“Hey Suga’. You’re looking better than the last time I saw ya’! Come give Mama a hug.”
Sam grinned and made her rounds, kissing each on both cheeks, as Europeans often do. This would have seemed a ridiculously pretentious act to the conservative Scandinavians that dictated social norms in her home state. But in the south she had learned that hugs and kisses weren’t reserved for lovers and family.
“Gimme a minute while I finish my top coat.” Tanya drawled, gesturing to her petal pink toenails.
“Did I miss anything?” Sam said throwing her bag stuffed with smoky, sweat-saturated costumes next to the door and settled into an armchair with Edna.
“Nope.” Mary Jane said, “We were waiting for you.”
“Where’s Grace? I thought I saw her car outside.” Sam tilted her head to see if Grace was in the galley kitchen that connected to the front room.
“She had an errand to run. She’ll stop by later. That’s my neighbor’s car.” Tanya said, replacing the brush in the bottle of clear polish and giving it a quick twist to tighten the cap.
“So, enough chat! Fill us in ’bout the geezah and his twit!” Birdie referred to Mary Jane’s night in the skybox with Fedya and Nikki.
Mary Jane rolled her torso toward the lace-draped coffee table, pulling her box of cigarettes near with her fingertips. Sam saw a tired, troubled look on her face and figured the need to smoke meant there was a story to tell. Mary Jane popped the white stick between her lips and touched flame to its tip. Her thoughts collected as she pulled smoke into her lungs.
Resting her head back onto the arm of the chair, she let the wisps dance between her nose and mouth.
“Just weird.” Mary Jane said. “I can’t figure out the deal with Nikki. What a cunt.”
“Fedya obviously isn’t having any of her shit,” Sam said.
Tanya fanned her feet with a copy of Vogue, and rested her eyes on Edna, “Lots a powerful men like the feeling of keeping their girlies in check. I’m not sayin this is Fedya’s thing, but a whole lotta them have issues with control.”
Sam knew Tanya spoke from experience. Her lover was a powerful Atlanta businessman. He’d been stringing her along for the better part of a year, promising to pay for Tanya’s gender reassignment surgery. Her big day was already booked in Bangkok, for late January, a few short months away. Working extra shifts, sewing her own clothes, and buying her toiletries at drug stores instead of department stores, she’d only managed to save half the money she needed. Shug, her lover, promised to provide the balance.
“I know, Tanya, and that may be the dynamic.” Sam said, watching Tanya struggle with herself, “But Fedya just doesn’t seem like they type. I think he was really bothered by what Nikki said.”
“They never seem the type, baby.”
“Well, whatever the reason, Nikki got over it quickly after you left and was drunk in no time. Partying like usual.” Mary Jane stared at the wooden beams running the length of the ceiling, “Fedya relaxed and that was it. All I can say is that she must be one crazy fuck for him to tolerate her.”
“Didja make good quid?”
Mary Jane smiled at Birdie and poked her in the ribs, “You know I did! Better than I would have behind the main bar.”
Birdie squealed and twisted, trying to distance herself from Mary Jane’s assault. Tanya laughed and stretched her long body on the antique rug.
Sam smiled, enjoying the comfort of the velvety chair and the sleeping dog in her lap. Leaning her head to the side, she tried to release a knotted muscle in her neck. A photograph in a small oval frame sitting under a lamp on the table next to her caught her eye. Her heart sank. Lena stared back at her from an Adirondack chair. Her smile beamed from under the brim of a large sun hat, frozen drink in hand. The flowers of Tanya’s yard behind her.
“That was taken last summer.” Tanya’s soft voice answered the question in Sam’s mind. “Fourth of July. We drank all day and never made it to the fireworks. My Lord, that was a good day.”
Mary Jane and Birdie stopped their tussling and stared at the picture.
“So, what about her? What about her killer?” Sam looked at the others.
“What do you mean?” Mary Jane said, pushing herself up to a sitting position.
“I mean, what are we gonna do about whoever killed her? Doesn’t it bother you that we haven’t heard anything? Don’t you guys wonder who did this?” Sam pleaded.
