“Hi, handsome. Is that a down payment for anything in particular?”
“I need some information,” Sal said. “I’m looking for a girl named Janie Camino. Thought you ladies might know her.”
“Sorry, hun. Don’t know anyone by that name,” the woman responded.
“What about a dancer named Luz?” Sal asked and did his best to describe her in all the detail Nancy had given him.
“Now that name does sound familiar,” the woman said. “Let me ask my girls.” Sal waited anxiously but felt he might have struck oil on the first try. Before long, the woman returned and motioned for him to follow her into an entryway out of the cold wind.
“She’s not one of our girls,” the woman said.
“But they heard of her?”
“About a week ago, a customer asked for her by name, but no one saw her.”
“What strip joints do you have round here? This place seems pretty dead.”
“There’s the Blue Rooster on Second and Twenty-fourth and Caliente’s on Third and Nineteenth.”
“Thanks,” Sal said, reaching into his pocket and handing the prostitute another bill.
“Can I be of any service before you go over, honey?” She looked Sal up and down. “I see a lot of man here.”
“No thanks, sweetheart.”
Within minutes, Sal parked in front of the Blue Rooster, which was tucked between a laundromat and a vacuum cleaner repair shop on the eastern side of Second. The front was painted black and the name was written in light-blue neon that flickered dimly above the picture of a rooster. Some letters were out entirely, so it read “The Blu Rooste”. The squalor repulsed Sal and he wondered how anyone could work in this rundown joint, with vomit and piss smells ingrained, it seemed, into the entrance’s sidewalk. Though he heard no music playing and the bar looked closed, its door was unlocked and Sal walked inside.
The place was empty, save for a few older black men at the bar’s far end. In the back, by the bare purplish-blue carpeted stage, a lanky young black man arranged some sound equipment and another wiped down tables and positioned chairs for the evening’s customers. Sal sat near the door, grabbed some pretzels from a bowl on the bar counter and waited for the bartender.
A tall burly man with impressive dreadlocks approached him. “We not opun jet, mun,” he told Sal. “Twelve is when our gurls start shakun’, mun.”
“Okay chief,” Sal said and got up. “I’m early. Hey, does a girl named Janie Camino dance here? She’s a friend. Was hoping to catch her show.”
“Nah, mun. She not won of my gurls. No Janie Camioh work ‘ere, mun.”
“What about a hot Spanish girl named Luz?”
“Nah, mun, she not ‘ere tonight,” the bartender replied. “She be shakun’ ‘ere on Nuyears, mun.”
“Cool. So is she down at Caliente’s then?” Sal asked.
“Maybe, mun, o’ in Queens. Yah ah good fren’ o’ Luz, mun?”
“You could say that,” Sal said and winked. “Didn’t know she worked in Queens, though. Whereabouts?”
“Da Wisskey Ohasis. Da ba’ unda’ da train, mun. Asstorea.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. In Astoria. Near Broadway,” Sal said. “That’s a hoppin’ joint.”
Sal smiled, extended his hand and said, “Thanks chief.”
The bartender laughed and shook Sal’s hand firmly.
Sal walked out the door, rushed to his cab and drove to Caliente’s. Unlike the Blue Rooster, Caliente’s was brightly lit and conspicuous. Its two large windows sported neon beer signs and effigies of dancers in sexy poses and the words “Topless Dancers” and “Hot Girls Inside.” Above its wide corner door, the name “Caliente’s” glowed in bright blue and yellow, and underneath it, sitting on a bed of flames in fiery red neon, two devils whose joined tails formed a heart, grinned. With its ostentatiousness, the place beckoned men of all sectors to enter its infernal confines. Sal parked, took a pair of nunchucks out of his Checker’s trunk, tucked them into his waistband at his lower back and covered them with his black leather coat. He yanked open the door and burst into the strip club.
