by Avery, T. C.
The Jody Mark II now had a selection of office and social ensembles to match her newly confident, calculating, assertive persona. Even her lingo had changed.
This stunning and now truly resplendent swan had just pulled off an Audrey Hepburn like standard of transformation a la 'My Fair Lady'.
And she was still only eighteen!
Chapter 4
The ‘night life’ here sucks!
“You know there’s a queue Banner, eh?”
A disconcerted voice from behind Luke repeated himself, only this time a little louder.
Luke turned his head and produced just the right sarcastic facial expression to say, “I know, but I’m dealing with something important here. So, why don’t you leave me alone and “go forth and multiply”, or, better still “fuck off” and go back to where you came from. Stop harassing me and I’ll be done, when I’m done”.
It really is amazing just how many words you can convey with just one little expression.
The phone call was with his lawyer. The one he always used when he needed assistance with the law (funnily enough).
Luke wasn’t your usual con or hardened criminal. The bad guy in a suit you always get in thousands of American crime dramas. He was more of an archetypal “lovable rogue”. He liked to bend the rules rather than break them. He just needed help with determining exactly how far they could be bent and that’s where Graham Sinclair came in, from “Sinclair and Collins”.
Graham and Luke went back years. They first met over a driving licence incident. Luke had been ‘done again’ for speeding. A hundred and four miles an hour on the M40 near Oxford. His BMW320, apparently, had a very light accelerator pedal. The problem was that he already had ten points on his licence and this was going to get him disqualified.
Luke’s dad suggested “Sinclair and Collins” since he knew Mister Collins personally. It was actually Graham Sinclair ‘Junior’ who came up with the goods and managed to pull off a minor miracle for Luke. He still got a hefty fine but was able to keep his licence on the grounds that it was required for his work. Complete bullshit, of course, but it started off their mutually beneficial relationship both privately and professionally.
Having a ‘pet’ solicitor was highly convenient for Luke. Possibly too convenient and it may have even contributed to his love of rule bending and sailing a little “close to the wind”.
Up to now Graham had been Luke’s “Get out of Jail Free” card. But this time it hadn’t worked. All the lawyers in hell would have struggled with this one.
“So… What about the ‘Appeal’?” Luke’s frustration was starting to get the better of him.
“The ‘Appeal’. What Appeal?” Graham’s incredulous reply came back.
“The kid is yours. He even looks like you. Luke, I haven’t seen this much incriminating evidence since, well, ever. It couldn’t be more cut and dried if it tried. What do you want me to do? We’ve gone over it a thousand times already. I don’t know where to start. Your fingerprints are everywhere. You bought all the stuff. You kept all the records. You must have fucked ‘em all, whether you remember it or not. What the hell am I supposed to do?”
Luke was silent. He had no response, just a desperate need for help.
Then he heard, “Time’s up Banner. Get off the phone.” But this was from behind him.
Mister Sargent was firm but fair. He was one of those guards that actually did have a little respect among the prisoners. He was in his early fifties with graying hair and a moustache to match. A fine physique of a man for his age. Six foot one and well groomed.
Luke wasn’t finished, but Mister Sargent could be persuasive when he wanted to be. He walked over, invaded Luke’s personal space, and stood right in front of him. He glared into Luke’s eyes, raised an open hand, ready to receive the phone, and using his special ‘prison guard powers of ESP’ he let Luke know he was mentally counting backwards from ten.
Luke spoke again. “Gotta go.”
“You’ve got to do something, Graham.”
“Yeah?”
“See ya.”
Luke put the receiver in Mister Sargent’s hand and conjured up another of his graphic, sarcastic facial expressions. They’re so incredibly useful. They’re practical and economical with oration, time and effort, yet packed with so much message and implication.
This one advised Mister Sargent, “You know I hadn’t finished, but I’ve chosen to succumb to your authoritative charms and abide by the official timing rules on phone calls. You haven’t got the better of me but I’ll let it go this time. I’ve got bigger things to deal with. Get over yourself.”
