Death, Taxes, and Hot-Pink Leg Warmers

by Diane Kelly

  Bernice took a seat on the swing and gave herself a little push with her heels to set the swing in motion. As her small group of fans cheered her on, she swung her long legs upward to gain momentum, arching her back as the swing ascended, the points of her tassels aimed at the heavens. She swung back and forth across the stage, the fringed swing going higher with each arc. As the swing reached its pinnacle, Bernice reached out a toe and kicked a silver bell hanging from the ceiling. Ting-ting!

  The men hooted, hollered, and applauded.

  Bernice twisted in the seat, causing the swing to turn in the other direction. She reached out her toe and kicked another bell mounted on the ceiling on the other side of the stage. Ting-ting!

  Her fans went nuts again.

  Bernice went on to perform several stunts on the swing. She lifted her legs up and entwined them around the ropes until she hung vertically upside down. She spun herself in clockwise circles until the rope was tightly twisted, then whipped around in the other direction as the rope untwisted itself, her tassels whipping around with her. As the swing slowed, she shifted to a sideways position, straddling the seat and swinging front to back in a sensual rocking motion.

  Bernice definitely put the “sex” in “sexagenarian.”

  Her fans went wild, leaping from their seats and whistling. Bernice sure knew how to please this crowd.

  I entered the dressing room to find three girls in various stages of dress seated before the mirrors. One held a mascara wand in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other. Another worked a curling iron. The third applied body glitter to her chest.

  “Hi,” I said, giving them a friendly wave. “I’m Sara. I’ll be working in the cash office with Merle.”

  The women introduced themselves and welcomed me to the club. They seemed nice enough. I felt a little guilty that I’d be putting them out of work soon, at least temporarily.

  My cell phone bleeped as I hung my purse on the hook in my locker. I pulled it out to find a text from Nick.

  This dipshit mentions ur ass again hes dead.

  I smiled despite myself. Nick’s jealousy and possessiveness were flattering.

  I stuck my cell phone into my pants pocket and closed my locker, sliding the combination lock through the hole on the handle and pushing it together with a click. I left the dressing room and walked back through the club, glancing around at the men seated at the booths and tables, wondering whether any of them was a meth dealer here to drop off or pick up a stash.

  A guy who could be Tarzan’s younger brother guarded the door to the administrative offices tonight. From the dull look on his face, I surmised he might have fed on a steady diet of lead-paint chips as a child. He had a narrow nose and eyes set so close together they blended into one big eyeball when I let my vision fuzz.

  “I’m Sara,” I said. “The new bookkeeper.”

  “I’m Ryan.”

  Nah, I thought. You’re Cyclops.

  He pointed his finger downward and made a rotating motion. “Balls to the wall. I gotta frisk ya.”

  Though I had no balls to put to the wall, I turned around and raised my hands over my head, leaning on the wall.

  Cyclops stepped up behind me, pressing his body against mine as he ran his hands up my arms. He backed up only an inch or two as he ran his hands down my sides, his fingertips not just grazing my breasts but virtually groping them.

  Rage flared in me at the violation. This guy was pushing his luck.

  He reached into the pocket of my pants and pulled out my cell phone, taking a quick glance at it before returning it to my pocket. He knelt on the floor to run his hands down the outside of my pants, lifting the hem and eyeing the leg warmers when he felt the unusual bulk on my calves. He slowly stood, his hands making their way up my inseam now. Fondling my boobs had been bad enough, but when he cupped my crotch from behind he’d taken things too far.

  I rammed my elbow backward into his gut.

  Oomph. He buckled in two, clutching his stomach, retching involuntarily.

  Whaddya know. Lu was right. I did my best work when I was angry.

  I leaned down and whispered in Ryan’s ear. “You will never touch me like that again. Got it?”

  He offered a feeble nod.

  I stood up and straightened my clothing. “Let me in now.”

  Cyclops unlocked the door and I stepped into the hallway. I may have been mistaken, but I think I heard him utter the word “bitch” as he slammed the door behind me.

