DAY 104: Wednesday, January 20, 2010: You don’t reserve seats; you reserve sections.
Continued from Day 103 . . .
“Holy shit,” Candy said, watching a forest green, rusted Suburban careening into the parking lot, black smoke puffing from a clanging exhaust, sparks flying out from underneath.
“My man!”
“You’re kidding.”
Ferg blinked his lights, thinking it was perfect. He had already explained to Candy how Frenchy worked in the mob-controlled trash business years ago, always swearing how he knew every strip club owner in the state on a first name basis.
She nodded in agreement. “Trash was always big-time mob.”
“And this is one of those guys who gets away with everything,” Ferg said, watching Frenchy ease the lumbering truck toward his tiny Hyundai. “Like some kind of blessed star is covering his ass.”
“I saw a couple in school, but there was always a trust fund or something bailing them out.”
“Not this one.”
Ferg lowered his window as the Suburban parked, and Frenchy’s window stuck halfway, causing him to pound it down a few more inches, cursing loudly.
“Evening, Frenchy.”
“What the fuck!?” Frenchy wailed, using his favorite vernacular. “What’s going on, bro?”
“Frenchy, meet Candy.”
Candy waved from the passenger seat as Frenchy tried to focus, then gave a big thumbs-up. “Yo my ho! Ferg’s moving fast these days!”
Candy’s smile froze in place, along with her hand. “Gosh . . . thanks . . . I think.”
Frenchy laughed, but at another voice in his head.
“Candy’s gonna scoot for a while, and we’re going to go get trashed.”
Frenchy looked serious. “Dude, you won’t believe what’s going on at work, since you left.”
“I left yesterday, but you can tell me in a minute.”
Frenchy was confused, until Ferg’s words could be processed.
“Oh! Right!”
Ferg struggled to get out, as Frenchy had parked too close. He awkwardly made his way around the big Suburban while the drunk crew chief continued staring at Candy.
“Why isn’t she getting out to drive?” he asked.
Ferg took his seat, brushing beer cans and Happy Meal toys to the floor. “She’s waiting for us to go.”
Frenchy kept staring, mumbling, “Oh.”
“Frenchy?”
Frenchy continued to stare at Candy, who waved again.
Ferg put his mouth close to Frenchy’s ear. “She won’t move until we go, because you’re staring like a fucking freak!”
Frenchy broke out in drunken laughter, slamming the shift lever into reverse, mumbling “Bitch,” as he nearly rammed a small truck, then lurched forward to the sound of blaring horns, right back to where he had started.
“She gets that a lot,” Ferg said, watching his friend closely. “You’re off to an early start.”
Frenchy laughed. “Kids are with Grams tonight. The wife is off bowling.”
“Let the lions run free.”
“Egg-zactly!”
Frenchy struggled with the shifter a few seconds, finally finding the big white “R” as Candy watched nervously from the Hyundai, cringing when he nearly took out the front end.
Frenchy started to tell Ferg about fixing the office window earlier – on the phone – but Ferg had cut him short because Frenchy would talk you to death. Now the big drunkard was unloading, saying, “Dude, dude!” crossing the broad expanse of parking lot to Perpetual Motion. “Work is going crazy since you left, and Rourke swore me to secrecy on the window! He promised a couple kegs of Heiny to keep mum, and a huge raise when my review was due.”
“That’ll almost make up for all the times they procrastinated.”
“Fucking aye! It looked like Here-o-sheema in there!”
Frenchy bent over with laughter, almost taking out another drunk as he entered the extended lot, bouncing through deep, frozen ruts to finally park.
“There’s all kinds of shit going down, bro . . . Randy’s running around in a bad mood, the Nazi’s eyes are buggin’ out more than usual, Rick looks like a mess, and Uncle Fiddles is getting his ass kicked for some unknown reason. Environmental has been snooping around, asking what the hell happened, and cops even came to check things out, but left in a hurry. You dropped a fucking A-bomb on their ass!”
The spark of excitement caused Frenchy to remember where his skunkweed stash was hidden, scrambling to scoop a fat, crumbling joint out from under the seat, beer bottles clanking loudly.
