“Whoa. You mighta led with that. What’d he say?”
Zach put on political airs, thrust up a power thumb. Lowered his voice. “Something like, ‘I know you’re the greatest dancer here, Zach—‘”
“Ahem!”
“What? So, he said, ‘You’re better than I am, Zach, but I’ll take you down.’”
“Yeah…did he really say that?”
“Pretty sure.”
“I’ll just pretend that’s what he said. Anyway, we’ve got two leads now. The bartender and Firecracker Freddie.”
“Fireman Freddie.”
“Like I care.”
What she did care about was the sign in the parking lot of Zach’s “work” place. The Bone-In Beef Club stood tall and proud on a pole, probably like most of the strippers at work. A cheesy blinking drawing of a filled thong supplied the logo, a particularly large bulb acting as an unnecessary exclamation point in the middle. Zora regretted not bringing blindfolds.
“Mommy…what’s Bone-In…Beef…” Before Justin could struggle through the rest of it, she cut him off.
“A steakhouse, honey. Uncle Zach’s a waiter here.”
“But I thought he was a ballet dancer!”
She hissed out irritation, shot Zach a look that could kill.
Chapter Three
Zach strutted past the doorman and gave him a courtesy nod.
“What’s up, Zach? Looking sharp.” He said it with a chuckle, however, like he didn’t really mean it. Muttering something to himself, the doorman returned to counting the wad of currency in his hand.
Zach certainly didn’t feel sharp in the square, over-sized suit. But it’s the man who makes the clothes, not the other way around. Act confident, look confident, be confident. Easier said than done when you’re on the run.
On-stage, Brian was torturing the pole with his flabby thighs. He stomped around to the power chords of a cheesy arena rock anthem displaying the grace of a wrestler. Just one look and Zach could detect at least ten pounds of extra body weight hugging Brian’s midsection. Two slumming women ignored his desperate attempts at sexy, gabbing over their cocktails. Brian never made it beyond matinee performances, no small wonder. He gave male dancers a bad name.
Zach spotted Alan behind the bar, polishing a glass. Shirtless as always. Which kinda made Zach wonder if the bartender’s hairy chest might be a health code violation of some sort.
He slid onto a barstool. When Alan finally looked up, he gave Zach a double-take.
“Dude! Surprised you’re up and around already!”
“Alan. Whaddaya mean?”
Alan stretched across the bar and lowered his voice. “Man, last night you were out of it. I mean, totally wasted.”
“Yeah…here’s the deal, Alan…you ever know me to get hammered? I mean, really?”
“Dunno. Guess not.”
“Thing is I don’t remember what happened. Help a brother out?”
“You don’t remember anything?”
“Nothing. I remember doing a killer set. Some chick slipped me a note. Wanted to buy me a drink. That’s it.”
“Oh yeah…her.” Alan grinned, nodded his head as if privy to a secret.
“What about her?”
“Dude! You don’t remember her?”
“No.”
“Hot, dude. I mean as long as you’re into plastics. Like fo’ realz. You sat at the stool next to where you’re sitting now.”
Zach’s gaze wandered over to Brian. Clomping around like a baby learning to walk. Shaking his belly, hypnotic waves of fat rolling and rolling and rolling…
Then he remembered…
*
As soon as Zach saw her sitting there, he knew she was the one who’d slipped him the note. Hotness flocks to hotness. Her legs practically travelled up to her waist. A llama’s length of neck rose from her form-fitting midnight blue dress. Bulging cheekbones narrowed her eyes to slits. When she smiled, nothing shifted, just a twitch of the lips. And her breasts were abnormally big. Clearly she’d had some work done. Which suited Zach just fine. People should take pride in their appearance.
With one leg crossed over the other, a high-heeled foot tapped out her boredom. Waiting for him.
She’s not gonna be bored much longer. The Banana Hammock Bandit is in the hizzy-house!
Still in his banana hammock (club policy), he slipped onto the stool next to her. By now, he knew to expect the cold leather of the stool on his butt cheeks, so he locked his smile with clenched teeth.
“Hey there.” His voice squeaked a hair once the first bite of cold landed.
