A Beautiful Child

by Matt Birkbeck

  Michelle nodded and Warren said good-bye without leaving any instructions on what or how to feed Michael, or where to find his clothes and diapers.

  Michelle looked out the front window and watched as Sharon entered Stevie’s car and the pair drove off, with Warren right behind in his green Chevy.

  Mons Venus was one of the more popular nightspots in Tampa, a strip club that served as a favorite hangout for a variety of individuals, famous and infamous. The single-floor building with the purple awning stood out among the Bennigan’s and other fast-food restaurants that dominated the congested thoroughfare of North Dale Mabry. Women in outrageously colorful and exotic costumes could be seen entering the building at all hours of the day to entertain the male masses who found refuge behind the lavender doors.

  Inside “Mons,” as it was known, the dancers performed on an elevated circular stage with a hardwood floor and metal pole in the center. The club was clean and the clientele respectable, as far as strip clubs go. Some of the men were even wealthy.

  Actors, athletes, and especially rock bands and their entourages stopped by whenever they were in town. A sense of extra excitement filled the club whenever musicians were around. The summer before, in May, members of Metallica had passed through the club. In June it was Van Halen, along with their roadies, who were seen handing out fistfuls of cash. Many of the girls were invited back to their hotel to finish off the night, and were paid for their services.

  The women who danced at Mons Venus were required to adhere to several rules, and signed contracts stipulating that if they were found doing drugs or engaging in prostitution they could be fired. But drugs and prostitution were rife, and none of the girls signed the contracts using their real names anyway. Pimps were present. One was known to handle the business for more than half the girls. He even found them work outside the club, mostly at bachelor parties. Mons dancers were also prohibited from dating customers or leaving with them from the building. They got around that by meeting customers at area hotels and motels.

  The performers at Mons Venus were well known within the world of nude dancing, and would travel throughout the southeast, from Miami to Atlanta, to appear at other clubs, private events, and bachelor parties.

  Between the dancing and prostitution, some girls were making as much as three thousand dollars per week.

  The money was so good that one pimp, an older fellow named Harry, would drive down on weekends from his Georgia mansion. He had two girls who earned huge sums of cash through dancing and prostitution. They’d return to Georgia on Monday, only to come back the following weekend. Harry even acquired a third girl and gave her to his son.

  Perhaps the most important rule to adhere to at Mons Venus was really the only rule the club enforced: No boyfriends or husbands were allowed inside.

  Far too many times, a jealous lover would take out his anger on a customer who took interest in a dancer and a fight would ensue. The bouncers would roll into action, tossing out the boyfriend and the dancer, who’d be forced to look elsewhere for employment.

  When Stevie and Sharon pulled up into the Mons parking lot, Warren was right behind them, taking a space near the front entrance. The girls rushed inside. Warren remained in his car. He had been banned from entering the club not long after Sharon began working there in 1988. His banishment was the result of management’s belief that he had to be “strange” to come inside and sit at the bar watching as his daughter performed, which was too much even for a club like Mons.

  Warren was asked to leave. Thrown out was more like it.

  He protested, but couldn’t do much about the six-foot, three-hundred-pound bouncers who escorted him to the door.

  “And stay the fuck out you fucking weirdo,” they said, the added dialogue intended to ensure Warren got the message.

  He did. Warren remained in the parking lot most nights, by himself, waiting for Sharon to finish her shift.

  No one asked Warren or Sharon who was watching her son.

  Inside Mons, Sharon performed on the circular stage, and entertained customers between sets. She didn’t socialize much with the other dancers, exchanging nothing more than passing pleasantries. She left the Mons for a few weeks in December, but was back, dancing again, in January 1989.

  That’s when she met Cary Strukel.