“Cops aren’t good, Frenchy. I hope there’s not a warrant out.”
“It’s all hush-hush!” Frenchy yelled, sparking the joint. “What the hell did Rourke say to piss you off so bad?”
“He offered a severance.”
Frenchy inhaled and held the smoke, offering the joint to Ferg, who waved him off.
Finally exhaling, Frenchy started coughing, ending with “Say what!?”
“Severance,” Ferg repeated, tasting sweet clouds of skunk. “Severance and a gag order.”
“How much?”
“Don’t care.”
Frenchy reared back in exaggerated shock. “Well excuse me, Mister Howard fucking Hughes.”
“Money’s not the point, Frenchy.”
“Screw that! Sign the paper, take the money, and say what you want anyway.”
Frenchy was laughing loudly at his own words; Ferg disappointing him by opening the passenger door, prompting Frenchy to pinch his skunkweed out and stash it back under the seat, along with unfinished Budweiser.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he mumbled, stumbling to catch-up, kicking a beer can. “Can’t let my sugar daddy get away!”
Ferg moved fast, leading Frenchy to a hulking fireplug doorman just inside, where darkness overwhelmed them like spelunkers rappelling into deep caverns.
Ferg dropped a twenty to get them through, and Frenchy started jiving to loud stage music, bopping back and forth in his heavy winter coat, eyes bulging at the runway girls, sliding down poles and thrusting their asses for dollar bills.
Ferg was glad to see that up-front stage seating was full, and they dropped back to a corner table, where most of the club was in view.
He motioned a girl over to keep Frenchy parked in place, offering to get them well drinks as he circulated slowly, taking stock of everything and everybody. It was the first time he had been there since last Christmas, when he was much closer to Frenchy’s condition, and now things stood out that he hadn’t noticed before:
Black security mirrors along the wall in back, and behind the stage.
Several ceiling cameras near recessed lights, covering every angle.
A powerful looking barback with shredded arms stuffed into a tee shirt; short brown hair slicked with gel, stocking drinks and hanging close to scantily clad barmaids, who were busy filling drink orders for waitresses, and waiting on bar patrons. His eyes were everywhere, and when he finally said something, it sounded Russian and aggressive.
Ferg ordered gin and tonic for Frenchy and Seven Up for himself, arriving back at their table just as Frenchy’s mouth came off a tiny stripper’s rouged areola.
He plopped three more twenties down as Frenchy started gyrating ample hips into the dancer; a move that sent Ferg away with inspired haste.
Up by the front door, Ferg stepped past a private booth room on his left and slowly walked out, saying “Fresh air,” to the fireplug doorman in a suit, showing his face before leaving, punching numbers in a small cell phone as he crossed the lot for privacy.
On the other end, Candy started with Mission Impossible; “Da! Da-daaaaa-da. . . Da! Da-daaaaa-da . . .“
“Cute.”
She tried the flute part but failed miserably, opting to ask how everything looked.
“All kinds of sneaky mirrors and cameras in the ceiling. Dark as the ocean floor, with lots of leering drunks.”
“You’re making me homesick.”
“Barback looks quick . . . spews some kind of Slavic language.”
“Built like a fighter?”
“Big guns and a full barrel.”
“Textbook set-up. Believe me; he sees everything”
“Yes.”
“How’s Frenchy?”
“Little head’s in control.”
“Nice.”
“In person . . . not so much.”
“I bet.”
“So now we study a little more, and begin Phase Two.”
“Da! Da-daaaaa-da. . . Da! Da-daaaaa-da . . .“
“You took a hit.”
“Two small ones from a bat pipe.”
“You and Frenchy. Jesus.”
“Can you say, designated?”
“I will take so much advantage of you tonight.”
“One hopes.”
“One better stay focused. The moment of truth approaches.”
“So it does.”
They hung-up as Ferg circled back, keeping his eyes open and nodding to the fireplug going in, finding Frenchy lost in the eyes of another . . . for twenty more dollars.