Cigarette and cigar smoke, liquor and sweat, all hung heavily throughout the place like clouds before a storm. Conversations, barely discernible from a distance, were slowed by heavy drinking and collided to produce an irritating drone overwhelmed by music blasting from ceiling speakers. A lone young woman in nothing but a G-string that held folded bills like fishing lure, gyrated to the pulse of Earth, Wind & Fire’s “And Love Goes On.” She shook her breasts to the beat, her dark nipples staring at the drunkards like eager female eyes, then dipped her head and kissed each nipple; she swung her hands toward her bottom and squeezed her meaty cheeks, enticing her audience into frenzy. Men approached the stage, reached for their wallets, and produced their offering — usually several dirty Washingtons or a Lincoln, but sometimes, depending on the level of their intoxication, a Hamilton or Jackson would be hung on the woman’s wire.
Sal had snuck into several of these bars in Queens when he was a teenager. Back then, the thrill of sneaking in had dominated the fun of a night, but these days, Sal was repulsed by the whole scene. He hated the squalor, the dumb drunks who would not keep their filthy hands off the dancers, the owners who often cheated the girls of their wages or forced them in back rooms to have unwanted sex. Years ago, Sal had witnessed such an episode, and it changed him forever. He had spied the owner grab one of the dancers and force her into a back room close to where he was sitting. The door was left slightly ajar, and Sal could hear her trying to get away, pleading to be left alone, then finally quiet, as she endured the assault. He’d come very close to going in there and yanking the owner off of her, but he stayed out of it. He saw her leaving not long after, dressed in her street clothes, her makeup smeared by tears.
For the rest of that night Sal drank, felt furious for not acting. For days afterward, he’d dwelled on the episode and vowed that if a similar situation ever presented itself, he’d intervene. And now it was here. He could get Janie out of a hellhole like this one, if he could find her.
Sal ordered a Budweiser, lit a cigarette and stared at the shapely young woman on stage as the smoke and colored lights swirled around him. He drank his beer quickly and had a second, drinking it even faster. When he guzzled his third beer, he could feel the alcohol surging through his blood, and his face flushed with anger and shame at what had happened in a bar like this, all those years ago, and at the temptation he’d nearly succumbed to today. He looked around at all the lost men; like them, he was just another dirty-minded, disgusting man.
Sal remembered his older brother bragging to him about his escapades at shady Brooklyn strip joints like this one. That recollection was followed by other hateful ones: the feel of nunchucks ripping open the skin on his back, the mockery directed at him because he was overweight and the fierce voice of his brother shattering his sisters’ confidence daily. If his brother were to magically appear before him, Sal was sure he’d kill him without hesitation. He reached back and felt the chucks under his jacket. By this point, he was dizzy but ordered a shot of whiskey anyway. He was going to get to the bottom of what had happened to Janie, even if it took all night. Someone in this joint had to know something. “I Will Survive” came on and the irritating array of thoughts rifling through Sal’s mind was interrupted. Apparently, this was the young dancer’s last song and the men got more boisterous as they saw her really getting into it, gyrating across the stage like a wild top, putting as much energy into it as she could, knowing of course, that perhaps a few large tips would follow, invitations for drinks and maybe some spectacular offers for late night overtime.
Sal was looking for information, so he took out a Jackson as the song neared conclusion and meandered to the stage to hang the bill on the line and invite the dancer for a drink before the other hopefuls beat him to it. No sooner had Sal approached her and leaned in to hang his dirty laundry than two other drunken suitors swung up to crowd him. Sal did no
t like drunks, even though he himself was one by now, and as these men jostled him while reaching for the woman’s G-string with their own bills, Sal turned and pushed them.
“Back off, assholes! Can’t you see I’m trying to talk to the lady here? Stand the fuck back and wait your turn!”
One man stumbled back and the other tumbled like a bowling pin, taking down a small table with him. He got up slowly, uttered a weak “Sorry man,” while he brought the fallen table upright. The other guy returned to his table without saying anything, perhaps too embarrassed; he kept his head down as Sal turned in his direction for any possible objection. None came.
Everyone at the bar turned to see what had happened; the dancer stood still, waiting for the scuffle to be over. This was something she was used to. She enjoyed seeing grown men fight for her attention. A bouncer came over to see what the disturbance was about, gestured to Sal with palms up and arms extended outward, but realizing that it was over, moved back to his position by the door as Sal complained loudly enough for all to hear.
“I’m just trying to talk to the lady here. Those fuckers were crowding me. What’s the problem?”