He stepped away from the phone on the wall and took a casual stance with hands in pockets. In came ‘Spencer’ who had been waiting his turn. Mister Sargent tapped the Switch Hook a couple of times to make sure the line was clear and ready for use again, then handed Spencer the receiver.
Luke glanced at Mister Sargent once more, lost interest and set off for his cell.
The door was, of course, open. He went in and picked up the book he was reading, which had been left open at his page, face down, on the lower bunk. First he sat on the bunk, then he slumped backwards to rest his shoulders on the wall behind, then, deciding this was, a little, uncomfortable, he spun and lay down properly. With one hand behind his head, and the other holding the book (his thumb holding the pages apart) he began to read. Problem was, though, he wasn’t inwardly digesting anything. His eyes were reading but his thoughts were elsewhere.
“How the hell do I have a son?”
“Three years old?”
“I didn’t do any of this.”
He genuinely believed he hadn’t done anything. Not this time! Luke was guilty of many things, but the ‘catalogues of crap’ he had just been put away for were not his doing. They can’t have been.
“I don’t remember any of it.” He shouted to himself internally with gritted teeth.
Luke drops the book at his side. Then with both hands clasped behind his head he brings his elbows forward, tightly squashing his ears. He grits his teeth again and tenses everything.
In one big bursting pressure release he finally lets his handgrip go, in one of those, “must give in scenarios”, and begrudgingly steps back from his self-confrontation, infuriated, frustrated, angry and clueless.
Luke takes a breath. He rests his arms and legs once more, relaxes himself and ponders his predicament further.
“During the trial they confirmed the date of birth of the kid (Jason) as 19th September 2002. That means he must have been conceived around Christmas 2001.”
The gears inside his head were back in action.
“I was at mum and dads’ on Christmas Day. Come to think of it, I didn’t leave till Boxing Day. Massive hangover! Even then, had to be driven back to London by Angie (the girlfriend of the moment).”
“Good looker. Good shag! And what a pair of tits!”
“I must have been to a party every night for the two weeks over Christmas. A lot of drinking. A lot of sex. Not all with Angie.”
“But I never went near Suzanne.”
“Did I?”
“Graham’s stag do was in Amsterdam on the 16th December. We did some crazy shit over there but I don’t remember fucking anyone, and definitely not Suzanne. She wasn’t even there.” “Was she?”
“I do remember the best blowjob I ever had though.”
Here’s the whole flashback............
Luke had arranged the weekend in Amsterdam for Graham’s Stag do. Dublin was old hat and had been over done now anyway, and somebody had said that Prague was a rip off.
There were eight of them in all, and they were staying at the Amsterdam Marriott opposite the Leidseplein, which is a large open plaza area at the southern end of Amsterdam's central canal ring. They were perfectly positioned from here as they could walk to any, and all, of the restaurants, hotspots, nightlife and other places that Amsterdam is famous for and the main reason they were here.
> Anyway back to what happened.
Luke liked to do these things properly, so for the main event (Saturday night), they all had dinner suits on. Not only did it make the occasion ‘special’ it also ensured no one got lost. They all looked the part. Pretty damn’ smart. The “Rat Pack” reincarnated.
The evening started with a Dinner Cruise around the famous canals. One and a half hours of culture and fine seamanship (It’s a mystery how the helmsmen get round those ninety degree bends without hitting anything). It was enough to bore the pants off anyone! Luckily they had a shit load of beer and wine to accompany them.
They disembarked the good ship “Luna” and were joined by two girls they had met the previous evening in a cozy little bar in the red light district (yeah right?), over the canal and opposite the “Oude Kerk” (Old Church). Aya and Famke were anything but shy and retiring. A bloody good laugh and “hot as”. One blond. One brunette. Both long.
