Plata (3 page)

Chapter 7

Not wanting to be late on her first day, Madison arrived at The Gentlemen’s Club at exactly two o’clock. She didn’t realize what an American concept this was until she’d stepped into the empty camarino. Beba sat in her kiosk sorting through a new shipment of cheap jewelry, and the makeup artist,who introduced himself as Ali, was just setting up his makeup station at the far end of the mirrored counter. Then she noticed a woman sitting at the counter across the room pinning her hair into an updo. She had an angular face with a hook nose and small, natural breasts.

Beba showed Madison to a locker and then escorted her to Ali’s chair.

“Where is everyone?” she asked him quietly.

He clicked his tongue and shook his head disapprovingly, digging through the case for his lightest foundation.

“Those lazy asses are never on time. They go out clubbing all night and then sleep through half the day.” Then his eyes flicked to the mirror, at the woman across the room. His voice dropped. “Except for Vera, poor thing. She gets here earlier than Beba.”

Madison watched the woman push an endless series of pins into her thick, black hair, gazing contentedly at her reflection. “She looks nice enough.”

“Of course,” Ali said, rubbing foundation over Madison’s skin with a makeup sponge. “But she’s ugly as sin. No one knows how she got in here.”

Madison frowned. She’d always hated that people were judged on their looks without any regard for what they were like. And even now that she’d gotten off the ugly team, it still seemed crass and unfair. But she bit her lip and said nothing. She had to let that part of her go, at least for now. There was a job to do.

Ali gave Madison a pale, natural looking base, with dramatic lashes and eyebrows. She stared at her reflection yet again, recognizing nothing. Now she really did look like a model.

“They’re going to love you, sweetheart,” Ali said. “Blonds are the biggest hit by far, because they’re so exotic here.” He cocked his head and studied her in the mirror. Then he reached around and cupped her breasts, weighing them in his hands. “Real boobs, yes?”

She stifled a gasp and nodded dumbly. This was not a place familiar with boundaries, she thought.

“Very nice,” Ali said, letting her go. “A lot of these guys really go for that.”

Madison put her bag in the locker and pulled on one of the dresses. Then she strapped on the stilettos, but was too afraid to stand up in them. Beba stepped out of her kiosk with a sheet of paper.

“Madre, what name are you going to use?” she asked.

“What name?”

“Your stage name, madre!” Beba groaned impatiently.

Madison hadn’t considered a stage name, though she liked the idea of hiding behind a pseudonym. But her brain froze up and she couldn’t think of a thing. She turned to Ali for help, but he just waved it away.

“Beba comes up with the best names. Not me.”

Beba squinted at Madison for a moment, contemplating. Then she nodded her head and wrote something down on the paper. “Arizona,” she said. “You’re Arizona.”

Ali smiled. “Hurry up, Miss Arizona. Cesar is waiting for you to pick your music.”

Madison nodded, feeling the panic rising inside her. She’d gotten home too late to practice walking in the stilettos, which meant this would be her first attempt. Beba and Ali waited for her to move. She could feel her legs tremble from nerves as she pushed herself to her feet. For a moment, she wavered there, knees knocking like Bambi.

“What’s the matter?” asked Beba. “Are you going to faint?”

Madison managed a smile. “No. I’m fine.”

With great focus on every move, she slowly walked toward the exit. After a moment she found the balancing point, and figured out how to hold her body. At last, she was out. She carefully descended the stairs, holding tight to the railing, and then spent several minutes walking up and down the deserted hallway to the back entrance, holding her arms out slightly, skidding only once on the heel. Finally, she felt like she could safely go out on the floor. She stood before a mirror checking her hair, assessing the black dress that hugged her curves and displayed her plump cleavage.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The upstairs dining room was already filled when she stepped through the back door and onto the floor. All of the men upstairs had a membership to the club, which cost $10,000 a year. This, Enzo had assured her, was where the money was.

Out of the 600 table dancing clubs in Mexico City alone, The Gentlemen’s Club was in a category all its own. It boasted one of the top chefs in the country, and the atmosphere was famously elegant and very tasteful. Enzo told her that the beautiful women who worked there were often seen more as modern day geishas than high-class strippers. They made a lot of their money just sitting at the tables of wealthy men, looking gorgeous and acting charming.

