“I don’t know if he’s still in North Beach,” he said, “but you could put an ad in the Bay Guardian, with the picture.”

“That’s a thought,” she said. “You’re very kind.”

“Wait . . .”

He touched his brow with his forefinger.

“I thought of something,” he said. “The girl who was with him still lives in North Beach. She works around here. Come, I’ll show you.”

He followed them outside and went up Columbus Avenue with them as far as Broadway, where he stopped. He pointed to the sign outside a nightclub across the street, on the other side of Columbus.

“You see the Condor?” he asked. “Then Tony’s restaurant?”

“Yes,” said Jack.

“Then the big red-and-white sign on the left?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where she works,” he said. “Her name’s Lisa. Bonne chance!”

He shook hands with them, then turned and walked away. They gazed at the big red-and-white sign that read:

HAVE A PRIVATE TALK WITH
A LIVE NAKED GIRL. ONLY $1

XXXI. The Girl in the Showcase

XXXI

The Girl in the Showcase

Eight p.m.

The door to the nightclub was open, but there was a red velvet curtain. Moving the curtain aside, they could see, just inside a big room, a man who was probably the manager: he was sitting behind a counter. The room was divided into two sections: on the right were cubicles in which you could watch films and on the left, a series of glass showcases.

“How are you tonight?” asked the manager.

“Fine, thank you,” said Jack.

He put two dollars on the counter.

“We’d like to see Lisa.”

“Sure.”

The manager pressed a button.

“Go to the last showcase.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“La dernière vitrine,” he repeated in French.

“Oh! Thank you.”

“Have a good time.”

“Thank you very much.”

They went to the back of the room.

The last showcase was lit by the bluish light from a bulb that hung from the ceiling. There was nothing in it but a wooden stool.

A moment later, a door opened at the back of the showcase and a naked girl stepped out. She was smoking a cigarette. She sat on the stool and absently scratched her thigh.

Jack called softly, “Lisa?”

“Yes?” she said.

Curls of blue smoke drifted around the girl and rose lazily to the light bulb. There was a round opening in the glass at face level to facilitate communication with clients.

“Do you speak French?” asked Jack, leaning toward the opening.

“Bien sûr que je parle français,” said the girl.

She had a slight east-end Montreal accent.

“My real name’s Lisette,” she said.

“I’m Jack. And this is La Grande Sauterelle ... I’m looking for a man called Théo. I understand that you know him and I’d like to know where I can find him.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mr. Ferlinghetti.”