The Lights of Tenth Street

by Shaunti Feldhahn

  He walked quickly through the elegant lobby and took the elevator down to the hotel’s underground parking deck. He settled into the leather of his Mercedes 600SL, and enjoyed the tamed purr of the three-hundred-horsepower engine. Much better than that rattletrap Tyson had found for his use today.

  The preprogrammed entertainment center came to life, and with a soft command, the strains of Mozart’s Don Giovanni filled the car. He hummed to himself as he pointed the car toward his next stop.

  THREE

  Ronnie applied her lipstick for the second time and fumbled to put the cap back on the tube. It slipped from her fingers and rattled onto the smooth marble of the bathroom countertop.

  Tiffany’s towel-wrapped head poked around the corner from the shower. “Girl, you need to chill. There’s nothing to be nervous about. You want some weed before we go?” Her head disappeared, and Ronnie could hear her toweling off.

  “No, I won’t be able to think. It’s not that. I just …” Ronnie looked at herself in the large mirror. “I just wonder if I’m doing the right thing.”

  “Hey, it’s a job, right? Finding a good job these days is really tough. And it’s so glamorous; you’ll love it. It’s also great money … the best money you can make anywhere as a waitress at least.”

  Something in Tiffany’s voice made Ronnie turn.

  A moment later, the sound of the phone made her start. She put her hand to her chest. Maybe she should smoke some weed before the interview.

  Tiffany hurried from the bathroom. “That’ll be Marco. I forgot to tell him whether you were coming in today or tomorrow. You’re good to go, right?” A pause. “Ronnie?”

  Ronnie took a deep breath and smiled into the mirror. “Right.”

  Thirty minutes later, the two girls piled into the yellow convertible and headed out.

  The air was cold, the sun high in the sky. Ronnie pulled some sunglasses from her purse. She watched as well-appointed strip malls and leafy subdivisions sped by, her mind a bit blurry but her sensations enhanced by the quick toke Tiffany had offered. The high was already wearing off, but at least she felt less jumpy.

  “It’s so green. Even in the winter.”

  Tiffany nodded. “Yeah, lots of trees. It’s even better in the summer. The whole metro area is really pretty, and these suburbs are my favorite.”

  They turned onto another road, lined with residential areas under construction. Ronnie peered at the presale signboards.

  Affordable homes from the $300s …

  Ronnie’s mouth fell open. “Three hundred thousand dollars is affordable!”

  “Yeah, those houses aren’t even the really big ones. In a couple days I’ll drive you around Buckhead. That’ll make your eyes pop.”

  “Why is the club in this kind of area instead of … you know …”

  “A seedy downtown neighborhood?” Tiffany glanced sideways, amused. “Where do you think the customers are?”

  Ronnie looked down at her hands. “Good point.”

  A few minutes later, Tiffany sped down Tenth Street—one of the busy arterials that ran for miles through the Atlanta suburbs—and steered into a strip mall parking lot. A dozen cars dotted the pavement here and there in front of a rambling, stand-alone building.

  “Lunchtime. And late lunchtime, at that.” Tiffany pulled into a staff space at the side of the building. “Very few customers. Come on.”

  The building was actually kind of pretty and—well—almost classy. It had no windows, of course, and was painted a dark plum with shiny silver trim. A neon signboard advertised The Challenger to passersby on the nearby highway.

  It was very dark inside. Music was pulsing in the background as Ronnie followed Tiffany through a foyer and into a main room lined with tables. The primary light came from colored neon tubes high up on the walls or from the stages scattered around the room.

  There was a woman on one of the stages, and Ronnie glanced up at her. She quickly looked away. She was going to have to get used to this.

  “You must be Ronnie.” A man was approaching, hand outstretched. “I’m Marco.”

  Tiffany made the introductions, and Marco ushered them to a booth near the door. “So, Ronnie. Tiffany tells me you’re interested in a wait-staff position.” Marco smiled and gestured a waitress over. “This is Maris. Maris, Ronnie is going to be joining us shortly.”

