She sat behind the desk, all three hundred and fifty pounds of her.
“You a bouncer?”
“Yeah.”
“Where did you work?”
“Xtasy.”
“I know Manny, how did you fuck him?”
“Didn’t. Caught a girl freelancing. Stopped it. Some teeth may have gotten broken, maybe a rib or two.”
She let out a fleshy rumbling laugh. “What part of Eastern Europe did the girl come from?”
“How did you know where she was from?”
“Just a guess.”
“Any chance of picking up a shift?”
“Not a chance in hell. I don’t want to go to war with that Persian bastard Manny over a bouncer. We understand?”
“Sure, I’ll get out of your way.”
“Look, tell you what I’ll do - leave me your number, I’ll call Manny, if he’s cool, maybe something could be worked out. Could use a big no-shit guy like you.”
I left her office with the promise of a call and a free drink pass. I stood by the bar, planning not to drink. Letting my eyes move over the back bar until I spotted it: McCallans. But no, I was not going to drink.
“You want a drink?”
“Yes.” I answered without hesitation.
“McCallans, right? You’re staring at it with intent.”
“Really?”
“And now you’re staring at my tits.” She was a Japanese girl with cropped platinum hair. “So which will it be, tits or scotch?”
“Let’s start with scotch and see where that leads us.”
It’s called a slip, like you hit some black ice and booze fell into your mouth. Bullshit. Watching that magical amber liquid fill the glass I felt like I was coming home from a long lonely trip. I lifted the glass. First the smell, like liquid peat smoke. Then the taste, clean. Then the warmth.
“Again.”
“You and that glass want to get a room?” She was grinning playfully at me as she filled my glass and moved down the bar. The second drink I sipped. In the mirror behind the bar I could scan the colorful dancing room. I felt the tension and rage drift away.
I caught a glimpse of a brassy red haired girl. Spun around and near toppled a burly man in a paint-streaked work shirt. He pivoted, fast, ready, his fist cocked down low. He met my eyes.
“Whoa, Cowboy,” I said, eyes going flat. “This ain’t the OK Corral, and I’m not the black hat.”
“That’s racially insensitive,” he said, not relaxing a muscle.
“What?”
“Black hat. It implies and supports the racist view that black is bad and by contrast, white is good.”
“I’m not a racist.”
“I’m sure Hitler and his gang of psychopathic fuck-heads said the same. Point is, racists never say they’re racist.”
“That’s it, motherfucker, first you call me a racist, now a Nazi. Why don’t we take a little stroll outside so I can kick your...” My words were cut short by a thick black man pressed into overalls and a net shirt.
“We got a problem, Earl?” he said to the man.
“No problem, I was simply schooling this man in the inherent racism of modern English.”
The big man shook his head, looking at me with a knowing sadness. “Call you a racist?”
“And a Nazi.”
“You’re not the first to want to pummel him. Earl, you be a madman!”
“Thank you, sir.” Earl’s eyes flicking between us.
“But he’s our madman.” He dropped enough edge into his voice to make it clear Earl was under his protection.
“I get it.” I jutted out a hand to this fellow bouncer. “Name’s Moses McGuire.”
“They call me Mac.” He smiled, showing me several gold teeth.
“As in ‘truck’?”
“To the guys ‘round here.”
“And ‘Daddy’ to the ladies?”
“Pow, give the man a toy doll.” With a wink, he floated off to look for real trouble. I settled in for a drink with my new friend, local artist and cunning linguist, Earl. The club was a bikini bar, so the girls stripped down to bra and panties. Most of the action took place in the VIP room. The lack of nudity gave the place the feeling of the prom these guys never had. Only at this prom, their dates were wearing outfits from Victoria’s Secret and if the floor man wasn’t looking, they could get nasty in the back room.
Antony and the Johnsons filling the room with their sad operatic heartbreaking sound. Earl was droning on about the power of the Industrial Arts Movement or some such crap I didn’t understand when I saw her...
