Tea Leafing
By Weezie Macdonald
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Weezie Macdonald
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2013
ISBN 0-6157870-1-5
Weezie Macdonald
5279 Grande Palm Circle
Delray Beach, FL 33484
www.WeezieMacdonald.com
For Martin.
PROLOGUE
Atlanta, Georgia
Autumn 2004
“When you come to work, give your keys to me or the one of the valets. See that machine in the corner? That’s a Breathalyzer. You have to pass that before we give you your keys back at the end of the night. If you don’t pass, we’ll call you a cab. No exceptions. No screwing customers, managers, bouncers or other dancers while at work. No screwing customers outside work. No drugs in this building. Ever. We do random locker searches, and drug dogs will be brought in. What you do on your own time is your business. Bring it in to work and you make it ours.” Lucille recited her monologue in a flat tone as though reading her shopping list. She looked bored peering over her half-moon readers at the new girl.
Lena snickered, “Have you ever seen a drug dog in here?”
“Right?” Sam rolled her eyes.
“The hundred dollar house fee must be paid to me by midnight, no later. If you can’t make a hundred dollars by midnight you should consider another career path. At the end of the night you pay the rest. Fifteen percent of your total take to the DJ and another ten to the bouncers. Mine is a minimum of twenty bucks a night to help you back here in the dressing room. If you aren’t gonna show for work, call at least a half an hour before the start of your shift, or pay a fifty-dollar fine before you’re allowed to work again. You can come in late, but it’s an extra twenty-five for every half hour. Being at work means being on the floor, not in the dressing room, not in the bathroom, on the floor. When you are ready to work, go straight to the DJ booth and get on the rotation for stages. There are three stages, main and two satellites. Get your ass to stage when your name is called. Each stage set is three songs. First song is clothed, second is topless, third is nude.”
The new girl flinched.
Lena looked away, “God, it’s so hard to be new in this business. I always feel sorry for them.”
“Accept tips in your garter. Not your hand, not your cleavage, not with your buns, in your garter. No lewd dancing. No bending over more than 45 degrees. No squatting. No customer is allowed to touch you when you are disrobed. You are only allowed to touch the customer’s shoulders. No inappropriate touching, fondling, lap dancing, live sex shows or engaging in any illegal activities. This is not Macy’s and we won’t give you a warning. If we catch you putting the livelihoods of the 312 employees in jeopardy you will be fired. The cops and the city are not our biggest fans and will shut us down if given half a chance, so be Johnny Cash and walk the line.”
“Now that you know the rules, I can tell you that you can have a lot of fun and make shitloads of money. But this job ain’t for everyone, so go figure it out.” Lucille patted the new girl on her bare shoulder. “Welcome to the Pink Pussycat, Honey.” With that, she turned and waddled towards her perch at the far end of the dressing room, crossword in hand.
“That was a pretty cold delivery.” Sam shook her head. “But she has to get her sea legs or she’s never gonna make it.”
Lena dug into her trail mix, picking past the nuts and raisins to the M&Ms.
“Listen up, kittens!” Lucille’s voice boomed from the back of the room. “Convention season starts next week so make sure to check the schedule on the wall near the door. We need as many girls as possible working every shift. If you’re interested in promoting, talk to me and I’ll get you scheduled.”
“Promoting?” The new girl looked up at Sam and Lena.
“Yeah, you don’t want to do it. Dress like a whore with a company tee shirt and hand out free passes in public. They do it for sporting events and conventions. All the guys hit on you and girls give you the evil eye. You get a hundred and fifty bucks and free booze. Waste of time.” Lena smiled, “I’m Lena, and this is Sam.”
“I’m Rainbow,” the girl managed a nauseated smile, “thanks for the advice.”
Her eyes darted down the row of chairs to the corner of the dressing room. A mousy brunette with her face pushed behind a Dean Koontz book patiently waited while the low hum-clicking of an automatic breast pump did its job. Completely oblivious to the activity around her, the new mom munched on carrot sticks from a snack sized Ziploc bag brought from home.