  “Oh, goodie.”

  Ronnie looked up quickly at the acerbic tone in the woman’s voice, but the woman winked, her eyes twinkling.

  “Good to meet ya, Rennie.”

  “Ronnie,” she said. “Short for Veronica.”

  “Well, then, Veronica, what should I bring ya?”

  “A Diet Coke would be great.”

  The waitress took the others’ orders and sashayed away without a word. Bemused, Ronnie looked at Marco and then Tiffany, who started laughing.

  “Maris is from the Bronx. You’ll get used to it. It takes her a while to warm up to the competition.”

  “The comp—”

  Marco’s voice was smooth. “Just a figure of speech, Ronnie. Wait-staff jobs are coveted positions. But we’re all glad you’ll be joining us. Now I know we have some questions for each other, so let’s get down to business, shall we?”

  For the next few minutes, Marco asked about her background, and described the club’s operations. Ronnie gradually began to relax. Despite the atmosphere, maybe the managers and staff weren’t as sleazy as she thought.

  “And what sort of experience do you have?”

  “Well, for three years I’ve waitressed at the local pizza place, so I know the job.” Ronnie hesitated. “At least … I know a restaurant job.”

  Marco smiled slightly. “You’ll find that being a cocktail waitress isn’t so different. You’ll have a bit of a learning curve, of course, and you’ll need to learn all the drinks—” He paused. “And, of course, I have to ask … are you at least twenty-one years old?”

  Ronnie held his gaze as Tiffany had instructed her. “Yes, of course.”

  “Of course. Anyway, as I was saying, you’ll need to be comfortable with all the different drinks, as we tend to serve far more alcohol than food. At least at night. Lunch time is more the business-lunch crowd.”

  Ronnie risked a glance around at the few patrons scattered throughout the room. She saw the woman who had just been onstage—now wearing a stunning gold dress—weave her way toward one table, stop and chat for a moment, and then take a seat with the three men.

  She turned back to Marco, gesturing at the table, her voice rising slightly. “We have to eat with the customers?”

  Tiffany snickered. “No, silly, at least not the waitresses. When it’s slow, the dancers sit down with them so the guys get to know them and come back as regulars.”

  Ronnie took a deep breath and looked at Marco. “Just one thing. I need to know if there’s anything I should be aware of about what goes on … you know … behind the scenes.”

  “Ronnie!” Tiffany turned to her, aghast. “You can’t be implying that—”

  “Look, I’m not implying anything, and I’m no prude. I trust you, Tiff, but this is all really new to me and I just want to know if I—”

  “It’s a legitimate question,” Marco said. “This is a valid, law-abiding business and we will not tolerate any illegal activities of any kind. We pay our taxes and comply with all government regulations. We provide legitimate adult entertainment for those who choose to access it, and have the strictest procedures to ensure that the legality of our operation is not compromised.” He looked across the table, his eyes intense. “Does that answer your question?”

  Ronnie straightened. “Yes, sir, it does. Sorry for asking.”

  “It’s understandable.” Marco stood, and the girls joined him. “We’ll check your references, but based on what Tiffany has said, I don’t foresee any problems. We look forward to having you on board, Ronnie.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And call me Marco.”

&
nbsp; “Okay, Marco.”

  “We’ll see you tonight for your first shift at seven, then. It’ll be a busy time to be trained, as Saturdays are our highest-volume night. But I’m confident you’ll be able to handle it.” He gestured to Maris, across the room. “Maris will be working a double shift, and she’ll handle your training tonight.”

  “Maris?” Ronnie looked at Tiffany, confused. Tiffany looked away. “But I thought Tiffany would—”

  “I’ve assigned Maris to train you, for various reasons. She’s been a waitress far longer than Tiffany, and essentially functions as an assistant manager.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll see you in four hours.”

  Ronnie started to thank him, but Marco was already weaving his way through tables and vanishing behind a “staff only” door at the far side of the large room. She let out an explosive breath, and heard Tiffany chuckling beside her.