“She wants to go in the booth room!” he yelled, causing several nearby patrons to cheer.
“Of course she does . . .” Ferg peeled off some bills and pressed them into Frenchy’s waiting hand. “Does she know your buddy?”
“She knows Big Jim the owner, only he’s not running the show anymore.”
“No?”
“He’s running Hartford, but still has a hand in this.”
“Good to know.”
The stripper turned and said something to Ferg as she disappeared with Frenchy, but he couldn’t understand a word, as if the cold war never existed.
He took a seat at the table and watched everything, noticing a spot in the stage curtain where strippers could be seen getting ready, with another athletic employee hanging out, showing biceps.
The speakers were pounding out one song after another, Fergus wondering just how far he had drifted since Friday morning, throwing that damn chair through Rourke’s office window . . .
- - -
Over 2900 miles away, Bobby Casseolla, aka Bobby Shenanigans, aka Bobby Bonia, and finally, Robert P. Kane, ignores the pounding music through office walls and answers a phone resembling one of his strippers; the receiver a naked woman laying face-down on a furry bearskin rug cradle.
He listens closely to his daughter’s voice coming from the naked woman’s tiny plastic head; popping cocktail peanuts into his mouth, crunching them slowly, savoring the salty taste.
“Hey dad!”
“Candy!”
“How’s tricks?”
“Never ask,” he says, in an opening exchange they’ve been using for years. He runs a thin hand through thin hair on top of a thin skull. He is using the exact same brand of hair dye that his daughter uses, but its color is far from blonde.
“I’m gonna bring ‘em down,” Candy says.
“Oh you are, huh?” he asks – suppressing a laugh – digging for more peanuts.
Listen to my smart little college kid, he thinks. Gonna take out the crazy ‘krainians. “Where are ya, babe? Partying?”
“Calling a raid on their skanky Slav asses.”
Bobby starts choking on a peanut and tries to relax, coughing out, “Wha-What?”
“The cops are gonna bust ‘em any minute now, dad, just like Christmas lights in Time’s Square!”
“Shit!” Bobby says, then, “peanut in my throat honey, wait a sec,” and he’s coughing up the tiny legume, pressing a special red button under his desk like crazy, trying to get Sonny Fixit in there right away, desperately searching through a long security mirror facing the club . . .
“You okay there, dad? Don’t go dying on me . . . it’s not your poor tongue acting up again?”
“Yuh, yuh . . . no! I’m fine . . “
“That’ll shake ‘em up, huh dad? Then I’ve got some other people to keep the heat on . . .”
“Jesus, Candy! You don’t waste any time!”
“. . . and uh, no! I’m bringin’ ‘em right down, daddy-o! I figure the raid will shake ‘em up a bit, and then these people I met . . .”
Bobby sees Sonny coming fast now, like a ship breaking ice for explorers or whatever the fuck he saw on Discovery the other night, Sonny parting crowd seas with ruthless abandon, knowing Bobby was watching every move, buzzing him through the door, loud music pouring in for a few seconds to drown out his crazy daughter on the pornographic phone . . .
“. . . and by that time, we’re going to own it outright, and . . . what was that noise, dad? Sounded like a stereo blasted on for a sec . . .”
She’s teasing him hard now, knowing that her father is about to cup the receiver - there’s the silence – and tell somebody to call Perpetual Motion right away, because his dumbass daughter has pulled a Sarah Palin and gone rebel, all hell about to break loose with the deadliest bunch of Slavs ever created without genetic engineering.
Sonny jumps on another line, speed dialing Connecticut and talking rapidly as Bobby listens to his daughter ramble on like a little school girl, making very big waves on the other coast, Holy Mother of Good God Almighty.
I really didn’t want kids, Bobby thinks, half-listening now. One Happy Ending in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong orifice, and I’m fucking screwed forever.
“. . . really ran it into the ground, dad. You should see the kind of dive it’s become . . .”
It’s a strip joint, Bobby thinks. Name one that isn’t a dive, you brilliant goddamn business major.
To be contunued . . .