“Hey, I know it’s frightening. Every girl here had a first night and remember, nobody would do this job if it sucked that bad.” Lena consoled her, “Get ready, check in with the DJ and find a place to sit for a while. If you watch the other girls, you’ll figure out how it’s done and it’ll get easier. Plus, lots of guys think the ‘new girl’ thing is hot. I was scared to death my first night and ended up banking twelve hundred. Swear it’s not that bad, but your nerves will get you for a while.”
Sam watched Lena deliver her pep talk and tried not to laugh. Lena – dressed in a leather, bondage outfit with a bullwhip looped across her knee – not the first person one would pick by sight as a mentor.
Rainbow nestled her bag under the make-up counter between two others and smiled at Lena and Sam. “Thanks, I think I needed to hear that.”
“Find one of us if you’ve got questions. By the end of the night you’ll be asking yourself why you waited so long to start dancing.”
The new girl nodded and tottered off in search of the stages, the DJ booth, and most likely, the bar.
CHAPTER 1
Skimming the faces pointed up at her, Sam picked a mark. Dark navy suit with a subtle pin stripe. Caramel colored liquid, served neat in a lowball. A natural winter tan. Capped teeth. Bingo.
The garter on Sam’s leg snapped against her flesh and she slid the new folded bill against the others. She would smooth, face and organize the crumpled mess when she was off stage.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she purred.
“Whatever. Just come see me when you’re down.”
Frank, one of her regular customers, stalked off through the crowd and assumed his usual spot, an overstuffed chair by the mirrored back wall. Sashaying around the top of an up-lit, Plexiglas box, Sam saw her friend Grace picking her way through the throng towards her stage.
Grace’s usual catlike stride was a frantic stumble through the tweed and spandex mob. Tousled platinum locks bobbed as she made her way closer.
As Grace reached the stage, Sam saw her eyes were red and swollen with black tracks of mascara lining her beautiful face.
“Bathroom,” she choked, just loud enough for Sam to hear.
Sam nodded, never losing her smile or her step.
After six more dance-mix “Suga Baby” choruses, the song finally ended and Sam hustled down the narrow steps, through the crush of slow moving gawkers, toward the back of the club. She hated ignoring Frank, but she knew something must be seriously wrong. Grace didn’t lose her grip — ever. Even in the throes of the worst PMS, Sam had never seen her like this.
Passing the large brass and mahogany bar against the back wall of the main floor, Sam looked for her friend Mary Jane, who was bartending. The empty gaze Sam saw o
n Mary Jane’s ashen face told her that whatever news she was heading toward had already made its way to the bar.
Rounding the corner from the dressing room to the ladies’ bathroom, Sam saw her usually fiery friend Birdie standing in the open doorway of the last stall. She didn’t look good. Grace was hidden behind the wall of the stall, but the sound of her heaving into the toilet echoed off the hard surfaces of the room.
“What’s going on?” Sam joined Birdie in the doorway of the stall, and looked down at Grace.
Birdie shifted uncomfortably, her red-rimmed eyes darting between Grace and Sam.
“What?” Sam demanded again.
Grace looked up, wiping spittle off her mouth with her fingertips.
“Lena,” Grace breathed.
“Lena got arrested? Lena’s pregnant? Lena WHAT for Chrissake?”
“Lena’s dead,” Birdie whispered.
“No, she’s not.” The muscle above Sam’s eye twitched, “It’s a mistake.”
Grace leaned back over the toilet and wretched.
Birdie looked down at her X-Rated schoolgirl outfit. Her long red curls fell across her face. “I fackin’ hope so, but blondie ova here swears it’s true.”
Sam got a paper towel from the wall dispenser and ran it under cold water. Wedging herself past Birdie and into the stall, she pulled Grace’s hair away from her face and collected the strays into a ponytail. Sam draped the cool, damp towel across her neck. Grace’s stomach was now empty, but the reflex was still active. Sam waited, gently stroking her back until the heaving subsided.