  “You did great. He digs you.”

  “That was digging me?”

  “Yep.” Tiffany put her arm around her friend and gave her a little squeeze. “You’ll get used to all this soon, and you’ll love it. I’m really glad you’re here.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here, as I certainly wouldn’t be doing this by myself!” She took a surreptitious glance into the darkened room, where a lone woman again danced onstage, then looked away, embarrassed by her own curiosity. For the briefest moment, she wondered what it would be like to be up there. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  They stepped from the gloom into the light, and Ronnie winced and shielded her eyes. “Wow, that is bright.”

  “You’ll get used to it. You’ll get used to a lot of things.”

  Ronnie shook her head as she climbed into the car. “It’s going to take me a while to adjust to this, I can tell.”

  “You’d be surprised. After two weeks, it’ll seem the most normal thing in the world.” Tiffany pulled out of the parking lot. “So what did you think of Marco?”

  “He seemed okay, and I’m glad he was patient with me.”

  “Yep. He liked you. Be prepared for The Question.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The ‘are you ready to try it?’ question.”

  “Try what?” She looked sharply at her friend. “Stripping, you mean? Forget it!”

  “That’s what I thought before, too. But I’ll tell you … after being around for a couple months, you won’t have any problem with it. I’ll bet you’re asking for a try-out within four weeks.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way.”

  Ronnie crossed her arms. “Tiffany, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I came all the way to Atlanta for this. You promised me it wasn’t anything weird.”

  “And I’m telling you,” Tiffany sounded impatient, “it’s not anything weird. You’re just not used to it right now, but just give it a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks—a few years! There’s no way anyone is going to convince me to take my clothes off in front of a bunch of people!”

  “You’ll convince yourself. Once you get acclimated, and once you see the difference in your income, you’ll get into it.” She hesitated. “And … it’s fun.”

  The greenery was a blur as the car sped toward Tiffany’s apartment. Ronnie didn’t look at her friend.

  “When did you stop waitressing?”

  Tiffany’s voice was light. “About four weeks ago.”

  “So that’s why you aren’t going to be doing my training tonight.”

  “That’s why.”

  Ronnie was silent as the car turned into Tiffany’s apartment complex. She saw the security gates, the well-tended landscaping, and the elegant lighting in a whole new light. Her mind flickered to the plush furniture in Tiffany’s apartment, the marble countertops, the brass doorknobs … the new convertible.

  “And how long have you had this car?”

  Tiffany pulled into a private garage and brought the car to a slow stop. “Just two weeks.” She smiled at Ronnie’s expression. “In just the last month, I’ve made twelve thousand dollars.”

  FOUR

  Ronnie stepped into the neon darkness and followed Tiffany around the perimeter of the main room. A curving chest-high wall separated the walkway from the tables and the three stages beyond. She felt herself drawn by the colored lights, the pulsing music, the mysterious dusky atmosphere just beyond the wall.

  The tables were half empty, but the stages weren’t. Ronnie took her eyes off the lights and focused them on the Staff Only door.

  Once through it, Tiffany led her to a staff break room. Maris was slouching on a well-worn sofa, her feet up on a coffee table, smoking a cigarette and absently fiddling with a Palm Pilot. Her gaze was fastened on a small television set mounted high in a corner of the room.

  “Our Tel Aviv correspondent has more on the latest attack …”

  She turned her head slightly as the two girls came in, then turned her attention back to the news. She jabbed her cigarette into an ashtray beside her on the couch.

  “Hey, Mar, what’s up?” Tiffany walked over to a water cooler and glanced back at Ronnie as she filled a paper cup. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks.” Ronnie looked up at the newscast and then back at Maris’s face. “Uh … are you okay?”

  Maris took a shaking drag on her cigarette. When she blew out the smoke, her voice was so soft Ronnie could hardly hear her. “Another terrorist bombing.”

  Tiffany swung around, her eyes wide. “Here?”

  “In Tel Aviv. Hamas retaliating for Mossad’s raid last week.”