Several men turned to look at Madison as she stepped through the door, and a hush fell over the room. She took a breath and walked as elegantly as she could in the stilettos, which meant moving slowly and deliberately. To cover the unsteadiness of her steps, Madison gave her body a gentle sway as she walked, as if she just had a naturally sultry gait. As she made her way to the DJ booth, all eyes in the room were on her. She gave a few men a demure smile, struck with the overwhelming feeling that she was playing a character in a school play. It was surreal to be the object of so much desire.

The DJ was a young, attractive guy named Cesar who, Madison guessed, had the best job in the world. He sat in his dimly lit crow’s nest in the corner of the club, queued up music, and watched beautiful women take their clothes off. But Madison was touched by how shy and reverential he was, showing her the catalog of available songs, averting his eyes when he spoke. He just stopped short of calling her ma’am. After nervously glancing through the pages, Madison settled on an old Annie Lennox song called “Why.”

“Great song.” Cesar grinned shyly. “So, what kind of lighting do you want?” He settled onto a stool in the corner of the booth. “I’m thinking, blue filter. It goes with the song.”

“Whatever you think,” Madison said, since she had no idea about things like that. “I’ll see you later.” She headed for the door with a clumsy wave.

“Good luck!” Cesar called after her. She could hear the grin in his voice. “You can bet I’ll be watching.”

Chapter 8

During the long week following Madison’s decision to work at the club, she dreamed about it constantly. They were Gothic nightmares where The Gentlemen’s Club was a dark, cavernous dungeon filled with grotesque men, like something out of a David Lynch movie.

In reality, the club was exquisitely appointed, with dramatic flower arrangements in huge vases, white linen tablecloths, and expensive-looking couches and chairs arranged around gleaming black coffee tables. And the men were surprisingly normal looking.

Madison spent an hour in a shadowy corner of the club, watching the other dancers work the floor, and drinking vodka tonics. Many of the girls had arrived by mid-afternoon, and were scattered throughout the upstairs dining room and lounge, chatting with clients and giving table dances. Since Madison had no idea what a table dance entailed, she studied them carefully, memorizing their moves. She knew that there was no contact allowed, but was surprised to see just how close the women got to their clients. They usually slipped in between the man’s legs and moved sensuously, sometimes leaning in close so that their breasts were mere inches from the client’s face. She couldn’t begin to picture herself doing that to a man, but the vodka had eased her nerves a bit. And she knew there was no turning back now.

At last, the moment she’d been dreading arrived. Cesar called Madison’s stage name on the speaker system, which meant she was next on stage. Despite the warmth of the vodka, she felt an ice bomb go off inside her, sending frozen shards through her entire body. She tossed back the rest of her drink and got to her feet. Rather than sending her off balance, the vodka steadied her. After several deep breaths, she headed downstairs where a security guard pointed her to the backstage vestibule.

Madison sat on the cushioned bench, eyes closed, hands on her knees, willing her heart to slow. Vera was on stage, and the Miley Cyrus song she’d chosen blared through Madison’s mediation. It was no use. She opened her eyes and peeked out to where Vera was moving stiffly around the stage, like a bad wedding dancer. Then she unceremoniously pulled the dress over her head and dropped it on the floor. Her moves were mechanical, almost robotic, as if she were doing it for the hundred millionth time. She continued the awkward dance, dressed only in a yellow thong, moving side to side with bent elbows, her small, brown breasts lightly bouncing. Madison tried to comfort herself with the fact that she was following a pretty lousy act.

She could see just beyond the stage, where a smattering of men in suits sat looking up at Vera in a catatonic daze, as if staring vacantly at a television set. Enzo told her that the men downstairs were just day-trippers who paid a cover at the door. They were usually just there to drink. Still, there was a dress code, and they mostly looked like businessmen on a break from the office. Upstairs, the tables were crowded, which filled the air with the din of chatting voices and clanking silverware on plates. No one upstairs was watching Vera.

Finally, the music faded and Vera clopped off the stage. She gave Madison a scrunchy-eyed smile as she stood before the mirror, pulling her dress back over her head.

“See you upstairs, amiga,” she said, turning quickly to go. “They told you about going upstairs, right?”

Annie Lennox drifted through the speakers, and Madison felt her stomach flip over. She shook her head.

“After you dance the main stage, you have to do one song on the small stage upstairs. They never remember to tell the new girls that. But Simon gets pissed if he sees it empty.”

