by Greg Barth
“It’s okay. It’s just that, I never really knew a mother’s love...”
We let it hang there. Neither of us could say it. Neither should. I was only ten years older than her, but it had been a maturing ten years, especially the last few months. It wasn’t even an appropriate thing to think, anyway. I mean, hell, we slept together. I couldn’t be a mother figure for her. At best I was a corrupting older friend, right?
I held her hand. “Drink, honey,” I said. It was all I could offer. “Just drink.”
She took a long sip of the whiskey. She looked at me. “Selena,” she said. “We’ll always be friends, right?”
“Of course.”
She smiled at me. I took a tissue and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Let’s just get out of this mess,” I said.
“How can we?”
I thought about that. “They’re killers. They are hardened, powerful men willing to do anything, including murder.”
“So what do we do?”
“We play along,” I said. “Until the moment comes. The moment when we can kill them.”
***
We sat and drank the bourbon. We smoked cigarettes. I rolled a joint and we passed it. Finally we got to the point where Jack Jefferson didn’t matter anymore.
We took a bath together and washed any trace of him off of me. Most of the contact had been through my underwear and through latex, but the psychological contact was there.
The shock, the bourbon, the pot, all of it caught up with us. At some point we were lulled into the intoxicated state that hid somewhere between consciousness and the shadow of sleep. It was the place where ugly and misshapen truths would bubble up from the black well of the subconscious. Our souls took over, and rational thought left us.
***
Uncle Judd’s face loomed before me. His bloodshot eyes, his course whiskers, his camo ball cap. The smell of whiskey on his breath. “You feelin’ it, Little Bit? Don’t it feel good?”
I stood in front of him, my hips moving from side to side, the hula hoop spinning. The hoop kept him back at a distance. Nobody, and I mean nobody wants to see the hula hoop fall.
“You know I’m a gash-hound?” he said.
I spun it faster, my narrow hips going in furious circles.
“I gotta get me some gash.”
The ball cap morphed. The whiskers turned to dust and blew away. A receding hairline formed in place of the hat.
It was Kurt Dello standing in front of me.
“You’re going to need reconstructive surgery on your asshole by the time I’m done with you.”
I spun the hoop faster. You can’t put something in my bottom, I thought, while I’m hula hooping.
“Fuck your gash, whore,” Kurt said. “I’ve got a box full of things I’m going to stuff up you from behind. Sharp things. Ugly things.” He laughed. “You feelin’ it, Little Bit?”
The face changed again. The cheeks sunk, pits formed. Pock marks. Harvey’s face was in front of me.
“I own you,” he said. “Don’t it feel good?”
I spun the hoop faster, my hips grew tired, but I had to keep the motion going. I could not drop the hoop.
Harvey’s face smiled. He stretched out an impossibly long arm. His hand was a thin-fingered talon with long, hooked claws instead of fingernails.
The hula hoop formed a protective barrier around me.
He reached out beyond me and grabbed Emily. He pulled her to him and opened his mouth. He grasped her in his talon. His mouth took the form of a hooked bird’s beak, like an eagle.
“Help me, Selena,” Emily said. “I’m supposed to do the skydiving part.”
What was my part? Eat the bug? “I’ll eat the bug,” I said.
I spun my hula hoop as hard as I could. My young thighs burned with fatigue. I gyrated my hips as hard as I could.
He raised her with his talon, pulling her up to his beak. With a quick snap, he bit her head off. Blood ran down over his taloned fingers and her headless body. He looked me in the eye as he chewed her head in his gaping maw. Her head screamed as it was chewed up in his mouth. Brown bourbon dripped from his beak. Once he had swallowed the head, he extended his narrow tongue through the beak and licked at the bleeding neck of the corpse. He squeezed her until more of the thick liquid came out through her neck.
“Sweet,” the bird-thing screeched.
She didn’t have a hula hoop, I thought.
“She doesn’t even have a mother to teach her how to hula hoop you asshole!” I screamed at the Harvey bird.
