Ribbons (9 page)

13

Matt was hoping for something a bit more risqué. The track lighting in the parlor was turned all the way up. It wasn’t even this bright during the funeral. The girls were milling around, chatting in small groups and generally getting ready for the workday to start. Some were reading, some were snacking, and some were putting final touches on their makeup. None of them were having pillow fights in their lingerie.

He expected the TV by the bar to be looping through porn the same way a sports bar might have the game on in the background, but right now, it was tuned in to a cooking show of some sort. A studio audience clapped and laughed at all the right places as a host made fun of a celebrity chef. The chef was making something with chicken. She mixed some kind of glaze up in a glass bowl and then spooned it over a chicken breast. Then she stared rubbing the glaze all over the chicken with her fingers. The closed captioning read,
Don’t be afraid to dig in with your hands and get sticky.

Matt realized he was a little bit turned on by the show.

That was quickly remedied by the snore-snort coming from a love seat in front of the stage. One of the girls was napping. A line of drool had crept out of the corner of her mouth and formed a wet stain on one of the cushions. Her own snoring woke her up when the quiet but rhythmic breathing turned into a gargling snort. One eye popped open, and her hand instinctively went to her mouth. The back of her wrist came away covered with saliva, and she looked down at it, confused. Not quite awake yet but obviously embarrassed, she looked around to see if anybody had noticed. Matt pretended not to by quickly turning back to the food porn.

“This is super sexy,” Matt said under his breath.

Matt was startled when somebody responded. “Well, it is a bit early,” said Erica. She was checking her makeup in a compact and scrapping off a bit of stray lipstick with a fingernail.

“It reminds me of the military. Hurry up and wait,” Matt said. He pulled himself up to sit on one of the barstools.

              Erica closed her compact to look at him. “You were in the military?”

              Something was on the chair Matt sat on. He lifted up his butt to see what it was. “No, but I saw some movies.”

“Oh, well, I guess you
are
qualified to run this place, then,” Erica said.

Matt held a bra up in front of him. “No.”

Erica snatched the bra out of his hand. “No?”

“I haven’t seen any movies about brothels,” Matt said.

Erica rolled her eyes. The look she gave him was like an older sister who had just found her younger brother going through her underwear drawer. Her gross, sticky younger brother. She jammed her bra into the back pocket of her jeans by one of the cups. Then she looked at him deliberately before grabbing the hem of her T-shirt and pulling it off in one fluid motion. Suddenly, he was staring at her breasts.

“Better get used to it,” she said, snatching the bra out of her pocket again. She pulled a strap over one shoulder. “This happens in the movies all the time.” The bra fastened between her breasts, and she flicked back her hair to make sure none of it was caught in the straps. Next, she shrugged on a tight leather vest. She was going for a different look today—more straps, fewer spikes. With that shade of red lipstick and her cuffed jeans, she could have stepped right out of a 1950s biker bar. He might have actually seen a movie like that.

The doorbell rang.

The girl who had been drooling on the love seat sat up straight, shook her head, and got to her feet. She shoved the fuzzy slippers she was wearing under the couch and stepped into some heels. Another girl pointed the remote at the TV. The studio audience clapped and the cooking show was over. It was replaced by something called
Game of Bones: Winter is Cumming
, which looked both ridiculous and awesome. Magazines were hidden, outfits were straightened, and snacks were swept away. Erica filed a fingernail.

Matt looked toward the foyer. “What’s that?”

“You remember?” said Erica. “The doorbell? We have a gentleman caller. Don’t freak out like last time. It’s not good for business.”

Christy came in from the foyer. She was taking the last of the rollers out of her hair. Matt ducked as she tossed it behind the bar. Then she reached over to the wall and dimmed the lights. She gave the rest of the room a quick glance and must have thought it looked good enough. Then she was gone again.

“Okay, everybody, act cool,” said Matt. Nobody was listening to him. He turned to Erica, who was putting away her file. “What do I do?”

She stepped past him and went behind the bar. She flicked a switch and soft rhythmic music started playing through hidden speakers. Then she poured herself a glass of something clear. “You let him in. We take care of the rest.” She threw back her shot. “Unless you want to start offering services?”

“I’ll let you guys take this one,” Matt said. He walked to the doorway leading to the foyer but then stopped and turned back to the girls. He thought he should say something, show them he was here for them. He tried to think of something inspiring and relevant. He froze up and somehow he landed on, “Smiles, everyone, smiles.”

The man at the front door looked confused when Matt opened it.

“Hi there! Welcome to the Golden Delicious.” Matt hoped his smile didn’t seem too forced. “Please, make yourself . . . comfortable?”

The man didn’t seem any less confused. He wore a puffy vest over a flannel shirt, and he pushed up the brim of his baseball cap with the hairiest finger Matt had ever seen. He raised his eyebrows at Matt, like he was expecting something more.

Then Matt realized he was still blocking the doorway. He stepped aside.

Christy came out from behind the reception podium when she saw the man come inside. She reached forward and put a hand on the man’s arm. “Hi, Hank! Sorry about that. He’s new. Good to see you again. How’s the road treating you?”

The man—Hank apparently—seemed to relax almost at once. “Well enough. Good to be back, though. Sorry to hear about Quent.”

Christy started leading Hank toward the foyer. “It’s been rough, but friendly faces always cheer us up.”

She sat Hank down in one of the love seats facing the stage. “Take your coat?”

“Sure,” he said and pulled off his vest.

Christy folded the vest over one arm. “Stayin’ in town a while?”

“Well,” he said, “no offense, but it’s not a town I like to stay in too long. All the lights start messin’ with my Zen.”