Madison nodded, trying desperately to hide the panic welling inside. “Thanks.”

Vera lifted her chin in the direction of the stage and raised her eyebrows. “Showtime, amiga!”

Madison forced a smile and turned toward the stage. She could feel her knees gently knocking together again. I can do this, she told herself. There’s only one first time. She took several steps forward, knowing that if she hesitated much longer, she’d chicken out. The stage was awash in blue light, but there was a white spot light on her. It was the first time Madison had ever been alone on a stage. She’d performed songs with her class in elementary school, and played small roles for school plays. But now she was on her own; there was no one around to save her.

She kept her eyes on the floor, focusing on each step, willing her legs to stop shaking. Her body swayed gently, as again, she masked the unsteadiness behind a sultry movement across the stage. She was only vaguely aware that the murmur had faded upstairs, and it was very quiet. There was only the clear, pleading voice of Annie Lennox.

Madison stepped closer to the edge of the stage and lifted her eyes. The first person she saw was a chubby, middle-aged man in a white dress shirt and blue tie. His sport coat was tossed over the back of the chair beside him. She locked eyes with the man as if he were the only person in the room. Surprised, the man sat up straight in his seat. There were two other men at the table, as well, but Madison only looked at the chubby guy. Suddenly, she felt very calm.

Before stepping on stage, she’d had no idea what to do. Every time she’d tried to rehearse alone in her room, she felt ridiculous and gave up. But now she had no choice but to accept her transformation, and understand the power that came with beauty.

The chubby man couldn’t look away. She held him captive with her stare. Without thinking, she crossed her arms over her chest and slipped her fingers under each strap of her dress. She swayed her body with a sensuousness that was utterly foreign to her, but seemed to come straight from the music. Her fingers slid the straps off her shoulders and left them to hang loose on her arms.

Drunk with this new-found sensuality, she found herself slowly moving her hands over her breasts and then down to her waist. She slid her hands a little lower, never taking her eyes off the man. His features seemed to loosen under her gaze, and his mouth opened involuntarily. She wasn’t thinking anymore. Instead, she surrendered to the vodka and this stranger emerging from somewhere inside her. When she peeled the dress slowly off her breasts, revealing them at last, she heard a low, collective sigh. Glancing up to the dining room, she saw that the men had left their tables and were gathered around the brass railing to watch her.

She continued the dance in the same erotically charged, hypnotic state until at last it was over; her dress on the floor and the men whooping with applause. After slipping back stage in a daze, she collapsed on the bench, the suppressed anxiety surging once again to the surface. She gripped her dress and closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath.

“Are you alright?” a woman asked.

Madison opened her eyes to find a stunning, auburn-haired woman with huge green eyes. A long white gown set off her tanned skin, and she wore a lovely pearl choker. She was looking at herself in the full-length mirror, but Madison knew the woman was talking to her.

“I’m fine,” she said. The dancer’s song began; a pulsating electronica that pounded in Madison’s head.

“No time to nap, sister,” the woman snapped. “Get your ass upstairs already.”

Chapter 9

The upstairs stage was just a three-foot by three-foot polished wooden platform wedged between two of the dining room’s biggest tables. It was up against the railing, looking down at the main floor and stage below. As Madison stepped onto the platform, many of the men at the surrounding tables complimented her on the dance. She smiled graciously, genuinely relieved. Then she froze. A tall, handsome man with chiseled features and sandy hair stood apart from the dark-haired businessmen. It was the man from the bookstore.

Madison gripped the brass railing, suddenly dizzy. There was something mortifying about the man seeing her there. At the bookstore, she’d giddily imagined the two of them in a kind of fairytale romance, as much about intellect as sexual attraction. Even if she’d never seen him again, she would hold onto that image. But now she felt tawdry and cheap. The fairytale was sullied. And this time when Madison danced, all she felt was humiliation.

The song seemed to last forever. Every time she glanced the man’s way, he was looking down at his plate, almost as if protecting her privacy. Down on the main floor, one of the waiters stood beside the chubby guy’s table signally up at Madison with a small flashlight. A man sitting closest to the stage leaned over.

“You’re new,” he said. “I know because I come here a lot.” He nodded in the direction of the waiter downstairs. “That means the guy wants to pay you for a dance. He’s asked the waiter to call you down.”