Birdie blinked hard, “Yeah, I do. I think about it but what can we do? The bobbies is workin’ on it. We’ll be hearing when they crack it.”
Time wasn’t soothing Sam’s nerves the way she’d hoped. A heavy stone sat in the pit of her stomach like an ever-present reminder of the danger she now realized was part of the life she’d chosen.
“Before I forget again, did those pictures from the funeral ever get developed?” Sam asked.
“I think Grace dropped ‘em off straightaway aftah the service but I don’t know if she picked ‘em up. Bugger! I keep forgetting to ask her about it.”
“I’ll remind ya’.” Tanya piped in.
Edna snored softly as the candlelight danced across the room.
“Don’t you think it’s odd that the boy scouts haven’t questioned us?” Sam said after a few moments of thought.
CHAPTER 9
With her short dress pulled up around her waist, Birdie used her buns as a credit card swiper. Who but Birdie? Sam thought, always entertained by her imaginative shenanigans.
“Do you figure this is how dancers in the future will take their dosh? They can ‘ave their arses wired with a Telecheck machine?” Birdie giggled.
“Where ya gonna plug the phone line in?” Sam shot back.
Birdie’s grin prompted Sam to put up her hands in surrender, “Okay, I don’t want to know.”
“Thought they were an urban legend like a scuba diver in a tree, yet ‘ere we aah.” Birdie giggled like a schoolgirl, holding up the Titanium AMEX card.
She bobbed in a circle, turning her back to the card’s owner while he arranged a VIP room with one of the bouncers. Mouthing “Fifty thousand,” to indicate his requested cash amount, Birdie spun back to face him without missing a beat.
Sam had heard all the rumors about clubs overcharging men without their permission. Tired of disputing charge-backs on credit cards, the club had long ago implemented an iron clad system. Any cash advance on a credit card required three sets of signatures — the customer, the manager, and the pink pay girl — and a fingerprint of the customer. The ink used for fingerprinting was invisible until it reacted with the carbon-based paper of the purchase ticket. Anything over five thousand required a photocopy of the customer’s driver’s license. The system virtually eliminated the use of stolen credit cards and provided the club with irrefutable evidence in case they decided to dispute the charges. For each additional conversion of credit into Pink Pay, the customer was required to sign again and be re-finger printed. Sam had seen it happen too many times before, the customer was willing to pay the price to wrap himself in fantasy, struggling to focus while the manager and pay girl explained the charges, line item by line item. Their eyes would glaze over and nod their agreement, wanting to get on with their evening. Dancers were not allowed to undress or distract the customer during this process. The club wanted the undivided attention of the customer, giving him a fair shot at backing out of what was usually an expensive evening. Sam had never seen anyone get up and leave after realizing what the costs were. Morning-after buyer’s remorse was another thing altogether.
Sam and Grace fell in step behind Big Bird’s money train, heading for the VIP room. The club charged a five hundred dollar hourly rate for the VIP room and the girls negotiated their rates directly with the customer. Usual fees ranged from four to six hundred an hour per girl. These charges fluctuated, depending on how busy the club was and whether or not they had another sure thing, like a regular, waiting for them.
Pink Pay girls made frequent rounds in the VIP se
ctions. These darlings were responsible for cash advances on plastic — converting it to the club’s fake money. The Pussycat charged twenty percent of the withdrawal amount for “processing,” standard in the strip club industry. In return for the outrageous fees, the credit card statement and all receipts read “Piedmont Bar & Grill” or some other innocuous legend, making company reimbursements a breeze. C.F.O.s tend to get cranky paying for table dances even though Kobe steaks are a-okay — a commonplace deception in the relationship between Gentlemen’s clubs and big business.
Unless the guy is a regular and already has a favorite waitress, the girls usually get to pick. This, of course, makes for some very profitable partnerships. Moneymaking is a team effort and shrewd dancers grease the palms of everyone from bouncers and DJs to waitresses and valets. Having a support staff work to find the biggest spenders is how the serious money is made. If a dancer gets greedy and holds back on tip out, she’ll go home the next shift with half her usual draw. Strip clubs are nothing if not democratic.