  My cell vibrated with another incoming text and I pulled it from my pocket. Again, the message was from Nick. Nice move.

  He’d been watching, huh? Although I could take care of myself, it was nice to know Nick had my back.

  Merle and I went through the same routine as the day before. I knocked on the door to the cash office, and he peeked out the window to verify my identity before granting me entrance.

  “Hi, Merle.”

  “Nice to see you, Sara.”

  I stepped over to my desk, noting a single pink carnation with greenery and babies’ breath in a glass vase. The small card propped against it read WELCOME, SARA.

  I picked up the card and turned to Merle. “Is the flower from you?”

  He nodded.

  “This is really sweet.” So much nicer than being felt up. I found myself hoping he wasn’t cooking the books for his boss. I kinda liked the guy. Then again, I’d kinda liked Margie Bainbridge until she’d fractured my skull with the bat. Apparently I was a poor judge of character.

  Merle shrugged. “The flower is nothing, trust me. Donald Geils works us like dogs in here.”

  “Dogs, huh?” I set the card back down and raised limp hands on either side of my chin like puppy paws. “Woof-woof.”

  “Sara, Sara, Sara.” Merle shook his head, though he cracked a small smile, too. He sat down at his desk. “Let’s get you a door code. Each employee has a unique number. You can pick yours if you want.”

  I chose 1128. The numbers represented the date I would be released from the no-nooky clause in what I’d now come to think of as my breakup agreement with Brett.

  November 28.

  The day Nick and I would finally consummate our relationship.

  Forcing my thoughts back to the task at hand, I asked, “Does the code work on all the keypads?”

  “No,” Merle said. “Your code will only open the cash office and the dressing room.”

  Geils’s security system was a tight one. I wouldn’t be able to get in the front door unless someone else let me in and I wouldn’t be able to enter the cash office without someone first letting me through the door to the administrative wing.

  My new supervisor showed me how to log in to the bar’s network and gave me an overview of their recordkeeping, which was relatively simple.

  “I pay the bills,” Merle said, “so you won’t need to worry about expenses. You’ll be responsible for tabulating the receipts. We’ve got five types of income. The lunch and dinner buffet, bar receipts, cover charges, tips, and the state SOB fee.”

  “SOB? The state charges a fee for being a son of a bitch?”

  Merle offered a patient smile at my lame joke. “It should, but no. The SOB fee is a sin tax that applies to sexually oriented businesses. Five bucks per head entry fee.”

  Even the state was cashing in on the sex trade. “Got it.”

  He explained that, in addition to the state-imposed SOB fee, the club charged a ten-dollar cover charge on weekdays, twenty on the weekend. No matter what day it was, however, a standard cover charge was required to enter the VIP lounge.

  “What’s the fee to get into the VIP room?” I asked.

  An uneasy look crossed Merle’s face and he turned away from me, reaching for the bottle of Crown Royal and pouring a finger into his highball glass. “A hundred bucks.”

  I knew exactly what that hundred bucks represented and from the look I’d seen on Merle’s face I suspected he knew, too. Donald Geils’s pimp fee. I was tempted to ask why the co
ver was so high, see what kind of explanation Merle might come up with, but I didn’t want to clue Merle in that I might be on to the activities that took place back there.

  “The club also requires a two-drink minimum,” he said.

  If you’re going to ogle the boobies, you have to do it with a drink in your hand.

  “Your username will be SGalloway,” Merle said, pecking away on the keyboard to set up my login. “You can choose your own password.”

  Hmm. I’d recently changed my password at the IRS from “tara+brett” to “take-me-now-nick,” but I figured I should go for something less obvious here. I chose “fine-little-caboose.” I maneuvered the computer mouse, clicked to enter the cover charge account, and consulted the screen. “I see that the cover-income account is divided into two subaccounts, one for door charges and one for the VIP room. How will I know which account to credit?”

  Merle took a sip of his Crown Royal. “The guys will tell you when they bring the money in.”

  “Sounds easy enough.”

