Braver (2 page)

If anything, it made them hungrier for it.

“More tables and chairs,” Mama said dreamily. “Maybe that’s just the thing.”

I got up and grabbed the chore list and section assignments for the nightclub. Every girl’s name was written on the whiteboard with red marker. It was my responsibility — delegated to me by Mama — to make up fresh assignments every day. I took special care to rotate everything evenly. No girl wanted to pull toilet-cleaning duty every night, nor did she want to serve the same section.

When we lived together in such close quarters, it was important to work together to keep it clean — a place you wanted to spend time in. I erased the names on the chore list with the sleeve of my kimono and uncapped the marker, wrinkle my nose at the sharp scent.

Mama huffed her breath out heavily. “You gotta do that while we eat?” she asked.

“I gotta do it before Blue wakes up, walks down here, and thinks she’s cleaning the showers two days in a row,” I said. “She hates cleaning showers. She’d kill me.”

Mama chuckled. “Anything to keep Blue happy,” she said. “Go on, then.”

Showers, toilets, sweeping, mopping, sinks and mirrors, vacuuming, trash, kitchen, grocery, were all categories on the list for boarding house chores. I made sure each girl had a task different from the day before.

Dusting, plates, silverware, glassware, tables, chairs, menus, rooms, and sight checks were all the chores for opening and closing the club. I assigned girls for these tasks, as well. Tables had to be wiped down, even though they’d been cleaned the night before. Chairs had to be, as well, then tables set for the customers. Menus had to be cleaned in case anything had been splashed on them. The rooms — where the real money was made each shift — needed to be checked, the bed linens changed, new towels put out, the various bottles of lubes and packages of condoms restocked, and everything. I had to put several girls on the chart for this chore.

Mama’s nightclub was a nightclub. It hosted live musical acts almost every night. Customers danced if they wanted to — sometimes with the girls, sometimes with each other. It wasn’t uncommon to see women come in with the men that we more often serviced. The food was amazing. We featured chef’s specials every night and had a regularly rotating menu of tapas — smaller dishes that were perfect to accompany a night out. The booze flowed, just as it did at every club.

There was just one difference.

If the money was right, any of Mama’s girls would sleep with the customers — myself included.

Mama’s nightclub doubled as a thriving brothel. Plenty of people knew about it, but Mama’s connections were such that we never got shut down. More than a handful of the regular customers were actually cops. I’d even seen the chief of police in there one night.

As long as she kept it discreet and didn’t attract undue attention — or negative press — Mama’s nightclub operated comfortably. We had our own way of doing things, but they worked well. We had it nearly down to a science.

Mama usually preferred to sight check everything, making sure the nightclub and rooms were perfect before we opened, but I’d do it if she was too busy.

I was, more or less, her second in command at the nightclub. It was a big responsibility.

My last task for the whiteboards was making sure the girls rotated on which section they served in. Some sections were more exclusive, playing host to our more affluent and private customers. It wasn’t fair if girls didn’t get their chance to serve the customers who were more likely to shower them with money.

There were some exceptions, of course. If you were new, you got rotated to these sections less often. And there was nothing you could do if a customer requested a girl specifically. You had to serve him wherever he sat, even if it was in another girl’s section.

Still, we always helped one another out. If a girl saw an empty water glass, she’d fill it. The success of the nightclub depended on teamwork.

It was our lives. Many of the girls didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Done,” I announced, capping the marker.

“Girl, that smell makes me feel high,” Mama said, waving her hand in front of her face. “I’m going to be loopy for the rest of the day.”

“Watch out,” I said, giggling.

 “I was wondering if you could tell the girls something for me,” Mama said.

This I did often enough. Mama loved spending time with the girls, but she usually didn’t have enough of it to pay attention to everyone. I served as her mouthpiece, conveying bits of information and instructions to everyone.

“Of course.”

“I don’t know who did this, but I got a customer complaint that one of the girls wasn’t exactly fresh for business, if you get my drift,” Mama said, pushing her empty plate down the counter and resting her chin on her fist.