“Hey there yourself.” Not shy in the least, her gaze wandered over Zach’s body before connecting with his eyes. His kind of woman.
“So, I’m Zach. The Banana Hammock Bandit.”
“Yes, I know.” She tipped her drink back, grinning around the rim of the glass.
“What’s your name?”
“Cat.”
A fitting name. “Well, Cat, pleasure to meet you.” He shook her hand. Dry as rope with wrinkles that didn’t match the rest of her enhanced presentation. His first clue she might be a cougar, making “Cat” even more fitting.
“Likewise. What’ll you be drinking?”
“What’re you having?”
“Scotch on the rocks.”
“Um…too many calories for me.” He smacked his abs, loving the solid sound that resulted. “Gotta keep in shape, you know.”
“Of course.”
Alan, appearing bored as usual, meandered over. Why management didn’t make him wax his chest blew Zach’s mind. “What’ll it be, Zach?”
“White wine, cut the way I like it.”
Never approving of Zach’s preference, Alan rolled his eyes but did as he was told. Half wine, half water. Special treatment for the star attraction, of course.
“So, Cat…you like my act?”
“Very much so.”
“Yeah? Tell me…what’d you like about it?” Hearing from Zach’s fans was one of his great pleasures. He listened to all criticism, naturally, had a rhino skin. But he especially liked the compliments. Because they were always right.
“You know what I like.”
Well, no, not really.
But he could venture a pretty educated guess. His night was about to get interesting. Before he could lean over and seal the deal with a quick kiss, Alan blocked him with his drink.
“White wine…kiddy style.”
Zach ignored him. Jealous, plain and simple. “Why don’t you tell me what you like, Cat?” He smiled, hit the dimple spot. One he practiced often in front of the mirror. Now it’d practically become a natural reflex.
Her fingers played across his bare (and freshly waxed, thank you very much) chest. “I like your moves. Show me more.” She slipped a twenty dollar bill into his g-string, let her finger linger a bit.
Club policy insisted on as many lap dances as one could shake out in a night. Zach put his money-maker to work. He jumped off the stool, trailing his fingers over her knee. Teasing her, leaving her with a special memory. On one leg, he twisted, slapped his thighs. Bent over. Slowly, slowly, until his head looked between his spread legs at her. Upside-down, her smile looked like a frown but he was used to it. Part of the male dancer’s intensive training. He straightened, his back still to her. Now for the big finish, one of his specialties. The butt shake. He poked his butt cheeks out, gave them a nice balletic swirl. Then he tensed his hips, his upper thigh muscles. Small tremors moved through his midsection. Working their way toward his cheeks with the intensity of an earthquake. Bang! Full-on booty shaking, fast as hummingbird wings.
He swiveled, bowed to her clapping. Always a gentleman. He reclaimed his throne next to his queen for the night.
“I want you to come with me. Tonight.”
That’s all he needed to hear. To celebrate his victory, he slugged back the wine, downing most of it. Bubbles tickled his nose, a first. Alan probably gave him champagne for a laugh, knowing
how many calories were in it. Didn’t matter, though. His victorious mood couldn’t be dampened.
A smattering of belated applause met his impromptu performance.
Only one person mattered though. “I think that sounds like a killer idea, Cat.”
“You have no idea, Zach.”
“I’m finished here for the night. Let me just go back and grab my clothes.”
“I’ll be waiting for you out front. We’ll take my car.”
Even better. The gas gauge read nearly empty on Zach’s Celica.
Before he left, he dropped a hand on her knee. Walked his fingers down her leg. Always leave ‘em wanting more.
But as he entered the dressing room, the room turned dark, even darker than usual…
*
Zach gasped, snapped to attention. Before he turned to stone, he averted his eyes from Brian’s undulating belly.
“I remember,” he said. “Or at least, I remember the woman and the drink.”
“Good for you,” said Alan. “You wanna gold star or what?”
“What happened next? All I remember is going to the dressing room. Then…I dunno what I did!”
“You passed out’s what you did. Evans wasn’t too happy ‘bout it either. Wanted you outta’ the club fast. Bad for business.”