They were suitably attired for the occasion. Mind you they had been given instructions. “They could only come along if they dressed up and they had to be up for anything.” After all, it was a Stag Do. Nothing in particular was planned, other than drinking, nightlife, more drinking, red lights, some more drinking, strip clubs and the usual, but ‘who knows where they might end up?’
Aya was in a strappy number, skirt above the knees, black heels and a short jacket. Nice! It was cold of course but they weren’t intending to spend all night out on the streets. Famke had a flared black dress on, bustier topped with a wrap and some high ankle boots. Also very nice!
Off they went, down the Leidsestraat, following the tramlines, in and out of bar after bar. Graham was being suitably plied with more alcohol than mere man can handle, in keeping with all the best Stag Night traditions, and things couldn’t possibly get better.
But they did! Wayhey!
They all poured out of yet another bar and four of the lads decided it was time for a photo opportunity. Now we all know the Dutch are a little more liberal than the rest of the world when it comes to drugs and sex and, well, most things. They’re also a little more relaxed about public toilets, specifically men’s toilets, or urinals as we know them. The thing is they have them in the streets.
No surrounds. No privacy. Literally, a freestanding urinal.
If you actually take the time to think about them, they’re not such a bad idea.
Consider. When ‘Neanderthal Man’ comes out of ‘drinking hole’, pissed and ‘in need of one’, what better contraption is there than a street urinal. It’s got to be an improvement on a tree or a shop window. And he’s not really interested in protecting his dignity at this stage in proceedings. I suppose it’s a little sexist, but then, what kind of facility would be appropriate for Neanderthal woman?
Anyway, Graham, Sebastian and two others decided to relieve themselves at one of these four way stations, set up like a drinking fountain, only the fluids are designed to flow in the wrong direction.
It made for a perfect ‘Kodak moment’ complete with a ‘no hands’ version, a ‘holding hands’ version and one where some old woman is determined to get a better look.
Perfect!
While this was going on, Luke decided to grill the girls on their knowledge of the best strip clubs in town. It was time for some “flesh”.
They discussed it between themselves in Dutch and it seemed as though the conversation had swung round to flowers but what they were talking about was a relatively new club in town called “Two Lips”.
Do I need to spell it out for you?
The bouncers were not too sure about Graham when the lads got him to the top of the steps but after a little friendly persuasion (or ‘begging’ as it’s also known) they agreed to let him in.
It was “Night Club Dark” inside. Loud music. Good music. A number of stages, bars, big screens and TV monitors. Great lighting. The obligatory neon and mirrors everywhere and obviously the theme of the place was “lips”. Two of them. And not a flower in sight!
This place was popular but you could move around with ease and everyone was ensured of a good view. Mind you, strip club designers know what they’re doing. ‘Strategic’ in a strip club means money. Tables, stages, bars, poles and furniture are all positioned so that the girls can get to their audiences these days. Long gone is the one big stage where no one can get near or reach the girls. These places are all about the ‘up close and personal’. Very personal.
And whoever designed ‘this place’ knew what they were doing.
Oh, and I almost forgot. The place was crawling with the hottest girls you’ve ever seen. Some naked, some clothed, some half naked, some half clothed. There were short shorts, short skirts, thin thongs and tiny, teeny panties. Schoolgirls, nurses, Bavarian beer chicks and some kinky little things in tight rubber, chrome and zips. We’re talking white girls, black girls, Asian chicks and olive skinned beauties. Big tits, slim hips, big hips, slim chicks, small pert breasts and long slender legs. “Every one’s a winner baby” as the song goes.
At the time they walked in there were four girls dancing. Two on stage and two doing the rounds on the smaller tables. Many of the other girls were moving with the music anyway. Clearly they seemed to enjoy their work and were very comfortable in their surroundings. When they weren’t dancing the girls were either playing ‘hostess’ or plying their other trade, which was private dancing for an even more intimate experience.
It wasn’t just the ‘house’ that made money here. This was a gold mine for all of these girls.
