by Kirk Alex
She kept a close eye on the cash as they divvied it up, making sure that Dione Aragon, who was preoccupied with her baby, did not get shortchanged.
Dressing room door banged open and no one jumped higher than Lana, who had half-expected her mother to barge in, demanding the usual: her “share of the cash.”
Mrs. Sepulveda had had a couple of drinks, as was her custom, and walked in with three young boys in tow. The youngest being eight years old, the oldest no more than eleven. Lana’s mother could not have been more than thirty-eight herself. Easily appeared years older.
She wasted no time reaching for the greenbacks in her daughter’s hands.
“What do you do with all your welfare money, Ma?” exploded Lana, and snatched the money back.
“I got obligations,” her mother shouted, waving various utility bills in her hand. “I got mouths to feed.”
“If you used contraceptives once in a while you wouldn’t have so many goddamn kids to support. I got rent; I got bills, too. You think my roommates would let me stay in the apartment if I didn’t come up with my share of the rent every month? Ask them, Ma. Go on, ask them. Be real, will you.”
“How many times do I have to explain about the Catholic Church and the pill?” her mother said. “Pope is against the pill. What do you want me to do about it?”
“Take it up with the Pope,” said Lana. “I don’t want to hear it.” She shook her head. Got another smoke going. She counted out a few five dollar bills and singles. Shoved them in her mother’s face. “Be happy. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
While this was going on, Pearleen handed a box of See’s chocolate candy to the youngest of Mrs. Sepulveda’s boys.
“What do you say?” Mrs. Sepulveda said to her son. “Well, what is it? You know better than that. You have been taught better.”
All three boys were thanking Pearleen just as a peroxide blond with a bad complexion stuck her head in the door.
“Ms. LaBelle,” the woman said to Pearleen Bell, “Mr. McCoy wants to see YOU in his office.”
“What’s he want now?”
“As if you didn’t know,” Lana remarked facetiously.
“Mine is not to question,” said the messenger, “merely to deliver the message.” And she was gone.
“Man’s in love with you, Pearl honey,” Stella said.
“Make life easier for yourself and go for it. Got a Sugar Daddy waiting to be made,” said Lana.
“I am so sick of his bullshit.” Pearleen got into her trench coat. “Why is it I’m the one gets harassed all the time?”
“You be nice to the gentleman now, he’ll be nice to you.”
Pearleen Bell shot Lana a scowl. Held it. Grabbed her purse, and left the dressing room.
“If looks could kill,” snickered Lana. “Bitch could at least buy herself a sense of humor with all the bucks she rakes in.”
CHAPTER 54
A black tom named Ahmed had his snout buried in a can of tuna on a corner of the Cabaret owner’s desk. Framed photos (featuring suspect autographs) of football greats Jim Brown, Fred “The Hammer” Williamson, actor Billy Dee Williams, comics George Wallace and Rodney Dangerfield; poster from the film CAR WASH signed by Richard Pryor, George Carlin, and other cast members hung from wood-paneled office walls.
There was a movie poster from Lady Sings the Blues, posters and/or flyers from appearances by Willie Dixon from years ago at various Euro venues, of Howlin’ Wolf and Robert Johnson, Duke Ellington and his orchestra, Count Basie; baseball figures Hank Aaron, Willy Mays, Jackie Robinson; boxers Mohammad Ali, Tommy “Hit Man” Hearns, Evander Holyfield, Joe Frazier.
Fritz McCoy, not so much as tall, but large, sat in a black leather swivel behind the massive desk sucking on a Cuban cigar. He had a three-piece pin-striped suit on, white shirt with the top buttons unbuttoned that revealed several gold chains. The sausage-like fingers sported too many rings; the wristwatch easily retailed at ten grand.
The suit he wore was far from second-rate, not that it mattered much or did anything for his looks and general appearance. The stogie puffing Casbah owner could have been attired in a custom-tailored outfit with a fourteen-hundred-dollar price tag and it still would have looked like it had been purchased at a Lankershim Boulevard thrift store for under three sawbucks.
McCoy’s jet black hair was styled in a pompadour and kept this way with a generous amount of pomade, and he was sweating a little more than was usual for him in this air-conditioned office, sweating and carefully running a comb through his perfectly coiffed hair that didn’t need it, making certain all the same that every single marcelled strand was in place before LaBelle of the Ball appeared.
He put the comb away. The unwanted, excess grease across the top of his brow and ears he dabbed at with a white handkerchief.
He wiped his hands when he was done and stuffed the handkerchief back into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
There was a knock on his door.
“Please do come in.”
Office door opened, and Pearleen Bell walked in. An unlit cigarette dangled from her lips and she was rummaging inside her purse for a light.
McCoy asked her to close the door. She did that. When she turned, she found the owner tossing a small, pink-ribboned box her way. Even though thrown off guard, she caught it.
“I don’t accept gifts. We had an understanding.”
“You make my customers happy. That makes me happy. They can’t get enough of you.”
“That’s what it’s about, isn’t it?”
“Token of my appreciation. Take a look inside. Go on.”