While getting settled in the room, Sam watched the flurry of activity unfold. The bouncer was going through the house rules with Mr. Titanium. The moneychangers were waiting patiently in the wings to start their transactions, and the girls chatted quietly. China, their favorite waitress appeared. She had been summoned upstairs by a bouncer.
China knew the deal. Ginger ale in a champagne flute with a single, stemless cherry for Sam, who didn’t advertise the fact that she didn’t drink because it made some guys nervous. She wouldn’t outright lie, it was more a matter of omission. “Soda” would appear on the bill for Sam’s mocktail since charging for alcohol and drinking something unleaded is a serious crime. Thankfully nobody scrutinized the itemized bill at the end of the night. It may puzzle some the next day, but Sam hadn’t ever been questioned about it, so the system worked. China also knew to go to Mary Jane’s bar so she could get a piece of the action too. The tips trickled down.
The bouncer finished his spiel about club rules and called the manager, the Pink Pay money-honey was up to bat. She was a cute little waif of a girl with a flirtatious smile. She explained how the charges worked and what would appear on his statement. Extracting a thin case from her apron that held the invisible-ink pad she explained the fingerprinting process.
Ms. Pink Pay scurried off to get the customer’s money just in time for China to return with a bottle of Dom and several glasses. She popped and poured with a flourish. Once the drinks were flowing, she discreetly slipped Sam’s drink from the pocket of her apron.
The Pink Pay girl returned from the manager’s office with an impressive stack of paper bills. After unbanding the stacks, she counted them out for Mr. Black Titanium so as to be sure there wasn’t a miscount, which could be disputed later on. It took a few minutes to get through all $40,000 of it, the total, less the club’s service charge. Finally done, Birdie stood on a table. With one hand she pulled her breakaway dress off. With champagne clutched in the other hand, and head thrown back she yelled, “Let the games begin!”
Sam and Grace glanced at each other, grinning. “Here we go,” mouthed Sam.
* * * *
Sam learned Mr. Titanium’s name was Mark Something-or-other and he had taken his software company public before the market crashed, making an obscene profit from the sale. It was a record-breaking night for all three girls, clearing almost twelve grand each after tip-out. Grace would invest hers, Sam would spend some and save some, and Birdie would buy God knows what.
Clearing that kind of money required a trip to the manager’s office to convert the Pink Pay to cash rather than having the house-mom, Lucille, do it — as was customary for smaller sums.
Sam watched Giovanni scoot around behind his desk in the rolling swivel chair, making seated trips back and forth between the desktop and a safe bolted to the floor against the back wall. An automated money counter sat on the desk next to the phone. Leaning back in her chair, Sam’s eyes wandered around the interior of the dimly lit office. A bank of closed-circuit security monitors lined the wall behind where she sat with Birdie and Grace, opposite Gio. Cameras positioned throughout the club recorded every minute of the day. Even the dressing room was subject to constant video surveillance. To her left, a glass wall ran the length of the office, giving an unobstructed view of the main floor and VIP suites.
“Good night, huh?” Gio lifted an eyebrow as he loaded the counter with a fresh stack of bills. “Really cleaned up. How many times does a Centurion cardholder show up and spend like that?”
“Yup. That’s our Bird. She feathers her nest with money.” Sam glanced at the back of Birdie’s head, which was resting forward on the edge of Gio’s desk.
“Birdie . . .” Birdie moaned from her slouched position.
“I don’t think she’s gonna pass the breathalyzer. One a’ yous gonna get her home?” Gio asked without taking his eyes off the money thwiffing into a neat pile.
Employees had to leave their keys with the valets at the start of the shift. After work, they waited in line. Well, lots of lines, really, but one of them was to feed two quarters into a breathalyzer mounted on the wall of the dressing room. Sam thought it was a good idea conceptually, but was irritated that after two years of blowing a point zero zero, she still had to wait in line, blow through the disposable straw, and call out her numbers like everyone else. Anything under a point zero eight would clear a girl and Lucille would radio the valets, letting them know which cars should be brought around for pick-up. If the test was failed, a cab was the way home.