“Sweeeeeeeeeeet!”
Strings of gore hung from its beak.
“You feelin’ it?” the thing screeched at me.
***
In the motel bed, I put my arm around Emily and pulled her close to me. Her soft body was warm beneath the sheets by my side. I pressed my face into her hair. She smelled of shampoo and soap.
I kissed her on the back of the neck.
She wasn’t dead. There was no bird.
Not dead.
She wasn’t my daughter.
She wasn’t anybody’s.
TWELVE
“Hey, Badass,” Harvey said.
We were in the office again. Just the two of us this time. He passed me a Shock Top and I twisted off the top and took a long drink of the ice cold beer.
The video of me sucking Jack’s cock was playing on the TV, the volume turned down. “I swear, Selena, you’ve got some talent. Here’s my favorite part. Right here. Watch.” The camera angle shifted as Emily got in a better position. I was licking my fingers on the screen, getting myself ready for penetration. “Right there. That’s hot.”
“Fuck you,” I said. “Just brief the plan.”
He laughed. He extended a finger from the hand holding his beer bottle. He shook the finger at me. “You know, you’re real good. There in Jefferson’s house, I gotta tell you, I’ll never stop watching that video clip. Girl, you’ve got it. I guarantee you, the man never had it so good. It’s just too bad he didn’t get to...you know. And when I pointed that gun at you? You didn’t even flinch. You, my dear, are a rare talent. For sure. You’re like...I don’t know...a goddess or something.”
“The plan, Harvey. Just tell me the plan.”
“Respect, girl. I just want to give you some respect, you know? You’re good at what you do.”
“I want you to keep your word. This one’s solo.”
“It is,” he said. “Basically Jefferson was a walk in the park. This time you’re going after Bernie Hawkins himself. The hardest guy in the county to get in a vulnerable spot. But you. You can do it. You and your hot little ass. You can do it.”
“How do I get him?”
“You work at his club.”
“Well that sounds easy.”
“It’s not, Selena. This is going to take all of the skill you have. You’ve got to work it like only you can. You have to catch his eye. You have to draw him out. You have to seduce him from afar, maybe do some of that shit with your fingers. You have to get him to take notice, and you have to do it when you don’t even know if he’s watching you. But I for one, I believe he will be. He won’t be able to take his eyes off of you.”
“If the guy likes women, what can I offer him that he hasn’t already had?”
“You’ve got an instinct for this. Think about how you drew Jefferson in.”
“Jefferson was nothing. Of course you played the trump card. Nobody saw that coming.”
“Hey, hey, forget my part. You did your part. That’s what’s important. You, Selena. You made it happen.”
“So what happens this time? And you need to tell me the whole truth.”
“You know what happens this time. And this time, it’s all on you.”
“You have to say it.” I took a long pull from the beer bottle.
“It’s simple. You lure him in. You get him alone. You kill him.”
“How?”
He passed me a sheathed dagger with a five-inch blade. “
I’m thinking you use a knife,” he said. “But damned if I know where you’ll hide it.”
“You let me worry about that. How do I get close to him?”
“Honey, you work for him.”
“In what capacity?”
“Doing exactly what you do. Entertainment. You perform there tomorrow night.”
“Just like that?”
“Let’s just say you are well vouched for.”
“Emily is out of it.”
“Emily is out of it. You have my word.”
“Fuck your word.”
***
Emily and I were in my bathroom. She was in the tub washing, and I stood at the mirror plucking wandering eyebrows.
“I should have shoved the knife through his throat,” I said.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I hesitated. We still have the other two to deal with. It didn’t feel like the right time to me. And besides, he always has an edge. I don’t think I could have gotten close to him. He wouldn’t leave himself vulnerable like that.”
“Are you going to go through with this?”
“I don’t know. I think I have to. I’m still looking for the right opportunity to get us out of this. But I’m running out of time.”
“Harvey won’t keep his promise, will he?”