She lifted the lid. There was what appeared to be a gold-plated lighter in there. Inscription read:
To: P.B.
Classiest lady
I know.
In gratitude,
Fritz
The ever-familiar logo, to those who frequented the Casbah Hideaway, of Ahmed in black silhouette sitting up on his hind quarters occupied the lower right corner.
She lit her cigarette.
“Nice. Unfortunately, I can’t accept it.”
As she leaned forward to place the lighter on his desk, she noticed the rails of cocaine on a hand-held mirror and a razorblade next to it on a section of his desk to the left of her left arm. The big tom continued to devour the tuna at the opposite end. She would have liked to have been able to pet the cat, her love of all animals emotionally pulled her in that direction. But she would not. Had to restrain herself. Getting too familiar with a creep like McCoy, on any level, was not a good idea. The other thing was: the dope tugged at her. The need for it. How do you pretend that you don’t want it?
She knew that McCoy knew what was going on and that there was no point trying to con her way out.
She didn’t bother.
“Keep it. Please. It’s the least I can do. You earned it.”
“I did, didn’t I? That’s not the problem. The problem is when people, club owners, do you favors, they expect favors in return. I don’t play that game.”
“No strings. Got my word. Nobody’s forcing you to do anything you don’t want to.”
“So long as we’re straight on it.”
Pearl knew better, though. A snake in the grass was a snake in the grass. Repulsive dog was after something; they were all after something. No matter what they said, no matter how hard they worked at pretending that they weren’t.
She dropped the lighter in her purse. Zipped it closed.
McCoy puffed on his expensive cigar. Probably bigger than his dick, she thought. Always smelled like horse manure, too.
She thanked him for the gift. Ached for the rails of blow on his desk. Fought the fight. To resist. They both knew it. To be sharing the same space with the lech made her less than comfortable. Pigs like this were always making passes, always making life so much tougher than it had to be.
CHAPTER 55
She dragged on her cigarette. Waited for him to talk. Only he didn’t. “If there’s
nothing else, Mr. McCoy, I’d like to get back.”
The club owner tapped ash into the ashtray.
“You been shakin’ that fine booty in my establishment for close to a year now—and I still get turned on watching you do your act. Not coming on; all I’m saying it’s rare for me to react to one of my dancers this way. Girls come and girls go. Seen one/seen them all. Funny thing is, every one of them thinks they’re special, unique—and hardly ever are. This is not a come-on, Pearleen. Strictly meant as a compliment.”
“I understand.”
McCoy indicated the cocaine.
“Help yourself.”
Truth was she would have huffed the powder the second her eyes had zeroed in on it, only with this type of slob the price was always too high.
“What do I got to do? Fuck you? That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Not like you to be vulgar.”
“That’s what you’re after, isn’t it? In spite of what you insisted a minute ago.” And she saw him attempt to flash that unappealing wolfish grin he’d been testing out on her from day one. Degenerates were the same. Give you a job and act like they own you. Body and soul. Nasty old fool.
“Come see my new Jacuzzi. You’re not obligated. No strings. I give you my word.”
“I explained myself when I took this job, Mr. McCoy. We were clear on it: I’m not a prostitute. I’m paid to dance. Nothing more. I don’t fuck your customers, your associates—or the club’s owner. Men like you, too many men like you, expect me to put out. I don’t do that shit. I’m a professional dancer and get paid to dance, on a stage, and nothing additional.”
If there was too much of the gutter in her outburst she didn’t give a damn at this point, because the situation had called for it. If you acted meek and respectful and “proper” with these slimy bastards they took advantage of it; they were all over you then. Treated you like dirt. She wasn’t about to let them trample what remained of her self-esteem. I’ll be courteous and respectful and treat people like human beings when they treat me the same way, but when all they are after is that other thing, when all they know how to do is treat you like a tramp because of your circumstances and are forced to work places like this, what they’ll get is the gutter thrown right back at them.
She straightened. Stood there and waited. You want to fire me? Go ahead, fatso; fire me. I can get a job taking my clothes off anywhere. Town’s full of places like this. The only reason she was still in LA doing all this and not in Vegas was because she needed to save up enough money, buy a better car, improve her wardrobe, continue to refine her act and she would definitely be headed for Vegas and other big towns, maybe even Paris. Why the hell not? She might go to Paris. Josephine Baker did. All she had to do was get a passport, put together a nest egg.
She waited for him to respond. Say something, you pig. Didn’t expect me to throw your crap right back at you, did you?
“No need to get uptight, baby. You’re a professional, I’m a professional.” McCoy indicated the coke again. “Help yourself. That’s my way of showing appreciation for the crowds you draw. They like you, no doubt about it.”
“As long as we understand each other.”
Pearleen walked over to the desk, bent down and snorted up the cocaine with a tooter. Up one nostril, then the other. Blow was great. She held the mirror up. Flicked her nose with the tip of her index finger. “I appreciate being appreciated.”
“Your mama and step-daddy’s been calling again, pleading with me to try to talk you into moving back home.”
“They can go to hell.”
“That ain’t nice.”
“You want nice, Mr. McCoy?”