“Oh,” she said, instantly regretting her decision to focus on him.

The man refilled his glass from the bottle of Don Julio tequila, which sat open on the table like a carafe of drinking water. He was a laid-back, jovial man in his 50s.

“But you’re not a downstairs girl. Trust me. When you’re done up there, you come sit down with us.”

At last, the song ended and Madison was able to slip her dress on again. The jovial man stood up and held out his hand, helping her step off the platform, which was no small feat in the stilettos. He offered her his arm and guided her to the table. He signaled a waiter, who immediately brought her a chair.

“What are you drinking?” the man asked. “Would you like tequila? Wine? Champagne?”

“Vodka tonic, please,” Madison said. She was ready for another drink.

“What is your name?” the man asked, once the waiter was gone.

“Arizona.” It felt phony coming out of her mouth.

“Armando,” he said, pointing to himself, as if she might not understand. “Where are you from?”

“Colorado,” she replied, glancing quickly at the handsome man from the bookstore. She caught her breath. He was staring at her.

“Ah!” Armando exclaimed. “The Grand Canyon!”

Madison looked at him, wondering if he was joking. “The Grand Canyon isn’t in Colorado.”

“It’s not?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “Then where is it?”

“Arizona.”

Armando burst into laughter and squeezed Madison’s knee.

“Lucky Grand Canyon!” He turned to the man from the bookstore with a sheepdog grin. “What do you think, Pierre? An American girl! And with flawless Spanish!”

Pierre, Madison thought. She realized that he was the only man at the table drinking red wine instead of tequila. He’s French, she mused. Perfect.

“I lived here for a year in high school,” Madison said, trying not to look at Pierre. “And I study Spanish literature in college.”

Armando looked at Pierre again. “College girl! Just your type!”

Pierre sighed, his eyes burning a hole in his plate. “Please don’t embarrass me, Armando. And don’t embarrass the girl.” His Spanish was perfect as well, though softened with a French accent.

Armando let out a bark of a laugh. “Come here,” he said, gesturing for Madison to stand. Then he dragged her chair around the table until it was next to Pierre’s. “Just try to get a smile out the guy,” Armando said teasingly. “He hates these places. Or so he says.”

Madison sheepishly settled into the chair beside Pierre. She noticed that his neck and ears were flushed. Neither of them spoke. After a moment, she realized that Simon was standing just behind the next table over, watching her critically. She knew that it was just as much her job to be charming and entertaining as it was to dance. And she was blowing it.

“Is it true?” she asked, leaning closer to him.

A smile flickered across his face at the sound of her voice. He looked at her. “Is what true?”

“That you hate these places?”

He looked down again and took a long sip of wine. “You were in the bookstore,” he said quietly in English.

Her drink arrived, and she immediately took a long sip. She could still feel Simon’s gaze, evaluating her skills. With a forced smile, she looked back at Pierre.

“Have you started reading the Saramago?” she asked, also in English, for loss of anything else to say.

Pierre was silent for a moment, staring at her. “Yes,” he said at last. “Have you read it?”

“I have.”

“What did you think?” he asked, a half-smile on his face.

Madison picked up her drink again and leaned back in her chair. “I think it’s one of the most elegant political allegories ever written.”

Pierre laughed. He looked down again and shook his head. “This was not what I expected today,” he mumbled.

Madison smiled, naturally this time. “Me, neither.”

“You were looking through a book of Spanish poets,” Pierre said. “What did you think of them?”

She took a long drink, feeling the vodka warm her inside, relaxing her at last. “I think the poetry is beautiful. What bothers me is that the women the Romantics wrote about were so idealized they could only exist in nature, poetry, or death. Which is a drag if you’re a woman.”

Pierre looked at Madison, and this time he held her gaze, intensity in his eyes. “Real women, of course, are far more complex, aren’t they?”

Madison felt her heart skitter, but she held her composure.

“Hey, gorgeous!” Armando called across the table. “I have a house in Acapulco. Come with me sometime!”

Madison smiled politely, glancing quickly at Simon. “That’s a little beyond my pay grade.”

Armando waved his hand at her, as if this were nonsense. “Come on! We could have such a great time together!” He winked at her and nudged the man sitting next to him.

“Isn’t it pretty to think so?” Madison said quietly in English, before she could stop herself.