Sal escorted the dancer toward the back where she’d freshen up and join him in a few minutes. He felt for his chucks as he headed toward the bar. Ten minutes later, the young woman joined him and Sal ordered her a margarita. In the background, the Bee Gees sang “How Deep Is Your Love.” The new dancer had not taken the stage yet and a few tables toward the front cleared. It was early, just after eleven, and the real drunkards had not arrived. Most of the customers at this hour were well-dressed executives working late and grabbing a drink with a buddy before heading home.
“How are you, sweetheart?” Sal asked, as if he were about to romance her.
“I’m fine. Thanks for the tip and drink. I love margaritas.” She winked seductively at Sal, a sure indication that she looked to carry this flirtation further.
“You’re welcome.” Sal stroked his mustache and tried to relax. From this close, he could see the young woman was just a kid — certainly way too young to be dancing in this filthy joint. Her voice seemed familiar. In fact, he was all but sure he’d seen her somewhere before, but in his drunken daze and the dim bar lighting he did not realize that it was actually Janie who sat before him.
Janie was attracted to aggressive men. She leaned in closer, her warm hazel eyes hypnotizing as the long blue robe she wore loosened a little on top. Sal felt himself weakening.
“You’re putting on a nice show,” he said.
“Thanks. I have two more sets before my man takes me home.”
“Glad you’ve got someone taking you home and won’t have to get a ride from any of these drunken jerks.”
“I can tell Tommy I’ve got a ride, if you’ve got something in mind. Of course, that will cost you.” She smiled. This was where the real money lay.
Sal sobered the instant he heard the name Tommy. Could this be Janie? Finally, he thought, some damned thing might go right to end this bizarre day. He looked at the girl again; yes, she definitely resembled Nancy. This had to be her. He felt euphoric and was suddenly struck by how easy this might be after all. He weighed his options. But because alcohol still burned through his veins, patience was not the card Sal chose to play. He wasn’t about to wait till closing time to get Janie out of the place for good. And, more than anything else, Sal was aching for a fight.
“I most certainly have plans for us … uh …” Sal pointed at her.
“Janie,” she said, inching closer and pressing against his upper arm.
“Yeah, Janie. Bingo. We can go to my friend’s place across town. But I don’t want to wait. The sooner we’re alone the better. You can give me a private dance and make a hell of a lot more than you’ll make in this place.”
Sal reached for his wallet, pulled out five Jacksons and placed them in Janie’s palm.
“Here’s a down payment. Twenty more of those for you when we’re done. More, if that’s not enough. Just get your stuff and let’s get out of here. I can’t wait till three in the morning. I work early, sweetheart. Come on. What do you say?”
“I know Tommy won’t let me. He’s short on dancers. It’s just me and Luz tonight. But later on, I’ll do anything you want for that much.”
“Don’t worry about Tommy,” insisted Sal. “Listen, I’ll explain it to him if he asks. He’ll understand. Believe me.” Sal wanted nothing more than to have Tommy say something to him, anything, so he could wrap his chucks around his neck. “I know for a fact if he knows you’re going to clean up, he’ll have Luz up there the rest of the night. I’m really good at explaining things. Mr. Persuasion’s my nickname.”
His pleading worked. As she walked away, the bouncer (who had not taken his eyes off Sal since the earlier scuffle) went through a door at the opposite end of the bar. It wasn’t long before Fat Tommy, in a black suit and tie, emerged from an inner room. Sal stood poised to grab his chucks should this greeting be anything but cordial.
The scars from their fight were still visible on Fat Tommy’s forehead and cheeks. He was the type of man Sal hated, the type who used people then kicked them when they were down on their luck, as he’d done to Nancy. He thrived in the seedy underworld, exploiting young girls with troubled lives, getting them hooked on cocaine and heroin and sending them out on sexual errands after they’d exhausted themselves dancing for drunks.
The bouncer was doing a tough guy walk behind Tommy. Sal hated guys that sported long sideburns and goatees but shaved their heads like cue balls, though they were not balding. Sal sized him up in seconds. He was built like a locomotive; his arms, like girders that hold the weight of immense concrete floors, hung down the sides of his bulging chest. This guy, Sal could tell, had a romance going with the weight room, and though he was imposing, it was obvious he was not flexible and therein lay his weakness. A couple of whacks with the chucks at the knees would bring him down faster than a building tumbling from the force of explosives. All opponents had a weakness.