  “It is. The only hard part is keeping up with the counts. You wouldn’t believe how much money runs through this place. Don Geils is making money hand over fist.”

  I didn’t want to think too much about the hands and fists that were making money for that pig, particularly not the fists. Ew.

  Merle handed me a stack of envelopes. “If you get backed up, put the money in an envelope and write the time and account on the outside for later.”

  “Got it.” I took the stack from him, noting the envelopes appeared to have been recycled. Names, dates, and amounts had been written on them, then crossed out and replaced with others. I’d like to think the procedure was a sign of green thinking, that Don Geils cared about the environment. More likely it was a reflection of his cheapness when it came to his employees.

  A soft knock sounded on the door. Merle stepped to the window, peeked through it, and opened the door to allow Bernice in, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Do come in, my dear. You are looking lovely as always.”

  “Oh, Merle,” Bernice said. “You’re such a charmer.” She handed him a stack of bills and took a seat in the room’s only wing chair, bending over to unbuckle her shoes.

  Merle handed the stack to me and introduced us. “Bernice, this is the new bookkeeper, Sara. Sara, this beautiful creature is Bernice LaBerge, the pride and joy of Guys and Dolls.”

  Bernice and I had already met, but Merle didn’t know that.

  “Nice to meet you, Bernice,” I said. “I noticed you had a crowd of admirers out there.”

  “My fans are quite loyal. They’ve been coming to see me for years.”

  How many years? I wanted to ask.

  She pulled off one shoe before setting to work on the other. “Of course, my fans were far more generous before they went on Social Security.”

  She and Merle shared a laugh.

  Merle pulled his rolling chair over in front of Bernice. Once she’d freed her other foot from the stiletto, she raised her feet and placed them in Merle’s lap. He immediately set to work giving her a foot rub.

  Bernice leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Aah. That’s the ticket, Merle. That’s the ticket.”

  I counted the cash Bernice had handed me, wondering if Donald Geils was watching me through the security camera. Sixty-seven dollars. Not too shabby for an hour’s work.

  While Bernice and Merle chatted, I pulled up the tips account, found Bernice’s name on the list of employees, and input the date, time, and amount of her tips.

  Her aching feet now sufficiently rubbed, Bernice reached down, hooked a finger through the back strap of each shoe and stood to go.

  Merle looked up at her with puppy-dog eyes. “When are you going to be my girl, Bernice?”

  She put a hand to his cheek. “Someday, Merle,” she said softly. “Someday.” She touched her lips gently to his bald head and quietly stepped out of the room.

  chapter twelve

  All That Glitters Is Not Gold

  After Bernice left, Merle remained with his back to me for several seconds, not moving, until he finally issued a sigh and turned around. “Think you got how the system works?”

  “Easy peasy.”

  “Good.” He stood. “I need to visit the men’s room.”

  While Merle was away, the girl who had been performing the lap dance came to the cash office door. I opened it and she handed me her tips.

  “I’m Candy,” she said. “With a y.”

  The only y on my mind was, Why is she telling me how to spell Candy? “Okaaay.”

  As Candy stepped away, the other dancer came through the door.

  “Hi,” she said, handing me a warm and slightly damp stack of bills. Urk. At least the girl couldn’t be accused of not giving it her all on the stage. “I’m Candi,” she said. “With an i.”

  Aha! Now the spelling lesson made sense. “Candi with an i. Got it.”

  I closed the door and put the money in two envelopes, one for Candy with a y and one for Candi with an i. Candi with an i had a bigger stack, probably because she was more stacked.

  I’d just taken my seat to count the dancers’ tips when another knock sounded at the door. I looked through the window to see Christina standing in the hallway dressed in a Guys & Dolls cocktail-waitress uniform—a sheer-sleeved black halter top with a matching micromini, fishnet tights, and heels. She’d added a rhinestone choker for a touch of class. The skimpy uniform revealed quite a bit of Christina’s cleavage, as well as several inches of flat, brown belly. Her dark hair hung loose and wild. She held a round drink tray tucked under one arm.

  I opened the door, noting Don Geils’s office door across the hall was now open, too.