I winced. That was really embarrassing, not to mention that it reflected badly on the nightclub. We had to work hard to make sure our appearances were top notch. Why a girl wouldn’t be fresh — not smelling good, not looking good, or not being attentive enough to the client — was a serious problem.

“Do you think someone’s trying to do too much in one night?” I wondered aloud. “That would make sense, wouldn’t it? A girl trying to get in a few too many customers?”

I remembered when I first started out at the nightclub. So eager to earn money, I’d dash from customer to customer, putting my all into pleasing each one. I was, of course, always careful to shower between each encounter, reapply my makeup, straighten my hair, and march right back down to the nightclub to continue.

Exhaustion quickly set in. Back then, Mama had noticed I wasn’t my usual self before the customers did, which was a blessing.

“I know you want to make that dough, Cocoa,” she’d said, “but you’re not going to make it running yourself into the ground. Stick to a few customers. Show them a special time. The money will follow.”

Even when she’d first started the nightclub, she’d been a shrewd businesswoman — and right. When I focused my energy into just a few clients, I was unstoppable.

“I’m not sure how it’s happening,” Mama said, pulling me back to the present. “But something needs to be done. I don’t want it getting out that we’re falling asleep on the job. We have a reputation to maintain.”

“That we do,” I agreed. “I’ll remind the girls.”

“Thanks, honey,” Mama said. She leaned back and patted her plump stomach. “Mercy, I’m full.”

“I can’t believe you were going to try to eat all that by yourself,” I said. I was full, too, with all that rich food.

“Well, I fibbed,” Mama said. “I didn’t have trouble sleeping. I set my alarm. I was kinda hoping you were going to be down early.”

“You know me,” I said. “I’m always down early. What’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking that it’s been too long since you had a roommate,” she said.

“It has been a while,” I said carefully. I tried to think ahead at what Mama might be getting at. My last roommate had been a waif of a girl who hadn’t been cut out for life at the nightclub. That happened sometimes, and it didn’t make Mama happy when it did. It was like losing money on an investment, especially when the girl had needed things to start out with. Mama’s specialties were girls who were down on their luck. She’d take them in, clean them up, give them clothes, food, and a place to live, then earn her money back.

My last roommate — Scribbles, Mama had called her, since she was always writing in a little notebook — had refused to sleep with customers after her first encounter. Mama had smoothed feathers, offering other girls at discounted rates to the customers Scribbles had snubbed.

Then she’d unceremoniously dumped my roommate on her ass in the alley. Mama’s insults had echoed down the brick-lined corridor, making Scribbles scuttle away into the night and me feel like I’d done something wrong.

“I gotta vet ’em better,” Mama had muttered to herself. “Gotta get better help in here.”

I’d removed the poster board on my door with Scribbles’ name on it immediately, even before getting back to work at the nightclub. I had to take over serving her tables.

Mama told me later that she didn’t blame me a bit for Scribbles, but I felt guilty all the same. Maybe it was some failing of mine that kept the girl from doing the best job she could.

But if I was reluctant to talk about Scribbles, I absolutely loathed talking about Jazz.

Jazz had everything going for her when she was my roommate. Mama had wanted to move her on out of my room, especially when we’d taken on Shimmy a few weeks afterward.

But I had told Mama to wait. I didn’t like what I was seeing with Jazz.

The business was eating her alive.

Jazz had made Mama so much money that she’d been more livid at the fact that Jazz had fled the nightclub than the fact that Jazz had betrayed her.

Or tried to, anyway. What had happened to Jazz in the end was the ultimate betrayal. She’d almost died in the process.

I let out a long breath. That was the past. I’d since gotten a letter from Jazz telling me that she was doing much better.

“We need a new way to bring in girls,” Mama said. I was immediately relieved that she didn’t want to talk about Jazz — or anything else I felt bad about. “A way to get them here and keep them here.”

“What’ve you been thinking of?” I asked.

“How can we advertise for this?” Mama said. “I need girls to be clear about what’s expected of them, but you know we can’t put that in a newspaper classified section.”