Top Six Club, Las Vegas.
Carmine Porello.
THE MOB WARS of 2008 resulted in a three-way split for control of the continental United States. The winners were Vincent “Viggie” Matisse (east coast), Sal Bonadello (mid-west), and Carmine “The Chin” Porello, who currently holds the west coast by the thinnest of threads.
Carmine’s seen better days. He’s late seventies, barrel-chested, with thin arms and wispy gray hair he combs straight back and holds in place with some type of ancient hair tonic. He got his nickname because twenty years ago he could lift his chin and cause the death of any ten men. These days he spends his days negotiating blow jobs from the strippers at his dance club, the Top Six.
“New girl’s here, Mr. Porello,” Roy says.
“What’s she look like?”
“A headliner.”
Carmine looks up with sudden interest. “Top shelf?”
“Don’t get too excited. She’s no Gwen Peters.”
“Her and everyone else on the planet,” Carmine says.
He goes quiet a minute, lost in thoughts about little Gwennie, who put the Top Six on the map and kept it there till she ran off and married Lucky Peters, the famous gambler. Gwen wasn’t just beautiful, she was brilliant when it came to strip club entertainment. She invented drinking games and audience participation games that revolutionized the industry and increased business tenfold. Other clubs mimicked her style, stole her ideas, but none could compete. It was Gwen, with her looks, her personality, who brought magic to the place.
That was a year ago, and it’s been all downhill ever since.
For the Top Six and all the other clubs.
After Lucky died, Carmine and his competitors tried to hire Gwen to resurrect their businesses. But she found a Vegas billionaire who keeps her happy as a pampered, kept woman. With Gwen out of the picture the club owners have been falling all over themselves in an effort to hire a headliner who could turn out to be the next Gwen Peters. But it’s like catching lightning in a bottle. In Vegas pretty girls are a dime a dozen. But most of them don’t have to strip for a living. Those who hang around do so because they can’t score a better job elsewhere.
Carmine sighs. “They’re all less than Gwen.”
“True.”
“How much less is this one?”
Roy shrugs. “I give her body a high eight.”
“Maybe a nine?”
“Maybe.”
“You saw her tits?”
Roy nods.
“They real?” Carmine says.
“Real and nice,” he says. “Real nice.”
Carmine says, “P, N, or Q?” Referring to a stripper game Gwen invented where clients try to guess if a penny, nickel, or quarter is sufficient to cover the areola.
“Nickle.”
Carmine licks his lips. “Nickle’s my favorite.”
Roy, thinking, No shit. I’ve only heard that what, eight thousand times?
“How old is she?” Carmine says.
“Eighteen.”
“You check her driver’s license?”
“Yeah,” Roy says, thinking, After all this time you need to ask me that? I’d love to shove my fist up your dinosaur ass and grind your knuckle bones into dice, you disgusting old letch!
“How’s her face?” Carmine says.
“A nine.”
“A high nine?”
“No. But a solid nine.”
“Can she dance?”
“Who knows? She’ll only audition for you.”
“And you put up with that?”
Roy shrugs. “Like I say, she’s a headliner. An eight body, a nine face. A solid eighty-nine. With a ten smile. We need her. She knows it.”
Carmine Porello laughs. “Spunky. I like that. Send her in.”
Roy stands, walks to the door, opens it. Says, “Mr. Porello will see you now.”
The young, well-proportioned blonde who enters the office does so with an air of great confidence. She takes the seat directly across from Carmine’s desk and waits for him to speak.
“You’re not that cute,” Carmine says.
“Yes I am.”
“I’ve seen cuter.”
“Me too. But not in this club.”
“You got a mouth on you,” Carmine says.
“I’m just saying what I know, Mr. Porello. If you’ve got prettier girls than what I’ve seen, you should let this bunch go.”
He looks at Roy, says, “You believe this shit?”
Roy says, “Show some respect.”
To Carmine, she says, “What happened to his hand?”
Carmine looks at Roy, then back at her. “He broke it.”
“That’s too much cast for a broken hand.”
“Let’s move along with the interview,” Carmine says, softening his tone. “What’s your name, sugar?”
“My driver’s license says Willow.”
He laughs. “Willow what?”
“Breeland.”
“You’re young.”
She says nothing.
“Ever dance before?”
She nods.
“Where?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“If you’re gonna work for me, there won’t be any secrets between us.”
“Does that mean you’ll tell me everything I want to know about your business?”
Carmine and Roy do a double-take.
Carmine says, “You believe this shit?”
Roy says, “Show some respect. I won’t tell you again.”
Willow says, “Where I come from, respect is a two-way street.”
Carmine says, “Where do you come from?”
“Midwest.”
“Fresh off the bus?”
“Airline. I’ve got a bank account.”