  Strukel, twenty, was a bartender at the Brown Derby restaurant in Tampa and would stop in Mons several times a week before going to work. His sole interest was Sharon. He was drawn to her the first time he saw her. It wasn’t the blond hair or blue eyes, or her easy, yet seductive, dancing. Strukel decided he liked Sharon after he bought her a Coke. She was personable and friendly, and deep inside, Strukel saw a softness to Sharon, something he didn’t see in any of the other girls. A week after they met they began to date, and it wasn’t long after that that Strukel would drive to the Golden Lantern trailer park to visit with his new girlfriend and meet her father, Warren, and son, Michael.

  The first thing that struck Strukel was that Warren didn’t work. He said he took a job in June 1988 with a painting crew after he spotted them working on a house. He talked the owner of Precision Painting into giving him a job. A couple of days later Warren fell off a ladder and claimed to have hurt his back. He was airlifted to a Tampa hospital and quickly filed for disability and workmen’s compensation. He said he received nine hundred dollars per month, but at the moment he appeared to be living off the money Sharon made at the Mons.

  As Strukel became more acquainted with his new girlfriend, it was clear there were two different Sharons—the quiet woman who danced at Mons, and the panicked woman he saw at home.

  Sharon was always nervous around her father, and seemed to fear him. Strukel could easily see that she was under his control, no better than a dog. If Warren said sit, she’d fall to the ground butt first.

  And Warren often made strange and disturbing comments. Strukel did a double take when he heard Warren suggest to Sharon that she get breast implants. He said he loved Stevie’s, and thought implants would help Sharon’s career. When Strukel casually asked what career that was, Warren said Sharon was aiming to appear in adult movies, and she needed every edge she could get—including the implants.

  “These are going to be beautiful when she gets them done,” said Warren, pulling at Sharon’s nipple.

  Strukel said nothing. He liked Sharon. She was sweet and pleasant and smart, far too intelligent to be dancing at a place like Mons Venus. Strukel figured people do what they have to do to get by, so he didn’t question her profession. Sharon was always polite, and Strukel liked being around her. And deep down Strukel liked the idea that his girlfriend was a nude dancer. To Strukel, Sharon was a celebrity. She’d take off with Stevie to Miami or Fort Lauderdale to appear at other clubs or do parties, then come back the next day with large sums of cash, which Sharon always gave to her father.

  Warren was another matter. The more Strukel saw of Warren Marshall, the more he believed he was a “nutcase and whack job.”

  He’d tell friends how Warren swallowed a handful of pills every day and kept a loaded shotgun near the front door. Every now and then Warren would suffer from “spells” in which he would talk to himself in a high-pitched voice. He also seemed to have a problem whenever Michael cried. Warren would scream out orders for Sharon to “shut that brat up.” During one crying episode Warren put his hands to the sides of his head, bobbed his head from side to side, and shrieked, “Stop the baby!”

  Sharon rushed over to Michael, picked him up, took him to her room, and locked the door.

  Warren was also infatuated with sex, particularly sexual deviance. He spoke excitedly about a video he made on the beach with Sharon and Stevie. They wore string bikinis and rubbed oil over each other.

  “Want to see it?” said Warren, his eyes opened wide.

  Strukel said sure, but Sharon was embarrassed and ran to her room.

  “Maybe another time,” said Strukel, who decided that despite Warren’s disturbing behav
ior, his feelings for Sharon were deep, and he would continue the relationship.

  Sharon responded to Strukel’s affection, and was heard one afternoon arguing with Warren.

  Strukel fell asleep at the Marshalls’ trailer but was awakened by voices coming from the living room. It was Sharon, and Strukel was the topic of conversation.

  “Dad, but I love him, but I love him, but I love him,” said Sharon.

  “I don’t care. He don’t have no money and he’s no good for you,” said Warren.

  Sharon joined Strukel in the bedroom moments later, and nestled into Strukel’s arms. She appeared sad. When Strukel asked her what was wrong, she shook her head.

  “Nothing,” she said with a deep sigh.