“Yeah, of course. We’ll drive her.”
Gio nodded as he lined up a brick of money on the desk in front of each girl.
“Whatevah the fuck you three is doin’ to make this kinda’ dough,” he paused, chuckling under his breath, “well, you must be good. Fuckin’ platinum pussy.”
Sam stopped moving and stared at Gio.
Grace went into overdrive, desperate to avoid a confrontation. She plucked the stacks of money off the desk and tried to gather Birdie up from her slumped position.
“Well, thanks for your help! We’ll get out of your hair . . . Sam?”
Sam clutched the arms of the scratchy office chair, she said, “What did you say?” Tic.
Gio looked up, apparently having already forgotten his comment. He had the attention span of a goldfish. “Wha?”
“Did you just imply that we’re hookers?” Sam’s eyes narrowed.
Pushing himself back from his desk, Gio straightened in his chair. A single pulsing vein began to rise in his forehead. Grace had re-doubled her efforts to get Birdie up. Sam felt the cool touch of Grace’s hand as she tried to urge her from the office.
“I’d advise you to watch your mouth Samantha. If I want to call you a whore, I’ll say it to your face, not imply it.” He glared across the desk.
“The name is Sam, not Samantha. It’s a fucking stage name so don’t get all authoritarian on me. And you did just call us whores. You aren’t clever enough to edit yourself, GIO! Just because we make better money than you doesn’t give you the right to say we can be bought. And don’t you threaten me, motherfucker. Ever.”
“Evah.” Birdie parroted under her breath.
Gio sat for a moment staring at Sam with dead eyes. Sam met his gaze, determined not to look away first. “I think you need to take a week and think about whether or not this is the right enviro’ment for you. Maybe the stress of working here is just too much. Didn’t you hear Fedya say he doesn’t want you affecting morale here, Sam?” He narrowed his eyes. “You need to be careful. Don’t invite trouble. I know that’s not what you want.” His jaw clenched and a tendon in his neck strained.
Sam’s vision wobbled dangerously close to tunnel vision and colors faded to gray. Adrenaline rushed to her extremities. Tense and ready for a fight, she heard the warning bells in her ears, but ignored them. “Are you suspending me?”
“Just take a break. Get yourself in check, you can come back next week.” Gio h
issed through gritted teeth.
Sam sucked in a deep, bitter breath. “You’re right, maybe I do need to figure out whether or not I’m going to allow myself to be ‘bought’ as you say, and not just by customers.”
Gio exploded. Jumping to his feet, the chair he’d been sitting in slammed into the wall behind him. “You’re a stripper. You’ve already been bought. You’re fucking expendable! Wake up! Why do all you bitches think you’re so goddamn special? You’re all the same shit in a slightly different package.”
“Expendable, huh?” Sam fought the rage that told her to jump the desk and gouge his eyes out. “Interesting choice of words, Gio.”
Sam rose from the chair, biting her tongue so hard she could taste blood. Grace had Birdie upright and was heading for the door. She snatched Sam’s arm and pulled her along. Sam kept her eyes locked on Gio. Boring holes through his skull with her stare, she tromped backwards. A sleazy little smirk turned the corners of his mouth. He looked pleased with himself, feeling victorious.
“Goombah Macaroni Fack!” Birdie had regained consciousness and shadow boxed the air.
Sam grabbed Birdie’s other arm and they forced her out the office door before she could launch herself at Gio.
“A week for both uh you cunts!” Gio’s voice boomed after them.
Birdie continued muttering garbled slurs under her breath as the three made their way to the dressing room.
CHAPTER 10
“Meet us down at Birdie’s, Mary Jane. We’re gonna’ take her home and probably hang out for a while.”
“Cool. I’ll see you there. Do you want me to bring some food? I’m sure Birdie doesn’t have any.”
“Yeah, burritos, doughnuts, whatever’s on the way. That’d be great, we’re starving.”
“See ya’ there in twenty minutes.”
Tea Leafing: A Novel Page 5