  “Oh.” Ronnie had no idea what she was talking about.

  “The president just announced that we’re sending more troops overseas, and calling up more troops for domestic response. Thousands of them. What do you want to bet we’ll have people in fatigues on every street corner before this is over.”

  Tiffany sipped her water and motioned for Ronnie to join her at the cooler. They turned their backs to the room and Tiffany slowly filled a cup of water, talking in low tones.

  “Her brother was killed back when the World Trade Center collapsed. One of the hero police officers. Her sister is a customs agent or something here in Atlanta. They follow this terrorist stuff pretty closely.”

  “You should, too, you know.” The weary voice made Ronnie turn. Maris was rising from the couch and stretching. She stuffed the Palm Pilot back into her apron. “It’s not going away any time soon.”

  Tiffany made a face. “I don’t want to think about it. Too depressing. If they get you, they get you.” She grinned and tossed her hair back out of her face. “And our job is to take their mind off their troubles, right?”

  “No, your job is to take their mind off their troubles.” Maris gestured to herself and Ronnie. “Our job is to get them plastered so they spend as much money as possible. So, shoo. Your shift is on. Go get yourself all dolled up. I’ll show Ronnie the ropes from here.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Tiffany winked at Ronnie. “Can’t be late for the money train.”

  Ronnie rolled her eyes, but laughed slightly. “Get out of here, you idiot.”

  As soon as Tiffany was gone, Maris put her hands on her hips and looked Ronnie up and down, her eyes intent. Ronnie stepped back, uncomfortable.

  “What—”

  “Size six.”

  “What—yes, that’s right. How’d you know that?”

  “That’s my job, dear. Come on.”

  Maris hustled out of the room and down a hallway, saying a short hello to several people as she passed the kitchen. Ronnie hurried to keep up.

  Maris made an abrupt turn into a large walk-in closet and ran her finger over a chest-high shelf stacked with uniforms.

  “Six … six … SIX. Here you are.”

  She pulled out a plastic-wrapped packet and handed it to Ronnie with one hand while pointing toward a rest room door with the other. “You can change in there.”

  Ronnie poked her head inside the rest room, and looked back at Mar
is. “Is this where the others change?”

  “The dancers? Nope. Their changing room is their own territory, not the waitresses’. And never the two shall meet.”

  “Why?”

  Maris gently pushed Ronnie into the ladies’ rest room and followed her inside. Ronnie glanced around, then headed toward the handicapped stall to change. She could hear Maris chuckling.

  “That won’t last long.”

  “What won’t?”

  “Modesty.”

  Ronnie shook her head. “Try me.”

  “Oh, they will. Trust me.”

  Ronnie ripped open the plastic packet and took out a little black sleeveless dress and a body-hugging silver cocktail apron, just like the one Maris wore.

  “Well, answer me this, Maris. Why haven’t you become a stripper then?” She paused, then continued when Maris didn’t answer. “If the money’s so good and it’s so normal like everyone says, why aren’t you up there? And why’s a girl from a police family working in a strip club anyway?”

  The silence lengthened as Ronnie finished changing and zipped up her dress.

  “Maris?”

  “You don’t know this business yet, Ronnie.” The other woman’s voice was flat. “I’m not pretty enough to make it up there.”

  Ronnie winced and slowly pushed open the stall door. Maris was standing in the middle of the room, frowning at her reflection in a mirror.

  Ronnie cleared her throat. “What do you mean, you—”

  “And secondly, I’m the black sheep of my family. And since they really don’t give a rip where I work, I might as well make as much money as I can, even if I can’t make the big money onstage. Are you ready to get started?” Maris headed for the door.

  “I’m sorry—” The door closed on Ronnie’s apology. She sighed, then slowly followed in her trainer’s wake.

  “Our clientele is up 10 percent again this year.” Marco’s eyes gleamed as he swung his chair around to look out at the club floor. His one-way window had a prime view of the action. The place was getting packed. “That’s new clients, gentlemen. Very promising for the future.”

  A slow drawl answered him. “And revenues?”