And Sal knew Tommy couldn’t fight. It was the bouncer he’d have to surprise. That’s where the chucks would come in handy. Sal turned his barstool to greet Fat Tommy head-on. Tommy spread his legs and folded his arms across his chest like a confident zookeeper set to tame a cornered animal. Sal spied the vulnerable genitalia high atop the mountain peak created by Tommy’s spread legs and knew that’s where he’d strike first.
“Come to buy me a drink you fat fuck? Those scars look good on you.” Tommy held the bouncer back when he tried to push ahead to grab Sal’s throat.
“We’d like you to leave now,” was Tommy’s poised reply. “You’ve no business here. Just get the fuck up and walk out the door if you know what’s good for you.”
Sal laughed. The thought of this weasel-faced fat slob having any control over a gorgeous girl like Janie infuriated him. He saw his chance to play Quixote here — to right at least one fucking wrong in this world. His fury whirled inside like a hurricane over the Atlantic. How dare this son of a bitch have the balls to speak to him like that?
“You fuckin’ lied to me, Tommy. Said you didn’t know where Janie was. And this whole damn time she’s been here with you. I’ve come to take her home. You know she’s too young to be out this late, don’t you?”
“Janie is home, asshole,” Tommy said. “She’s my girl. She lives with me and does what I say, understand?”
The bouncer was getting a bit restless. “Let me fuck ‘im up, Tom! Don’t let that shit talk to you like that!”
Tommy held his ground and took his eyes off Sal for a second to signal the bartender. Sal wasn’t going to wait to be ambushed from behind, so with as much force as he could manage, he launched his right leg like a brick sling shot into Tommy’s crotch. Tommy fell into the bouncer who stumbled back, caught him and brought him down to the side. Before the bouncer could disentangle himself from Fat Tommy, Sal jumped off his stool, pulled out his chucks and swung them at the big guy’s knees. He
caught the left one squarely, and though tempted to crack his skull, struck his right knee cap instead, shattering the bone. The bouncer toppled and screamed; if there was one thing Sal had learned, mostly due to the abuse he’d taken from his older brother over the years, it was how to hit hard. The bouncer wouldn’t get up anytime soon, probably not until after being wheeled on a stretcher to the hospital; his agonized screams made the remaining patrons in the bar rise from their tables and scuttle like scared sheep for the door.
Sal glanced in the direction of Janie’s dressing room, eager to see her emerge so he could escort her out to safety. He didn’t know that while he’d been crippling his foes with his chucks, the bartender had hoisted himself over the bar, so he wasn’t expecting the ambush that followed. The bartender, now behind him, plunged a large knife deep into Sal’s upper back. The eight-inch blade ripped through his leather jacket and his muscle tissue the way a deli slicer cuts through hard salami. Sal fell forward and the chucks fell out of his hand. Blood oozed out and soaked his leather as the bartender pulled out the knife and stabbed again, this time lower, deep into Sal’s right lung. Sal gasped for air, but before the bartender could stab him a third time, he managed to turn and deflect the bloody knife. Then he threw the full weight of his hefty body down on the man. The bartender fell back and hit his head on the corner of the footrest at the bottom of the bar’s façade, snapping his neck instantly.
Sal could not rise for several seconds. The bouncer, meanwhile, using the strength in his enormous arms, crawled to grab the knife lying on the bloodied floor near Sal and the bartender. But it was Tommy, recovered from the kick to his genitals, who grabbed it and stabbed Sal’s back three more times. Each knife blow penetrated Sal’s flesh like an iron stake driven into soft soil. Now almost unconscious from blood loss, Sal could not recognize what was happening and did not move or even feel the horrible blade mangling his shoulder muscles. The door attendant, a burly old black man who’d worked at Caliente’s for years, finally pulled Tommy away from Sal’s prostrate body, which lay on top of the unconscious bartender, just feet from the bouncer who had given up trying to move.
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