“But I wasn’t drunk! I only had one glass of wine.”
“Yeah…I know…watered down.”
“You didn’t give me anything else, right?”
“Hell, no! I’m a professional.” He scratched a hairy nipple. Sktch, sktch, sktch…
“The woman…she musta’ roofied me.”
“Really, Zach? Really?”
“Yeah, for realz. I mean, nothing else explains it. So I left?”
He shrugged. “Guess so. I saw Fireman Freddie helping you outta the dressing room. He took you outside. Then hit the stage five minutes later.”
“I knew it! Freddie had something to do with it.”
“Hey…he’s a fireman after all. Helping people any way he can.” Alan laughed at his joke.
Zach, on the other hand, was less than amused. “Okay. This woman. You got any paper on her? Credit card name? Debit card?”
“Nah. Thought it was a little weird, too. I mean, who pays with cash anymore?”
Dammit.
*
“Okay, so I got proof I was roofied.” Zach slammed the minivan door behind him.
“Mommy, what’s roofied?”
“Hush, Nikki. What kinda proof?”
“Well, I was watching Burly Brian roll his flab all around the dance floor and then I remembered—”
“Burly Brian, Burly Brian, Burly—”
“Quiet, Justin! Can you tell the story without, um, any details about your work, Zach?”
A tough chore, but Zach managed. Quite well, too, he thought.
“Hardly proof, Zach,” said his sister.
“But…I don’t drink to excess! You know that! I had one drink!”
“Still nothing. You really think that’s gonna win the day in court? ‘I didn’t perform this heinous crime because a woman I don’t know slipped me a mickey?’ I don’t think so.”
“You think I’m going to court?”
Zora sighed, stuck the gear into drive. “Let’s go see Fireman Freddie.”
“Who are these people, Mom?” asked Nikki. “Fireman Freddie and Burly Brian and—”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. They’re just work-friends of your Uncle Zach’s.”
“Waiters?”
“Um…yes.”
“Then I wanna eat at the Bone-In Beef—”
“No, you don’t! And don’t tell Daddy that, either.”
Zach turned, gave his niece a wink. Arms folded, Nikki slumped back against the seat and snorted. Clearly puzzled by the mature world of adults.
*
Freddie lived on what Zach’s parents used to call “the wrong side of town.” Further proof Zach was the more accomplished male dancer. A utilitarian rectangle, bricks and curtain covered windows were the apartment complex’s only design elements. A junkyard’s worth of heaps and broken down autos clogged up the parking lot. Kids played on the sun-scorched lawn, sticks and cans their toys of choice.
Zach thought if Freddie took the trade more seriously, he might be able to upgrade his living quarters some day. But he wasn’t there yet.
Based on the shape of the door, someone had been looking for Freddie pretty badly. A couple of holes sat at the bottom, a kicking calling card. Didn’t surprise Zach one bit. Freddie didn’t make friends easily.
Metal music blared out from inside the apartment. Zach pounded hard, rattling the other doors in the hallway.
Once Freddie opened the door, his smile fell.
Busted.
“What the hell you doin’ here, Caulfield?” Still working out his high school failures, Freddie never once referred to Zach by his first name.
Zach gave as good as he got. “I think you know, Filmore.”
Freddie whipped a towel from around his neck, twisted it. Snapped it in front of Zach. More high school stuff, locker room bullying. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”
“I think you do. Look…I just wanna’ know what happened last night. That’s all.”
“What happened? You got shit-faced’s what happened. Now get outta here! You’re interrupting my work-out.” He grinned, a little dark gap between his two front teeth. Zach always thought he should call himself “Lisping Freddie.” He’d let him know it a couple times.
“I didn’t get shit-faced. And you know it.”
“Facts don’t lie, Caulfield.”
“What facts? Dammit, Filmore, just tell me what happened!”
“Don’t think so.” Freddie started to close the door.
Zach stuck his shoe, well, Phillip’s shoe, inside. Always worked in the movies. The door crunched hard, Phillip’s shoe providing little protection. Pain shot up through his body, reigniting his hangover styled headache.