  “Hi,” she said. “I need a cash tray, please.”

  “And you are?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

  “Christie,” she said.

  I retrieved one of the small plastic money tills, counted out forty dollars in start-up cash as Merle had directed me, and handed the till to Christina.

  Geils appeared in his hallway, standing much closer to Christina than necessary, another toothpick between his lips. “Take off the ring.”

  Christina instinctively took a step back. “Excuse me?”

  Geils grabbed her left hand and held it up. “This ring. Take it off.”

  On her hand was the enormous engagement ring her fiancé, a doctor named Ajay Maju, had recently given her. Ajay worked at a downtown minor emergency clinic. Given my proclivity for injury, he and I were well acquainted. In fact, I was the one who’d introduced Christina and Ajay after she’d accidentally shot me in the face with pepper spray.

  Christina frowned at Geils. “But, sir, the ring—”

  Geils slapped a hand over her mouth, and it took everything in me not to grab his arm, twist it up behind him, and push on it until he cried “Uncle!” Christina’s rigid posture told me she felt the same.

  “You better learn something quick, honey,” Geils spat at Christina. “What I say goes around here. You got that?”

  When she nodded he removed his hand.

  Geils pulled the toothpick from his mouth and jabbed it at her for emphasis. “The customers don’t think they got a chance with you, they ain’t gonna drink as much or tip as good. Christ’s sake, a cocktail waitress oughta fuckin’ know that.”

  Christina ducked her head. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll go put it in my locker.”

  “Leave the cash with Sara until you get back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Christina didn’t look at me as she handed the till back and left to put her ring in the locker. A good thing, probably. All it would’ve taken was a look of violation in her eyes to push me over the edge. Self-control wasn’t one of my virtues.

  Till in hand and anger temporarily in check, I retreated into the cash office, closed the door, and set the box on my desk. I picked up Candy with a y’s envelope, pulled out the cash, and began counting it, noticing some of
her body glitter had transferred to the bills. George Washington sparkled like a drag queen.

  Merle returned, took a seat, and pulled a file folder from the right drawer of his desk. I watched as he removed a stack of invoices. The one on top bore the Stillwater Spirits double s logo.

  Looked like an opportunity to dig for information under the guise of a dutiful worker keeping an eye on her employer’s bottom line. I gestured to the invoice. “I noticed the delivery truck from Stillwater Spirits earlier. I would’ve thought getting liquor from a local supplier would be cheaper.” I hoped it sounded like a legitimate question.

  “We didn’t use this outfit until Mr. Geils took over the club,” Merle said. “Their prices are about the same as the local distributors, but Geils got them to waive the delivery charge and agree to rebates when he buys in bulk.”

  Rebates, huh? Interesting. The rebates could be legitimate. Then again, the rebates could be a way of crediting Geils for the cost of crystal meth and laundering the drug funds. I made a mental note to pass this information on to Aaron Menger. I wondered if I could make a copy of the invoice to show him. The printer in the office was one of those all-in-one machines that could also make copies, scan documents, and send faxes. But with a security camera in the room, I’d be taking a risk of getting caught and blowing the case.

  I kept a discreet eye on Merle, making notes on his bill-paying procedures. He stamped the hard copy of the invoice PAID and scribbled the date below the stamp. He scanned the document, saved it to a computer file, then submitted the payment online. Good. Stealing computer data was often quicker and easier than dealing with hard copies.

  The bill now paid, Merle fed the paper invoice into a shredder next to his desk.

  Out on the stage, a barely legal girl in pigtails, knee-high socks, and a scandalously short plaid schoolgirl uniform paraded around to the Van Halen classic “Hot for Teacher.” By the end of the song, she’d removed her blouse, socks, and hair ribbons, and spun around a pole wearing nothing but the skirt and a jeweled rosary that hung between her ample breasts. The display was wrong on so many levels. The dancer who succeeded her paraded around to the explicit Lil Wayne song “Lollipop” with a pair of colorful, oversized suckers she strategically used to cover and then reveal her breasts.