer, who had introduced herself as Scarlet.

“Why don’t you turn around, sweetheart, and I’ll slip in a little something just for you.”

Scarlet did a spin, leaned forward with her back arched dramatically, pulled down the bikini top with her thumbs, and shimmied. It was all so festive, even her pasties glistened brightly, like twin disco balls.

“Is Chantal in tonight?” said Skink as he slipped a bill into the side of her G-string.

“She’s in back,” said Scarlet. While she talked, she worked her shimmy as efficiently as a bank clerk counting bills.

“Can you send her over?”

“What, this isn’t good enough for you?”

“Too good,” said Skink. “You stick around much longer, my head is going to burst into flame.” He slipped in another bill. “Be a honey and send over Chantal.”

As Scarlet gathered up the cash and sauntered off toward the curtain beside the bar, Skink turned to me, his grin still in place. “This is why I became a PI.”

“It’s nice for you that you found your calling.”

“You recognize anyone?”

I looked around at the women wandering the floor, talking to strange men or dancing on the stages in shifts, some good-looking, some great, all nearly naked, the sight of their bodies as available as the channels on a television set.

“Not a one,” I said.

“How about her?” said Skink, gesturing toward a tall brunette who was walking toward us.

“I don’t think so.”

“You sure?”

“Her, I’d have remembered.”

And I would have, too. She was like Fantasy Woman Version 2.0, new and improved, now with even longer legs and less clothing than before. What with her red heels, her thin hips, her high firm breasts, pale skin, green G-string, blue eyes, a mouth just irregular enough to trap your eye and get you thinking, it actually hurt to gaze upon her. It was as if she embodied in the flesh all the possibilities of your life that had never come true. No matter what doubts I might have had before about my role in that club, her very beauty defined it with utter definitiveness: She was what I could never have, I was the pathetic loser who had paid to stare.

“Hello, boys,” she said in a silvery voice as she placed her right high heel on the little round table between our chairs. A red rose was tattooed on her ankle. “My name’s Chantal.”

She bent forward at the waist and then back in some twisty ballet move. The line in her calf tensed. I leaned close to smell the flower. I could see a scuff within the gleam of her high heel, and I had the strange urge to polish it with my tongue. Her black hair was straight and glossy, and when it whipped close to my nose I smelled lilac, in a field, with bees buzzing. Or was that just my blood?

It doesn’t take much to break down my defenses, does it?

“Did you boys ask to see me?” she said.

“Uh, yes,” said Skink in a suddenly weak voice. “Yes, we did.”

She kept to her slow twisting, leaning her upper body over Skink as she said, “And what’s your name?”

“Phil,” he said. “The name’s, uh, Phil.”

“Just like that cute little groundhog,” she said. “And you look like him, too, with that gap in your teeth. So what can I do for you, uh, Phil?” Her voice dripped with a promise more languid than lascivious. “What do you like?”

“Oh, I like everything,” said Skink, “yes, I do.” He shook his head, gathered himself. “But we’re not here for me. We’re here for my friend,” he said, jabbing his thumb toward me.

“Oh,” she said, “is this a bachelor party?”

“Of a sort,” said Skink, “seeing as we’re both bachelors.”

With her foot still on the table, she faced away from me, showing off a tattooed shepherd’s crook on her lower back, and then leaned backward, farther and farther, until her spine bent like a bow and her hands reached the far armrest of my chair. There was a white dove tattooed on her right shoulder. Her face was inches from mine.

“Hi,” she said in that Tiffany voice as her body bent and surged to the rhythm of the music. “I’m Chantal.”

The place suddenly grew hot, as if a furnace had sprung on.

“Hi, Chantal,” I said.

“Do you like pinball? I like pinball, how the shiny little balls bounce around crazily. Just the way your eyes are bouncing around right now.”

“Are they?”

“Oh, yes. Be careful not to tilt.” She laughed, a sweet little girl’s laugh. “And what’s your name, honey?”

“Don’t you recognize me?” I said.

A blankness washed across her face as she examined me before she forced a professional smile onto that gorgeous mouth. “Of course,” she said. “How are you? It’s so good to see you again. Thanks for coming back.”

“You’ve never seen me before, have you?”

“No, I have, really. You’re so sweet, and so good-looking, how could I not remember?”

“Then what’s my name?” I said.

“Your name?”

She pushed herself off my chair and slowly straightened her long torso. She took her lovely shoe off the table, stepped back, stared at me for a moment like I was crazy, looked at Skink, then again at me.