On stage, a backlit silhouette, tall, lithe, with the muscular body of a ballet dancer. She rose up on the balls of her feet and started to spin, extending her arms as she did. The front lights came up, shining off her long chestnut hair. A lump caught in my throat. I spent my nights surrounded by pretty girls, but she took my breath away. She had a delicate face with strong high cheek bones. Her full lips were slightly parted, showing the small gap in her front teeth. This small imperfection only made her more beautiful. But what really nailed me were her eyes, sea green, they sparkled in the lights. It was as if she was holding some wonderful secret behind those eyes. She looked twenty-five, but I bet she was younger.
“Last of the true aristocrats, a Romanoff I’m sure.” Earl’s voice came from far off.
“What?”
“Our Katerina. She escaped the Bolsheviks, crossed the frozen...” I stopped listening when her glittering eyes singled me out of the crowd and locked in like a sniper’s laser. She held the pole, swaying slowly to the half beat of Antony and the Johnsons. Slow and seductive, she was desire incarnate. Those eyes calling me to her. Telling me all this was mine, it always had been, it always would be.
Never breaking our eye contact, I walked past the tables of drunks and dancers toward the stage. I dropped two twenties at her feet. She came to the edge of the stage and leaned down, whispering “thank you” in my ear. She had a thick accent, and the feel of her warm breath sent tingles up my back. Grabbing the pole, she flipped up so she was suspended in the air by her thighs. Arching her back she hung with her arms extended, tilting back her head, she gave me a wicked smile.
The song ended, guys clapped, a few threw money. She was good, she hadn’t even taken her clothes off and I was breaking a sweat. It was as if she had been dancing only for me, I knew it was an act, but it felt real. She was that good.
“Smitten, are we?” Earl said, as I knocked back another scotch.
“No, just appreciate talent when I see it.”
“She’s from Moscow... Oh my god! How do I look?” he almost shouted. He had seen something over my shoulder.
“I don’t swing that way, not that I’m not flattered.”
“Be serious. Is my hair ok, it’s not flipping up? Oh damn. Damn...” He was about to have an aneurysm.
“You look fine, Earl.”
“Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“No, really. You look good,” I said, knowing it wouldn’t matter how he looked. He bounced across the room to a cute little thing in a Catholic schoolgirl’s skirt and spikes, who smiled and hugged him. She was half his age. She had high end store bought tits. Leading him to a booth she crawled in beside him laughing at something he said. Before this night was over he’d be down a bill or two and feeling good about himself, because some pretty young thing was attracted to him. If it worked for him, it was cheaper and more effective than a shrink.
The whiskey was taking effect. The room swirled pleasantly. I had reached that wonderful level of tipsy, the place where trouble goes away, judgment is skewed but not gone. I watched Earl and his schoolgirl cuddle, I was happy for him.
“You like young girl better?” I spun around to find Katerina standing next to me.
“No. Watching a friend fall in love.”
“A fool’s game, yes?” She looked over at Earl and smiled. “And that man is a fool. Last week, he brought her roses.”<
br />
“He’s alright, he’s just a little too smart to figure out how it works here.”
“And you?” Her voice was deep with a sexy nicotine rasp. Sliding onto the stool next to me she searched my eyes.
“I gave you the only roses that matter.” I rubbed my thumb and fingers together in the universal sign for cash. “And I don’t expect any return, except the fun of watching you strut that stage.”
“Buy me drink?” she said, absentmindedly tracing her finger down the line of her dress, pulling my attention to her breasts. They were mounded by a push-up bra into marvelously lush cleavage.
“Nice move,” I said, my eyes following her finger, “but unnecessary. I already noticed how good you look.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she went wide-eyed and innocent.
“You’re hot, you know it. I know it. I’m way out of my league here, so I’ll buy you a drink, chit some chat while you scope your next victim, but you have to turn down the heat, ok?”
“Spasibo, it was much work, pretending to like a big handsome man like you.” She smiled broadly, showing me that gap in her teeth. “Betty, please, a Rémy,” she called to the bartender.