Grace lifted her face, “It’s her. I know it’s her, Sam. What are we gonna do?” She sobbed and collapsed into Sam with the full weight of her hundred and five pounds.
Sam pet her hair and looked up at Birdie, who hadn’t moved from the doorway of the stall. Birdie shrugged uncomfortably.
“Okay, just tell me what happened, babe. Start from the beginning.”
“One of my customers told me. He’s a proofreader at the The Atlanta Journal & Constitution. The crime desk sent him a story just before cut-off tonight. The body of a twenty-two-year-old girl from an old Savannah family was found —” Grace moaned and closed her eyes as she continued, “in a ditch on I-75. She’d been shot.”
“Well that doesn’t mean a thing, baby, that coulda been anyone.” Sam hugged Grace and rocked her back and forth. She could still feel her eye twitch and hoped the other two hadn’t noticed it. The urge to straighten the money on her leg, or adjust her dress, or just do something — anything —was getting worse by the minute.
“My customer said they are trying to notify the family before they release the name. He said it’s Alexandra Chandler.” Grace pushed away from Sam and looked at her, “You know that’s Lena’s real name, Sam.”
Birdie was staring up at the ceiling in an effort to balance the tears behind her false lashes. Giving up, she looked straight at Sam and they rolled free down her cheeks.
Birdie breathed, in her thick English accent. “Fack! Fack! Fack!” She turned and kicked the pink, painted metal door with her Lucite stiletto.
Grace muttered through her sobs, “Someone in research managed to dredge up Alex’s cotillion picture. Guillermo, my customer, said it looked a lot like Lena and that’s why he stopped in. To see if I knew anything about it.”
For the first time in a long while, Sam felt the sting in her nose that signaled tears.
Tak. Tak. Tak.
The familiar sound of the manager’s key ring tapping the metal doorjamb echoed through the bathroom.
Birdie’s head snapped. “Gio.”
Sam positioned Grace so that her hair wouldn’t fall into the toilet and shot up against the cold, metal wall. Bouncers respected what little privacy the girls had, but the managers roamed every inch of the club. The bathroom was no exception.
Two girls scurried out of the second stall, wiping powder from their noses. Gio pretended not to notice — at least they were headed back out on the floor where he needed them.
“What’s the drama, ladies? We gotta packed house tonight. Can this wait til later?” Gio said.
Sam jumped out of the stall in front of Birdie, who was coiling with anger.
“Sam? Is that a fuckin’ clown car or a stall? How many of yous is in there?”
“Grace is here too, Gio, but she’s sick.”
Gio rolled his eyes and muttered something in Italian.
“Are you dopin’ up? Hand it over!”
“Gio, come on. Please? She’s really sick. You know we aren’t on drugs for Chrissake! See for yourself!”
Gio eyed them suspiciously, but didn’t budge.
“It’s always somethin’ with you girls. Always have to see what you can get away wit. Get back on the floor. If I don’t see all of yous back out there in three minutes, it’s a fitty dollar fine. Now move.” Turning around, he stepped from the bathroom.
“GIO!” Sam yelled.
Twitch.
His hulking frame reappeared in the door, looking bored.
“Look,” Sam stalled for time, trying to read her boss, to figure which angle to play to get what they wanted. “We just heard a friend was killed. Can you cut us some slack and let us off?”
“We’ll pay tip out!” Grace’s voice echoed from the toilet bowl.
“I know you will.” Gio looked smug. “Who is this friend anyway?”
Birdie growled at Gio from behind Sam, who stepped back, sandwiching her against the open door of the stall. Birdie had been suspended more times than Sam could remember, for more reasons than either of them even knew existed. She had a hate-hate relationship with Gio and now wasn’t the time for a showdown.
“Just a friend,” Sam said, adjusting her tone to the submissive quality she knew Gio preferred from women.