Pierre leaned back in his chair and sighed in amazement. “Hemingway.”

She turned with a laugh, her eyes full of delight. Together they shared the long gaze of two strangers who’ve just realized how much they have in common. Armando stood up in the middle of some riotous story, his laugh booming over the music. He walked around the table and crouched down next to Madison. With one smooth gesture, he tucked a wad of bills into her hand.

“Give him a dance, gorgeous,”

Pierre bolted up in his chair. “No, no, no…”

Madison looked at Armando with panic. “He doesn’t want one.”

Armando waved this away as well. “Who cares?! He needs it, honey. The guy’s got to loosen up!”

Several of the men cheered him, as they tossed back tequila. Pierre gave Madison a pleading look.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Armando. “But I can’t do it if he doesn’t want one.”

“Yes, you can.”

Madison turned to find Simon glaring down at her.

“What’s the problem?” he asked.

She swallowed hard and got to her feet. This time she felt the liquor in her head and needed to steady herself on the table. She looked at Simon.

“I don’t think he wants a dance,” she said quietly.

Simon frowned and leaned in close. “Sweetheart,” he whispered roughly in her ear,“if you want to work here, you won’t fuck up our relationships with important clients. Now dance!”

Madison nodded nervously. “Okay, okay.”

She took another sip of vodka and stepped over to Pierre. He was pale.

“Please,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Please don’t.”

But she had no choice. She couldn’t get fired with scarcely a peso in her purse. Trying hard not to look sheepish, Madison slipped the straps from her shoulders and slowly pulled off the dress. Pierre closed his eyes and sat back in his chair, defeated. The men at the table gleefully watched with drunken grins as she stepped up to Pierre and pushed his legs apart with her knee, as she’d seen the other girls do. He opened his eyes. Knowing that Simon couldn’t see her face, she mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

Madison moved with the same slow sway she’d done on the stage. It was her first table dance, and she knew Simon would be appraising her. She looked away from Pierre, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. She moved her fingers along her body, gliding over the parts she knew a man would like to touch. Then she put her hands on the arm of the chair and, like the other girls, leaned in very close, careful there wasn’t any physical contact between them. She slowly arched her back so that her nipples were inches from Pierre’s lips. She could feel his warm breath on her skin. For a moment she imagined him taking a nipple gently into his mouth, and she shivered.

Pierre’s chest rose and fell with quickening breaths, and Madison saw the tip of his tongue involuntarily slip through his lips. Then his eyes sought her face, gazing up at her with both desire and inexplicable tenderness. She was close to him now, her lips hovering just over his, and she could almost taste the red wine on his breath from his shuddering exhalation. There was a jolt of electricity between them. When she stood up again and turned a slow, undulating circle before him, he couldn’t resist looking at the rest of her body. Then he closed his eyes, as if it were too much to bear. When he opened them again, his face was desperate, full of both longing and shame.

When the song finished, Madison groped for her dress, feeling the flush in her cheeks. Pierre picked up his glass of wine and drained it. His skin was flushed as well, his ears and neck hot and ruddy. Madison slipped on the dress, forcing herself not to rush, but to be slow and deliberate, pulling the fabric over the generous curves of her hips, the soft fullness of her breasts. Pierre looked away. She slipped the bills into her purse and stood with the drink in her hand. She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted a man in her life. But not this way.

“I have to go,” she said softly. She put a hand on his forearm and gave him a real Madison smile. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Pierre.”

Pierre took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse. “That would be my choice of words as well.”

“Are you leaving us, gorgeous?” Armando shouted across the table.

Madison smiled and nodded. “Thank you for the drink,” she said.

Armando waved her over, his gestures increasingly sloppy and loose. “We don’t want to monopolize the most beautiful girl in the place,” he grinned, digging through his wallet. He pulled out another wad of bills and thrust them at her. “Thank you for cheering up our French friend here.” He shook his head as she accepted the money, and settled into his chair again. “Smoking hot,” he shouted to his friends. “Smoking fucking hot.”

Madison walked away from the table without turning back to look at Pierre. She slipped into the bathroom and locked herself inside a stall. Slowly, she counted the bills, and then calculated, according to the current exchange rate, the amount in dollars. Six hundred and fifty. Amazed, she shoved the bills back into her purse and left the stall.

That was easy money, she told herself. And she tried hard to believe it.