“No, he won’t. Let me take your mobile phone. I need you to stay in your room by the phone and be ready for anything.”
“Help me wash my back.”
THIRTEEN
The Champagne Lounge was across the county at the edge of another small town. The club sat on a hilltop that had been graded level. The typical neon lights in the shape of buxom women adorned the outer walls. The parking lot was gravel, filled with pickup trucks, Jeeps, and sports cars.
Harvey sent a driver with me. He wasn’t going to take any risk of being seen near the club himself. This execution was going to be more public than the previous.
I was dropped off at the door. The driver told me where he could be found after I had finished. He would be positioned for a quick getaway, with the engine running and a full tank of gas.
I walked in the front entrance. The door opened to a small ticket-booth window. A dark-haired lady in black pullover shirt sat behind the window.
“Hi,” I said to her. “I’m your headliner tonight.”
“We’ve been expecting you.” She picked up a phone and punched in an extension. “Yeah, she’s here.”
I stood by as she finished her conversation.
She hung up the phone. “They’ll be up to get you in minute.”
I moved over to the other side of the cramped lobby as a couple of guys paid their way in and were buzzed through the door. One of them took me in from head to toe as he passed.
When the door opened next, a young lady in a tight, white t-shirt and short shorts emerged. “You must be Heather Belle,” she said.
“Hi. Yes I am.” We shook hands.
“My name is April. Come on in.”
April had dark eyes and her hair was long and straight. She took me inside and showed me around the club.
The main room was what you would expect. Loud music, bright stage lighting on the main stage. Everything else was dark. The tables were small. All chairs faced the stage. There was no smoking inside, but drinks were served from a bar in the back. There were women, G-strings, bills folded lengthwise, and the strong smell of perfume. I’d been in a hundred such places.
The difference with the Champagne Lounge was that it was incredibly busy, and classy. There were no leering drunks, no obviously drugged-out dancers. There was a sense of professionalism and discipline around how the dancers, waitresses, and patrons conducted themselves.
I was impressed.
“Do you want to set your duffel bag down first?”
“I’ll carry it. Thanks.”
April explained the dance rotation and house rules, including what to kick back to the house for use of the couches, private booths, and VIP rooms. The price increased after 9:00 PM on weekends. As the headliner, I wasn’t required to tip out at the end of the night. Tips on stage were mine to keep, anything above and beyond required a cut given back to the club. As the house was paying me to headline, I also wouldn’t receive any commission on drinks sold to my customers.
It seemed like a fair way to do business. I’d seen a hell of a lot worse. But I didn’t give a shit about any of it. It wasn’t like I was going to be staying around long enough to get paid.
She pointed out the bouncers and told me how to signal them if needed. She introduced me to staff and dancers not engaged with customers as we passed by.
The D.J., a tall, young African American man with short facial hair and glasses, introduced himself as Eddie and asked me for a list of songs. I gave him a few off the top of my head. He rejected a couple of them as they were already signature songs used by popular in-house dancers. We came up with a list that we could agree on and that I felt good about.
April continued the tour.
“We’re probably like what you’re used to,” she said. “You have to get topless, but there’s nowhere in this club that you can take off your bottom. Some of these guys will offer you the world, trust me, but the kitty’s gotta stay covered. The guys’ hands have to stay down at all times. They can’t make contact with you, but you can make contact with them. And you can’t offer escort services to any of the customers. You can’t mention that anywhere on this property.”
I nodded through the whole spiel. It’s a strip club, blah, blah, blah. I knew where the lines were drawn.
As we toured the club, I took note of the women that were working that night. Most were pretty. They all seemed to be making good money based on the bills on their G-strings and the number of lap dances going on.
They all lacked one thing, though. Enthusiasm.
A dancer will tell you that she’s only been dancing for a week, that she’s the new girl, that she has another job and is only doing this on the side for fun. Or maybe that she’s working her way through college. That’s all bullshit. Dancers know how to work the ATM, and if you’re a man inside of their club? You’re the ATM.