She had expensive taste when someone else was paying. I wondered what she drank when it went on her tab. I ordered myself another McCallans that I probably didn’t need, but sure wanted.
“Na zdororve!” she said, clinking my shot glass with her snifter. I knew she got a cut of any booze the chumps bought her, but I didn’t care. It was worth every penny to sit listening to her accented broken English.
“Scorpio, yes?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What is you birthday?”
“October twentieth. What? Why are you grinning like I just dropped a hundred on the stage?”
“Scorpio. Casanova, Scorpio the lover. Ruled by Mars, a lover and warrior.”
“And you?” Astrology is pure mumbo jumbo, but I would have said anything to keep the conversation going.
“Me, Aries. We are fire and water.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Yes.” She slew me with a look of deep longing. “My beautiful man, I knew you were for me, first time I saw you,” she said, simply as if it were an obvious fact.
“I thought we agreed you were going to dial it back,” I said, hoping she would turn up the heat.
“Scorpio,” she shook her head, mulling the thought over, “I have to be very careful with you, if I fall for you it would be very bad for business.”
“Why me? Look around, plenty of younger, richer guys here.”
“They are boys dressed like men. You are man.”
“Dressed like a boy.” I smiled looking down at my Pogues concert shirt, faded jeans and Doc Martens.
I spent my nights looking after girls, but here was a woman. My back straightened and my chest puffed slightly. She made me want to be the man she seemed to think I was.
Katy Perry blasted happy pop over the sound system. I noticed Earl and his schoolgirl had disappeared into the VIP room, so I guessed his date was going fine. Over our drinks, Katerina told me she was from Yaroslavl, a small city two hundred miles from Moscow. “When I was fifteen, my mother passed away and left me to take care of my baby sister and my pig of a father.”
“Sounds rough.” I never knew my old man and by the time I was sixteen I was in the Marines being shot at by towel-heads in the Root. To get away from my drunk mother, I had stolen my big brother’s birth certificate and they shipped me off to that jug fuck in Lebanon. I didn’t tell Katerina any of that, I just told her I had grown up poor, too. We had a bond that children forced to grow up too soon share. A bond of pain and longing. A bond of anger and the desire to be loved. Over our words, a separate conversation flowed between our eyes, a conversation of longing and need.
“Come, I’ll dance for you. I want to.”
“Sorry, I don’t do that anymore,” I said, with zero resolve.
“Yes, I know... come.” She took my hand and led me willingly across the room and through the red velvet curtains into the VIP room. Earl must have gone home while we were talking, because we had the room to ourselves. It was a low-ceilinged dimly lit cave of lust. Plush crushed velvet tuck and roll surrounded the room like it was one big low-rider Chevy. There were several tables with chairs and candles. Generally the couch is $35-$40 bucks and the chairs are $20-$25. That’s before tip, but only about half the pricks tip the girl who dances on them. The law states that the man cannot at any time touch the girl, she can touch him, but not in a lewd manner. Trying to legislate morality is like trying to hold back the sea with a chain-link fence.
Katerina pushed me down in the soft padding, over the speakers, Cee Lo Green started singing about wishing he had enough cash to keep the girl. She put her knees between mine and pried them open, moving slowly ever closer. I was used to lap grind, make a guy come and get on with your day dances. But she was seducing me, one move at a time. As she swayed closer, I could feel the heat emanating from her before any skin touched. Her lips brushed across my cheek, I could feel her breath, smell the faint cigarette mixed with brandy. Just when I thought she would kiss me she pulled back. It took all I had not to pull her down on top of me. The song ended and Katerina rose up taking a small step back. Her eyes flicked down to my lap.
“One more, yes?” she said.
“Why not.” I fought to sound like I could take it or leave it. Chili Peppers’ Breaking the Girl filled the air around us. Katerina slowly unfastened her shirt, letting it drop to the floor. She stepped out of her leather skirt and stood for a moment so I could look at her. She had a ragged appendix scar. A small jail-blue tattoo started on her hip and ran down disappearing into her thong. It was maybe two inches long, a straight line with a cross bar near the top and below it a second line set more diagonally. Marina had a similar tat, it must be a Russian thing.