  Strukel knew that Sharon’s problem was her father, and it was woefully clear she was under his thumb and either couldn’t or wouldn’t resist his wishes. There was a deep sadness to Sharon Marshall. Strukel would try to ask questions about Sharon’s mother or her past, but Sharon always changed the subject. She’d kiss him, then they’d quietly make love, hoping that Warren wouldn’t barge into her room, as he was prone to do.

  Despite her present profession and her strange father, Strukel believed that Sharon was special, and he looked forward to every moment he spent with her.

  Michelle Cupples became a regular at the Marshall trailer, baby-sitting four to six times a week. When she wasn’t baby-sitting she’d visit the Marshall home after school just to hang out. She thought Warren was “cool.” He didn’t act like an adult, not someone trying to tell her what to do all the time. He’d say weird things every now and then, like pointing to Sharon’s breasts and asking what she thought of Sharon getting a “boob job,” or being overly concerned about what Sharon was wearing to work. It was Warren who picked out her skimpy and sexy clothing. Michelle would ask but neither Warren nor Sharon would tell her what Sharon did for a living.

  All Michelle knew was that Sharon left the trailer at 7 P.M. every night and didn’t come home until early in the morning.

  Warren’s peculiar comments aside, Michelle thought he was a good grandpa. Heck, he was more like the father. It was Warren who took care of Michael, who changed his diaper, who fed him his bottle, and who paid for the baby-sitting.

  Sharon stayed to herself and barely ever said a word. It was almost like she wasn’t there, maybe in body but not in mind. Michelle thought that was kind of weird, that Sharon never asked any questions or showed any interest in learning about the person taking care of her kid. Sometimes Michelle got the feeling that Sharon was afraid to talk.

  Still, Michelle felt comfortable at the Marshall home, even after one night when she made a startling discovery.

  Sharon was away at work, having received a ride from Stevie, and Warren remained home. Michelle and her teenage friend Jason decided to visit with Warren and Michael to watch a Mike Tyson fight on television.

  Michelle was sitting on the sofa when she turned around and thought she saw a friend walk by on the street so she leaned over the back of the couch, straining to get a good look out the window. Warren began to yell, warning Michelle not to look down behind the couch.

  “Why?” said Michelle.

  “I’ve got some secret stuff back there and you don’t want to get hurt,” said Warren.

  “Secret?” said Michelle, her teenage curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

  “Yeah, what is it?” said Jason.

  Warren walked to the side of the couch, reached down and pulled out a blue gun.

  “What’s that?” said Michelle.

  “An electric stun gun. Don’t ever touch this. You can get hurt,” said Warren.

  He placed the gun back behind the couch, and they diverted their attention to the fight on television. As soon as it was over, Warren announced that he had an idea—would Michelle and Jason want to see some good-looking women?

  Jason jumped at the chance and said yes, and Warren eagerly pulled out a black VHS tape from among the hundreds he had lined up against the wall and put it into the video player.

  On the television screen were two women, a blonde and a brunette, frolicking on the beach. They wore skimpy, string bikinis, and after a minute or two of dancing they sat down on a blanket and began to rub oil onto each other. Michelle immediately recognized Sharon as the blond girl. It took a few seconds longer to identify the brunette, but Michelle could see it was that Stevie girl, Sharon’s friend with the red Corvette.

  Warren stood with a big grin on his face as the video moved along, the girls rubbing the oil over each other’s body, on their legs, arms, torsos and breasts. It was provocative, far too provocative for Michelle, who quickly got up and said she was leaving.

  Jason said he would stay just a little longer.

  CHAPTER 23

  Cary Strukel’s first reaction to his girlfriend’s new breasts was, “What happened to you?”

  They looked terrible, like two round rocks on a piece of paper. He didn’t say anything to Sharon, who complained of constant pain around her chest and her hips, where she’d also had liposuction.

  “This really, really hurts,” said Sharon, almost near tears.

  Sharon wasn’t thrilled with the idea of breast enlargement, but gave in to Warren, who had been pushing the surgery for months.

  “Bigger tits means more money,” said Warren, who also talked about Sharon testing for and appearing in adult movies.