Pearleen proceeded to remove body makeup from her arms, left ankle, right ankle, revealing a series of old and not-so-old scars and bruises.
“Here’s a nice scar they left me with to remember them by; and here’s another one, and another one—from when I was younger and couldn’t defend myself. They want me to move back in with them for one reason: so they can keep draining me financially, the way Lana’s mother keeps draining Lana. Only Mrs. Sepulveda is a saint compared to my mother and stepfather. So I’ll tell you what, Mr. Fritz McCoy: You live your life your way and I will live my life my way—and we’ll just keep my parents out of it.”
She turned to leave. Paused at the door. “I want to thank you again for the toot.”
And she was gone. Had closed the door behind her at least.
McCoy puffed on his stogie.
“You’ll come around, bitch. . . . Just like the others, just like all the others.”
The notion made him chuckle. Ahmed leapt onto his lap, seeking attention. Fritz rubbed the back of the cat’s neck.
CHAPTER 56
On the other side of that same office door Pearleen had taken a minute to regain her equilibrium, compose herself. The tough broad act she had just pulled off in there with the disgusting slob had not been easy and had taken a lot out of her. Then, too, her eyes had begun to well because she knew that this cocaine business was beginning to rule and ruin her life. Fact was the only reason she worked at a place like this was because of her need for blow. She could have easily been playing a fancy Reno or Vegas showroom by now. She had the height. Had the figure. Was attractive enough, and she was a damned good dancer—as good as any of those Las Vegas showgirls.
But it was the goddamned dope. And she had done it again: taken the fat creep’s toot, snorted it; and every time afterwards had promised that that would be the last time. Would never do it again. McCoy was getting to her. Little by little, bit by bit.
She’d been huffing his powder, as well as Cecil’s and Marvin’s and anyone else’s she could get her hands on; spent most of her earnings on it, but kept telling herself she wasn’t hooked.
Deny, deny; deny it. Keep denying it to yourself. Keep bullshitting yourself, Pearleen. Keep saying you’re not addicted; you’re no coke-head. You won’t sleep with some low dog just because you have a need for dope. Not you. That’s not you. You won’t stoop to that level. You won’t do it. You can’t. . . .
CHAPTER 57
Pearleen Bell returned to the dressing room. Lana and her mother were still going at it, matching one another decibel for decibel.
“Who are you shouting at? This is your mother you’re talking to. I know what you waste your money on. I know. Don’t tell me fairy tales.”
Pearleen settled on a stool in a corner to the left of the door, away from most of the ruckus. She sat there at the vanity looking at nothing, dragged on a butt, and made every effort to tune out the fighting. It took a good deal of hard concentration to accomplish this.
Mrs. Sepulveda was glaring at the girls, giving them the piercing once-over, the pointing, accusing finger.
“All of you in here, with the possible exception of Pearl, squander your income on dope. Drugs. What a waste.”
“And you blow all the cash you get from Lana on booze and Bingo parlors, Mrs. Sepulveda,” said Stella Martel out of the side of her mouth.
“You stay out of this,” Lana’s mother said to the stripper.
“You already got most of my money, Ma. Told you before: a percentage of it goes to musicians and bouncers. Ain’t all ours to keep.”
“How much?”
“Why don’t you just leave? That’s ‘how much.’ Take the kids out of here. They don’t belong in here. This is a ladies’ dressing room, not a nursery.”
“Tell it to the parents of that baby.” Lana’s mother was pointing at Dione, who continued to nurse her daughter.
“I’m sick and tired of you doing this to me. You’re draining me. I work hard for every dime I get. Do you think I enjoy taking my clothes off in front of all those strangers out there?”
“More than you care to admit,” Pearleen said under her breath, and dragged on her cigarette without ever looking at them.
Lana hadn’t cared for the remark. Allowed it to pass. She had her mother to deal with.
“Why don’t you get
a husband who’ll stick around long enough to support them brats, Ma? You got to stop having kids, Ma. It ain’t my fault you got so many kids.”
“I can take care of my little ones. Don’t you worry about that, missy.”
“Surprised you ain’t brung the rest of them over. Treat this place like a nursery. Want me to get shit-canned? This is not a nursery; it’s no place for kids. No, Dione’s not supposed to have her baby in here. At least she works here. She has a reason to be here. On the other hand, you don’t. Get it?”
Mrs. Sepulveda did not say anything just then and shook her head. She was looking at her daughter, at the other strippers. Took it all in the way she had just a moment ago.
She seemed saddened by the whole situation: shoddy dressing room, sleazy atmosphere of the strip club and the kind of lowlifes who frequented places like this. It saddened and depressed her.
“God help you. God help you. You’re destroying yourselves with drugs, with this kind of nowhere life. You think you got your looks forever? Gonna stay young and beautiful forever? Men will throw themselves at you; give you their money? It goes. It all goes. Quicker than you think. A few fast years, all of a sudden you’re pushing forty, don’t look so hot no more.”
“Thanks for the sermon, Ma. Now I won’t have to go to church this week.”
“It wouldn’t hurt if you did.”
“At least I know enough to use birth control, don’t I, Ma?”