Looking up at Katerina, I knew whatever she wanted was hers, she was that beautiful. Sounds shallow but there it is. Moving between my legs, this time she pushed her leg until it was against my erection. I let out a shudder as she began to stroke me with her thigh. Moving up she brushed her breasts across my face, I kissed her ivory skin. She didn’t pull away. She moved slowly down, I kissed her neck, and then she brought me her lips. Gift of all gifts, a real kiss. Hookers and strippers alike will tell you they will fuck and suck all day long, but to kiss is just too personal.
Katerina’s lips pressed against mine. She bit at my lower lip, her eyes were closed and her breathing had the rhythm of arousal. Her hand wrapped around the line in my jeans, she let out a small gasp. I ran my hand up her thigh. Continuing the kiss, I pulled her down on top of me. And like two Catholic teenagers, we went at. She ground herself against my bulge, pushing her tongue into my mouth. How many songs came and went while we pounded against each other I haven’t a clue, I was lost in the rush. Her breathing turned into a deep rasp. Suddenly her eyes popped open in crazy surprise. She sank her teeth into my shoulder to muffle her scream. Then like a rag doll, she collapsed into the couch next to me with her head on my shoulder.
“Oh, oh... you didn’t finish... I sorry... I,” she said with weak but genuine concern.
“Ain’t nothin but a thing.”
“But...”
“Hush... you smell so human.” I nuzzled her neck.
“What?”
“You don’t cover up with a bunch of perfume, you smell human.”
Her eyes drifted closed, maybe she wanted to block out the room around us.
“What’s your name? It’s not ‘Katerina’.”
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s fine, just not yours, least not the one you were born with.”
She thought about this for a long moment, screwing up her fine features. “What is your name?”
“Moses McGuire.”
“That’s funny.”
“The only book my mother ever read was the bible. Brother’
s name is ‘Luke’. Guess we’re both lucky we didn’t get stuck with ‘Jesus One’ and ‘Jesus Two’.”
She opened her eyes, making sure I knew what she was giving me. “Anya Kolpacolva.”
Somewhere out in the club, the DJ was calling for all the girls to line up for a two for the price of one lap dance special. Anya let out a laugh. “Oh my god, how long have we been here? You are bad for business, I know this the moment I see you.”
“Do you mind?”
“No,” she said laughing. Jumping up, she pulled on her shirt and skirt in faster time than an Indy pit crew. Reaching down, she tugged me up and out of the couch. Arm in arm and giggling like high schoolers, we walked out of the VIP room. When I slipped $200 into her purse she rolled her eyes but she didn’t refuse. She had rent to pay like everyone else.
From the bar, I watched the money mating dance gyrate around me. Anya slipped like a shark through the sea of men, hustling them, then stopping by to give me a wink or a kiss in between trips to the VIP room. I realized one of these fat fucks was gonna wind up dead if I didn’t get out of there soon.
“Want a dance?” Anya had slipped up behind me while my concentration was on buying a last shot of scotch.
“Love to, but I’m broke.” I don’t know why I lied, fact was I had a wad in my pocket and more cash stashed in my hideout hole in the car. I guess I was hoping she would offer me a freebee, a way she could show that I was different than the other slobs.
“We have ready-teller.” She made it sound sexy, purring like it was some exotic love toy.
“Do I look like the kind of guy they’d give a bank card to?”
“Everyone has bank card.”
“I don’t.”
“Too bad,” she was leaning into me, making sure I got a grand glimpse down her dress at what I was missing. She kissed my neck. “You are so bad for business.”
“When do you get off? I’ll take you to breakfast,” I whispered.
“A date?” She closed her eyes, smiling inwardly at the idea. “No, not tonight.” Past my shoulder, she surveyed the room for her next client.
“Whatever.” I turned back to the bar, trying to pull off indifference, though petulant may have been closer to the effect.
Out There Bad (Moses McGuire) Page 3