These dancers all looked like they were performing a perfectly mundane job just like everyone else and were a bit tired and looking forward to whatever came next. That was going to be my way in. I was going to turn it on. I would make eye contact, I would smile, and I would listen and engage. My ass will bounce on every dick in here tonight, I told myself. My friendly energy would get me noticed. Didn’t matter if the other dancers were jealous. Not like I would be back after tonight to face any retaliation.
And besides. They could look bored. They weren’t in here tonight to catch someone’s eye, get him alone, and cut his throat. I was.
I looked up at a balcony perched above the bar. The windows were darkened and completely opaque. I couldn’t see inside, but presumably someone inside could see me. Beside the glass was an open part of the balcony shielded only by a metal safety railing.
“What’s up there?” I asked.
April looked up. “Oh, that’s Bernie’s office. He’s the club owner. You may see him later. Sometimes he comes out to the balcony to watch the goings on down here.”
“Bernie, huh?”
“Yeah, Bernie’s a nice guy.”
I looked up at the dark glass and gave a delicate wave with my fingers.
As the headliner, I had a small, private dressing room where I could get ready and hang out during down time.
She took me back and handed me the key to the room.
“What questions do you have?” she said.
“You’ve answered everything. Thanks for the tour.”
“Okay, well, I’ll leave you to get ready. You go on in 45 minutes, so feel free to work the floor while you’re waiting.”
She closed the door on her way out.
I changed out of my street clothes and dressed in pink fishnet stockings that came up to mid-thigh, and pink bra and pa
nties. I fixed my hair and applied makeup and body spray.
I looked at myself in the vanity mirror.
“You can do this,” I said.
I took a vial of coke out of my bag and cut two lines on the vanity table. I snorted one line up each nostril.
I got up and put on a long, sheer pink nightgown. It had spaghetti strap shoulders and a long slit up the front so that my stocking-clad legs, garter straps, and panties were visible when I walked.
Time to go to work.
FOURTEEN
I hit the club like a hurricane.
I knew there was a set amount of money that was going to be spent by the customers that night. My mission was to carve out as much of it for me as possible. That’s always my mission in a club.
I had to keep reminding my coked-up self that I wasn’t Selena, I was Heather Belle. And I wasn’t here just to entertain and earn money. I was here to stand out and draw Bernie’s attention.
I moved like a candle flame in a windstorm. I went from table to table, lap to lap, private booth to private booth. I put my clean hair in their faces, I breathed on their warm necks, I pressed my hands against their chests, and I ground my crotch against their cocks through their pants.
I took their money.
I acted like I enjoyed it, because I did enjoy it. The coke put me in a frenzy and awoke a sensual hunger within me. I used it. There’s just nothing hotter than a woman showing pleasure.
I wore my stockings, panties and bra as I made my way through the club. The rest of my firm body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The bra was off and on at each stop.
I went to the dressing room to refresh my buzz as frequent as I needed to.
When my turn came, I hit the stage. I danced to faster songs than most. My signature was “Star Star” by the Rolling Stones, a nasty little number that I made my own on stage.
At one point I looked up at the balcony above the bar, and I saw him for the first time.
Bernard “Bernie” Hawkins.
My first thought was that he did not look like the kind of man you would want to kill. Not at all. He was a tall, slender man, dressed in a white shirt with an open collar, no tie, and a dark blazer that fit his lean frame perfectly. Below the jacket he wore faded jeans. I could just make out a pair of worn cowboy boots. His hair was dark and longish, parted on one side. I could see where his hair flipped up in the back over his collar like he had missed two, maybe three, recent haircuts. His bangs were pulled to one side and tucked behind his ear. He had a strong chin, lined cheeks and wrinkles around his eyes. He looked like he might have been in his late forties. He flashed a tight-lipped, humble smile at me that showed no teeth. When he smiled his face did all sorts of cute, dimply things. His dark eyes shone through the shadows under his eyebrows.