“Oh, a bank account!” Roy says. “Wow!”
Willow frowns.
Carmine says, “You got references?”
“All the references I need are under my clothes.”
Carmine swallows his urge to slap her face. This fuckin’ eighteen-year-old comes waltzing in here like she owns the place. Cocky, arrogant, showing no respect. She sure as shit ain’t no Gwen Peters. Gwen may have been confident, but she wasn’t cocky. She knew her place in the hierarchy. That said, Carmine finds himself drawn to this mouthy little Willow. He wants to see her dance. Wants to see what’s under her clothes. It’s just that she needs to be brought down a peg.
“Let’s see what you got,” he says.
Willow lifts her tank top.
Carmine forces himself not to lick his lips or drool. But the fact is Willow’s tits are perfect. He strains to contain his enthusiasm. Forces himself to say, “Not bad.”
Then he adds, “Roy says you’ve got a great smile.”
“Roy’s right.”
“Show me.”
Willow flashes her money smile.
“I’d like to see that smile wrapped around my dick,” Carmine says, attempting to put her in her place.
Roy laughs.
Without batting an eye, Willow says, “If we’re negotiating, let’s leave Roy out of it from here on.”
Roy moves toward her with his fist cocked. But Carmine waves him off.
Roy says, “Say the word, I’ll beat that attitude out of her.”
Carmine says, “Leave us be, Roy. Can’t you see we’re negotiating?”
Willow smiles.
Roy glares at her. Says, “This ain’t over, bitch.”
Willow says, “Run along, Roy.”
“What the fuck did you just say to me?”
He gets right up in her face. His eyes are slits. His face, a mask of fury. Through clenched teeth he says, “Get ready, Miss. Because I’ve got plans for you!”
“Cancel them,” she says.
“Outside this club, you’re on my turf,” he snarls. “Bad things happen on my turf. You been warned.”
Willow gives him a look of her own. Then says, “Roy, you’re a bug on my windshield. Nothing more.”
When he leaves, Carmine says, “You got balls, I’ll give you that. But you better re-think this thing with Roy.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s a mean son of a bitch.”
Willow shrugs.
“I won’t lie to you. He beats the shit out of the girls sometimes.”
Willow yawns.
“I’m serious. He broke a girl’s jaw once, for talking back. Crushed another one’s cheekbones.”
Willow says, “I’m not afraid.”
“Why not?”
She bats her goldenrod eyes at him and says, “You’ll take care of me.”
Carmine gives her a long look, then says, “The other girls think Roy’s the power around here.”
“Why should you and I care what they think?”
Carmine scrunches up his face in thought and says, “Roy thinks I’m ripe for the plucking.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s one step away from making a run at me.”
“Then maybe we should put him in his place.”
Carmine gives her a long, wistful look.
His voice softens. “You remind me of things from long ago.”
“What sorts of things?”
“Honey-suckle. Swimming at Blue Lake. Stick ball. Kick the can. You know, kid things.”
He smiles.
Willow says, “Who’s the first girl you ever felt up?”
“Excuse me? Did you just say ‘felt up’?”
She nods.
“You mean kissed?”
“Nope. Felt up.”
He laughs. “Seriously?”
“I’m told you never forget your first feel.”
“Mary Jane Milligan.”
She smiles. “How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“And she was?”
“The same. During lunch she’d stand by the oak tree in the school yard, let you feel her up for a quarter.”
Willow laughs. “A quarter?”
“Don’t laugh. That was a big number in those days.”
“Did she lift up her shirt, or what?”
“In the early days she’d flash you for a quarter. But the boys grew wise to it.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’d keep an eye on her. When she got a customer they’d run over and surround her and try to catch a free peek.”
“So she modified her business plan? From flashing to fondling?”
Carmine throws his head back and laughs. “Modified her business plan!” he says. He laughs some more.
Then says, “What, you attended Harvard Business School?”
“I wish.”
He laughs again, and dabs the corners of his rheumy eyes with his sleeve.
“Milligan,” Willow says. “Irish, yes?”
He nods.
“Catholic girl? Red hair?”
“You’re good, I’ll give you that!”
“Freckles?”
He nods again.
“Big boobs?”
He throws back his head and roars with laughter.
“What?”
“She was only fourteen!”
“So? Big boobs, or no?”
He laughs. “My father had bigger tits. But Mary Jane was the only game in town.”
“Did she let you touch them, or just her blouse?”
Carmine shakes his head and chuckles. “You really want to hear this?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“I’ve known you five minutes, I’m tellin’ you shit my wife don’t know after fifty-five years of marriage.”
“You’re going to tell me lots of things your wife doesn’t know.”
“You think so, huh?”
Willow smiles.
“I never met anyone like you before,” he says.
“I know,” Willow says. “And you never will.”