Gio crossed his arms “I don’t think so.” He paused, “I think yous is up to something. Nice Friday night? Maybe wanna do a little partying?” A smile peeked at the corners of his mouth. “Well, tough shit. You came in to work and work is where you’ll stay.”
“Please,” Grace groaned from her hidden crouch.
“Fackin pillock!” Birdie shouted from behind Sam.
Sam increased her lean against Birdie, hoping she could cut off Birdie’s air before she got them all suspended.
“That’s fitty for my cuss fund, Birdie,” Gio sing-songed.
Sam dug her nails into Birdie’s arm as a warning before releasing her. She then walked across the grimy, tile floor toward Gio, collecting her thoughts, and focusing on charm. After dancing a year and a half, she could work it like a light switch. Sam knew Gio understood very well how the business worked, but at the same time he was still a man.
“Look Gio, I know you have to deal with a lot of shit here. I know girls get to work and then want to go party. I know it’s your job to make the wheels of this club turn, and you do a great job.” Sam placed a hand on either side of Gio’s chest, just below his shoulders. “I never ask off. In fact, I’ve got money waiting for me out there.” She tipped her head toward the frenzy of activity a few steps away on the main floor. Lowering her voice, she continued, “Money I’d like to make. But, we heard a rumor that Lena,” she exhaled, studying her shoes for a moment, “that Lena was murdered.”
Even through his tinted glasses, Sam could see shock cross Gio’s face. However fleeting, she knew she saw a reaction.
“Bullshit.”
“It may not be true, Gio, but it’s still upsetting and until we can get confirmation one way or the other, I think we’re pretty much done for the night. You don’t want depressed girls moping around the floor, do you?” Sam could see Gio turning it over in his mind.
“We can’t represent you the way you need us to tonight. I promise you Gio, when we come back in here, we’ll be ready to work. But tonight isn’t the night.”
Gio stared down at Sam, slowly chewing his gum.
“Pay Lucille your tip outs and two hundred straight to me from each of you. And don
’t say I never did anything for you.”
Sam looked at the garter on her leg. “We’ve only been here an hour, Gio. I’ll be lucky if I have tip out.”
“Well, then you’ll owe me, won’t you, doll?”
CHAPTER 2
The clinking of glasses in bus tubs and the smell of frying bacon were strange comforts for Sam in the wee hours. Settling into their usual booth, she watched Tanya set their drinks down on the Formica tabletop. Pulling her tablet out of her waistband, Tanya scratched the recesses of her complicated up-do with a pencil.
“Ya’ll look rode hard and put up wet,” she drawled. “I thought 4 am was quittin’ time. What are you doing here?”
Tanya pronounced her name in true southern style, as in TAN-ya, like Tanya Tucker, not TON-ya, like Tonya Harding. For those who know, there is a difference.
Tanya wore her polyester uniform as though it were a custom-made ensemble, perfectly accessorized and never overdone. Her femininity was so complete that she looked out of place at the 24-Hour Denny’s off Piedmont Avenue.
“How do you do it, Tanya?” Sam squinted through the yellow glow of the pendant light hanging above their table.
“Whaz that, child?”
“How is it that you are always so pulled together?” Sam asked, tilting her head to the side.
Tanya lowered her voice and smiled conspiratorially. “If I’m gonna be a woman, I’m gonna be a damn beautiful one.”
“You’re more woman than any of us,” Sam half grinned back, wondering how the pre-op transsexual had the time or energy to keep herself so perfectly coifed.
“Back to my question. Tell mama what’s wrong. Ya’ll look like someone ran over yer dog.”
Sam pushed the newspaper across the table to Tanya. It was folded open to the story about Lena.
Grace exhaled hard and Birdie busied herself picking at the edge of the laminated menu.
“Good lord ya’ll,” Tanya murmured, as she scanned the brief article and slumped into the seat next to Mary Jane. “Do you know what happened?”
“We don’t know any more than what’s in the story,” said Sam. She took the newspaper back and smoothed the wrinkles, trying to make the page lay flat.
Tea Leafing: A Novel Page 1