  “You could be a star, you could be famous,” said Warren.

  They found a cheap surgeon outside of Tampa and paid fifteen hundred dollars for a procedure that typically cost five thousand dollars or more.

  The result looked like a fifteen-hundred-dollar surgery, and it took nearly a week before the intense pain subsided.

  Aside from the pain, Sharon didn’t complain. None of this—the dancing at Mons, the boob job, the talk about movies—seemed to be anything she wanted to do. Strukel could see clearly that Sharon was just going through the motions, solely to please her father, who would react angrily whenever Sharon said no to him.

  He wanted her to get bigger breasts, she said fine.

  Liposuction? OK to that too.

  Warren was pleased with Sharon’s new look. He’d tell anyone and everyone that he thought she looked great.

  “Don’t her tits look nice, and doesn’t Sharon’s ass look great in those shorts,” were passing comments made to Michelle Cupples and her friend Jason.

  When Michelle asked Sharon how she liked her new look, Sharon remained quiet. Michelle thought Sharon was stuck-up, a quiet woman who never really talked to anyone.

  Cary Strukel thought his girlfriend was a zombie, but there was little he could do. He’d strike up conversations, even asking about her father, but she’d quickly divert the discussion. Their time together was spent watching television or meeting for breakfast, and on rare occasions driving her home in the early morning hours when Warren didn’t feel the need to wait in the parking lot.

  Each time Strukel drove up to the Marshall trailer under the darkness of early morning, he’d see Warren peering out the window, watching.

  When Sharon Marshall first walked into the Mons to apply for a job in January 1988, she was told to lose some weight.

  “You need to shape up a little, honey,” said Kenna Blood-worth, the night manager.

  Sharon said the extra weight was due to a recent miscarriage, but in reality she was six months pregnant. Management couldn’t help but notice she was carrying a baby when it became painfully obvious to all that her midsection was getting bigger, not smaller. Management was even more surprised when several customers voiced their approval of a pregnant performer, so Sharon was kept on and danced right through to April 21, when she gave birth to a boy at Tampa General. Sharon named him Michael Gregory Marshall. He was six pounds, twelve ounces, and nineteen inches long.

  Sharon returned to the Mons soon after, and as she did before, she kept to herself. Compared to some of the extroverts and can’t-miss-in-a-crowd perso
nalities at the Mons, Sharon was a virtual nonentity. She rarely spoke, never got into trouble, didn’t cause any problems, and was always on stage when she was supposed to be.

  Her quiet way was often mistaken for having an “attitude” in a dressing room filled with constant chatter. Though she said little, Sharon managed to make a few friends at Mons through 1988. She particularly became close with a bisexual dancer named “Heather Lane.”

  Heather gained notoriety for having a female pimp who looked like a guy. Heather didn’t mind. She liked women, socially and sexually, though she wasn’t necessarily homosexual. She was attracted to Sharon, and felt sorry for her, which was something she had in common with the few girls who weren’t put off by Sharon’s silence. All believed Sharon’s problems stemmed from her father, who rarely ever let her out of his sight. Everyone knew he was sitting out there in the parking lot virtually every night. If Sharon was hungry when Mons closed and she wanted to accompany some of the other girls for breakfast, Warren would insist on coming along.

  He’d even escort Sharon to her private parties. They’d drive to some dingy motel, pull up to the front, and Warren would reach into the glove compartment, pull out condoms, and give them to Sharon. He’d watch as she walked inside, and emerged a half hour later. She’d come back into the car, give him the money, and they’d drive off.

  Other times Warren would chauffeur Sharon and Heather to bachelor parties.

  Heather organized the parties, which usually contracted for two girls to perform. Sharon heard about the work, said she needed to make extra money, and asked to come along. They’d perform together, as a team, and simulate lesbian acts.

  Driving to and from the events, Heather shared her complaints with the business, particularly the prostitution, and Warren was sympathetic and understanding, offering inspirational speeches in the car.