“Ow! Goddammit! I can’t believe you did that!”
With his shoulder into it, Zach smacked the door back. Shocked, Freddie stumbled, his arms wagging to the side for balance. He caught himself, growled. And charged Zach, arms outstretched. He dove, snagging Zach around the waist. Zach fell back into the door, slamming it shut.
“Get off me, dammit! Stop—”
“No way, a-hole! You started it!”
The stench of Freddie’s sweat filled Zach’s nose. Clammy hands gripped Zach’s arms and swung him around. Still dizzy from the night before, Zach’s stomach flip-flopped. The floor rocketed up to greet him. On the way down, his head banged into a work-out bench.
“Agh!”
Freddie dropped and straddled Zach. Pulled a fist back.
Zach’s hands flew up to his face. “Not my face, Filmore, don’t hit me in the face!”
Freddie’s unibrow dropped. He studied his fist, shrugged, then punched Zach in the gut.
“Ooof!” Zach fought back, carefully adhering to his own rule. Fair was fair, after all, and even though Freddie was about the ugliest dancer he knew, no one deserved to have one of their money-makers decommissioned. He let fly a flurry of slaps to his nemesis’s arms, chest, stomach.
Smek, spak, pop, takketa, tak…
Freddie slapped back. Fingers struck palms, a furious game of patty-cake.
Zach knew he had the disadvantage. Just this once. His roofie hangover. But his legs were stronger. He wrapped them around Freddie’s torso, his ankles crossing at his back. And rolled. The motion dizzied Zach. He thought he might hurl on his opponent. But their positions reversed, Zach now on top.
“Who’s the tough guy now, Filmore?” Zach unleashed his fury, his anger, his fear. In a flying slap fest of pain. “You had enough?”
“No!”
An open palm caught Zach’s cheek. “Dammit, we had an agreement!” He slapped back, branding Freddie’s cheek a bright shade of red.
Th
ings turned ugly. A double slap, forward and backward across Zach’s cheek. Zach clawed back, rolling his open hands like a boxer. Fingernails bit into skin. Zach squealed, scared of the damage to his cheek.
Zach had to end it. Tomorrow night he was due to perform. No one would pay to see the Beat-up Banana Hammock Bandit. He clenched his hands together and brought them down onto Freddie’s chest. The air left Freddie with a whoosh. Reflexively, his legs bounced up and dropped with a clomp clomp.
“Kay. Think I’ve had enough now, Caulfield.”
So had Zach, not that he’d ever admit it. Out of breath, he rolled off. The two dancers lay next to one another, their heads beneath the weight bench.
“Knew you couldn’t take me.”
“Whatever, Caulfield, you sucker slapped me.”
As much as Zach wanted to truly show him who the stronger dancer was, other issues needed to be prioritized. And his sister and her kids were waiting out in the minivan.
Rain check, though. Oh, yeah, it’s so on.
“Okay, Filmore. Let’s start over. I won the fight—”
“Did not. Not fairly!”
“Um, yeah, I did. Anyway. Not important right now. I wanna know what happened last night. What you did to me.”
“Man, I didn’t do jack to you. What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Were you workin’ with the hot blond from last night?”
“What? That plastic babe? No! Hell, no!”
Zach leaned up on his elbows, raised a fist. Slowly opened his fingers, one by one, to expose his palm. “You want more of this?”
“No, Jesus, just…stop! All right! I ran into the broad when she was leaving. She stopped me, asked me if I’d like to make a hundred bucks. I thought, hellz yeah, a private party!” Zach shook his head. Another disgrace to the dancing community. They were artists, after all, not prostitutes. “But instead she just hands me the Benjamin, tells me to grab your clothes and crap and help you out to her car.”
“You never met her before? Saw her before?”
“No. Damn…I think you bruised my side.”
“I’ll do more than that if you’re not telling me the truth.”
“Why ‘n hell I be lying?”
“Just sayin’.”
“What’s this all about anyway? I mean, you come crashin’ into my place, yellin’ and slappin’ me like a bitch and—”
Bad Day in a Banana Hammock Page 3