The “Two Lips” standard of clientele seemed reasonable enough. Not too many ‘dickheads’ or ‘old crusties’ but you got the (unusual) impression it was a tolerant, benevolent, ‘by the people, for the people’, ‘two way street’, almost, kind of establishment anyway. Everyone seemed welcome. The respect and reward for both parties, “patrons and hosts alike”, was deserved, and appreciated, and well paid for. What I’m trying to say is “Each party got their money’s worth”.
And boy did they get their money’s worth on this night?
Since it was a “Stag Night” Luke had already collected the “Kitty”. Groups of lads (or girls for that matter) are notorious on this sort of occasion, and can’t be trusted to either pay their way or get what they paid for. On the way in he paid for everyone, though entry was free for ladies anyway and their drinks were also on the house. It’s common practice in these sorts of establishments. Two hundred and fifty quid’s worth of entertainment each (around eight hundred and seventy five Dutch Guilders) ought to go a reasonable distance to start with.
What they got for their money was: free reign of the club; free drinking till their ‘tab’ ran out; two lap dances each; and fifty quid’s worth of “Two Lips” Guilders each, for the dancers’ favours and rewards. That’s one hundred and twenty Guilders each to spend as they wish. Granted, it’s not a fortune, but it’s amazing what you can “get” for small, folding, denominations starting at Five Guilders each.
Strip club money invariably comes in folding notes and, importantly, some that are smaller than legal tender. There are many reasons, but some of the more obvious ones include: the lack of anywhere to put coins when all you have on is a thong and/or a garter belt (No, not there!); it’s an encouragement for the ‘less wealthy’ among us to spend (at least a little) over and above the entry fee; and there’s a reluctance for customers to change small amounts of “club money” back into “real money” when they leave, for fear of looking cheap. So the astute, viewing-public tend to make sure they spend it all.
Anyway, as Luke handed out the “Club Guilders”, which almost looked like real money, but were very ornately (and tastefully) decorated with ‘beauties’ in various states of undress and pose, he gave them all some sound advice and candor.
“Use these wisely!”
“And, if you can’t do that, then, fuck it! Get what you can!”
The evening’s rallying speech had moved them all deeply, of course, and they immedia
tely sought out suitable hostesses for “imbibe of the finest order” while they decided which way to turn next. It didn’t seem to matter. Sit, stand, left, right, this stage, that table, this pole, that stool, or, stay right here coz this is good too.
Once the drinks came, they ended up in their usual little cliques and split up.
Famke and Aya hung around with Graham and Luke at one of the bars facing the main stage. One of them had let it slip to the staff that it was Graham’s Stag Night and before too long he was joined by a very attractive blond girl, and as it happened “a Geordie”. Incredible, eh? In Amsterdam.
Wearing only a Diamante thong and the “de rigueur” stripper stilettos (clear plastic platforms and very high) she proceeded to wrap herself around him fondling and stroking him all over like a pussy cat with her bright red painted finger nails. After a brief conversation with the group she looked up and into Graham’s eyes, put one finger to her lips, took him by the hand and led him to one of the stages. Graham feigned his objection at first but gave in, as he should.
Luke, Famke and Aya sniggered between themselves as if they knew what was coming next. Luke prepared himself for a “Stage Show” Amsterdam style. This is, after all, what the place is known for.
Suitable music started and the performance began. Initially Graham was being used as a “pole” and she was good. Next she started to undress him slowly. First the bow tie, then the jacket, then the trousers. But what came next was a little surprising. The little “Geordie” must have concluded that our ‘man of the moment’ was a little too pissed for that kind of show and instead she improvised.
She began putting his clothes on! Gradually and sensually she removed all of his garments and dressed herself up. A reverse strip show if you will. Good for the girls but a little disappointing for the guys as, having started semi-naked she ended up fully clothed. The only things not removed were his shoes and socks. Such a classy touch!