Christy smiled. She hung the vest on a coat rack by the bar and then reached behind the counter. She came up with beer and a bottle opener. When she popped the cap, a little beer foamed out and ran over her thumb. She licked the beer off her finger as she brought it over to Hank. To Matt, it seemed more like reflex than seduction.

“Thanks, hon,” he said. “You know me better than I know myself.”

Christy sat on the arm of the love seat. She motioned toward the stage. “So whatcha feelin’ like today? You want the girls to give you a little spin?”

Hank gave a sideways nod as he took a pull from his beer. “Mm-hmm. That’d be great.”

Christy didn’t have to say anything more. The girls had been watching them getting comfortable. Five girls stepped onto the stage, each telling a different story by the way she walked or glanced over her shoulder.

Erica strode up with confidence. She gave Hank a look out of the corner of her eye before turning sharply to face him. She cocked her hips to one side and threw back her head with a hint of defiance. Her story seemed to promise a no-nonsense encounter that would start off fast with clothes being torn off and bodies crashing into each other, but then end with her slowing things down and taking control. Matt might have been projecting a bit on that story.

One girl played the shy schoolgirl, complete with fake modesty and a finger dangling strategically from her mouth. Another took the opposite approach, showcasing skin and rubbing herself while licking her lips. Each was trying to read Hank and present a different style of sexy.

Christy didn’t go onstage. Instead, she watched with Hank. She joked with him without saying anything. She caught him staring at the schoolgirl and jabbed him lightly in the ribs and gave him knowing smile. He nodded at Erica and tipped his ball cap; Christy ruffled his hair. He seemed undecided. Finally, she rested an arm on his shoulder as though they were watching a movie together. Her index finger traced a casual line on the back of his neck.

Hank turned to Christy. “Well, I wouldn’t mind spending some time with you,” he said. “You available?”

Christy gave him an exaggerated, bashful smile. “As it turns out, I’m all freed up.”

She stood and held out her hand to him. Hank set his beer down on an end table and stood with her. He turned to face her and took the offered hand. He was entranced. As soon as Hank’s back was turned away from the stage, Matt saw Erica give Christy the finger. Some of the other girls rolled their eyes.

Christy was only paying attention to Hank. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s catch up.”

She led Hank over to the bar where Matt was doing his best to blend into the background. He didn’t know whether or not he should leave, but Christy seemed to know what she was doing and she’s the one who’d brought Hank over.

“This is Matt,” Christy said. “He’s the new manager. He can run your card, unless you’d prefer to pay cash.”

“Card’s fine,” Hank said. “But I wanted to check in with you on something first. In case it may . . . alter the price.”

Christy’s smile didn’t falter. “Sure. What did you have in mind?”

“Well . . .” Hank hesitated. “I’ve been reading the Internet.”

“Uh-oh.” Christy pretended to be concerned.

“I read about this thing. I think it’s called the Pullman’s Pushcart?” He said it like a question.

“I’m not sure I’ve heard of that one,” said Christy.

Hank gave a nervous little smile as he held up his phone. The screen glowed brightly in the dim light. “I got it here on my phone.”

Christy took the phone and squinted down at it. “Hang on,” she said. She opened a little clutch purse and pulled out a small case. The case held a pair of reading glasses. She slid them on and glanced up at Hank, a little self-conscious. He was still staring at the screen.

“Hmm,” said Christy. “That’s creative. You might want to stretch.”

“We don’t have to do it,” Hank said.

He started to reach for his phone, but Christy stopped him.

“No, it’s fine.” She put a hand on his arm. “It sounds interesting.”

“How much do you think?” Hank sounded a little embarrassed to ask.

“Don’t worry about it. Regular price.” She smiled at him reassuringly. “It’ll be fun.”

Hank pulled out a thick leather wallet from his back pocket. “I figured if I was gonna try it, it should be with a professional.” He handed her a credit card.

Christy passed the card to Matt and then pulled off her glasses. She locked elbows with Hank and started leading him out of the parlor. “Come on. Let’s get you showered up.” She pointed to something on the phone. “I’ll see if we have one of
those
.”

Matt watched them go and then looked down at the card. Christy had given him a rundown of how to use the card reader, but he knew he should wait until they were finished. It was like opening a tab at a bar. Hank might decide he wanted to buy another round.

Matt clipped the card next to the cash register.

A phone rang from the foyer. He started to head out to answer it, but Erica beat him to it. He looked in to see if he could help in some way. Maybe they took reservations.

“It’s for you,” she said and pointed the phone at him.

“What?” he said. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Erica covered up the mouthpiece. “He asked for Matt.”

“Who is it?”

Erica put the phone back up to her ear. She sighed before asking, “Who is this please?” She listened and then pointed the phone back at him. “He says his name is Boba Fett.”

Matt’s throat suddenly dried up. “I’ll take it upstairs.”

A minute later, his hand shook as he picked up the phone on Uncle Quent’s desk. “How did you get this number?”

The last time he had heard the voice on the other end of the line, he had just been punched in the face. Matt rubbed his nose at the memory. It still ached.

“For registered mail, phone number is required. Like letter from uncle,” said Thug Guy. “How is he, by the way?”

“Dead,” said Matt. He eyed the cigar box sitting on the desk.

“Sorry to hear,” said Thug Guy. “I guess that means you cannot ask him for money.”

Matt opened the cigar box. The pistol was still there. There were also a couple of cigars he hadn’t noticed before. “Well, he left me something.”

“Hopefully, piggy bank . . . with much cash,” said Thug Guy.

“Close. A business.”

“Is not restaurant I hope? So unpredictable. Always closing. I meet many who want to be . . . uh . . . Iron Chefs? Now need joint replacement because of me.”