Sugar & Salt (14 page)

“Hey Boss.” Jackson pulls his childhood friend into a tight hug

It’s been a few weeks since they got together, and his friend’s presence always brings his childhood back to vivid life—Gram in her blue housecoat covered with tiny, pink and purple flowers standing on the bottom step of her narrow house, or yelling across the street to tell Jackson it was time to get his ass back home; Ronnie wiping blood, or dirt, or some other insult off his face after Jackson, his only friend, rescued him yet again from the cruelties of childhood.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just sliding down from the Heights and thought I’d drop in to see if any of your female co-workers had reconsidered assisting with my pro bono situation.”

“Yeah, like never?” Caitrin glares at him from the window box booth where she and Pearl sit drinking water, or vodka—impossible to be sure.

“You never know... minds can be changed, opinions swayed. That which was once concrete becomes fluid over time. A man must persevere.”

“So really, what’s up?” Jackson slings his arm around Ronnie’s shoulder and leads him further into the kitchen, away from the others.

“I’m following up on the task you entrusted to me—a certain man with a penchant for little girls?” He opens the fridge and pulls out a beer.

Jackson takes a bottle of water.

“Turns out Mister Man has been removed from his living situation per his Missus. Not sure about the hows and whys yet, but I did uncover—as per my superior sleuthing—a complaint on file with the school about him hanging around campus after hours, watching the marching band. His daughter, it just so happens, is not in the band.”

“Marcie?”

“Indubitably.”

“Motherfucker.”

“Not this one, I’m afraid. I’d recommend the use of another, more upsetting moniker.”

“Thanks for this, Ronnie. What do I owe you?”

“You serious? I charge the big lady in there when she needs me to do some reconnaissance outside of the traceable channels, but for you? Nah man, no charge. Tell you what, I’ll throw something your way if you let me put a little terror of God in him. Don’t think he’d know what to do if Q and I came up on him in the dark somewhere after hours—put the fear of the black man to discernable use.”

“Can’t risk letting it escalate. Gotta keep Juliette safe, you know?”

“Yeah, but if you change your mind, I’m in for some white boy origami.”

“I hear you.”

“You off now? Wanna get some breakfast?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. Let me get Portia.”

Ronnie rolls his eyes with an indulgent smile, while Jackson heads back out to the main room. The prospect of pancakes with his two favorite people wakes him up, despite the long night.

Portia sits at her desk closing screens, and then turns off her computer. She gets up and starts to close the blinds.

For a moment, he just watches her—graceful and deliberate as a dancer. No matter what time of day it is, she has perfect poise and moves effortlessly, like she was born in another realm. She reminds him of the princesses and nymphs from the novels he read in high school.

“Ronnie’s here.”

She squeals with delight, grabs her bag, and turns off the monitor before ducking into Miss Necia’s office to say goodbye.

He shakes his head. Whenever that fucker comes around, she gets all aflutter. You’d think he was Santa Clause.

When she returns, her exuberance has dimmed. She frowns and sucks in one side of her lower lip. “There’s something not right with her lately and she won’t tell me what it is. Maybe I can get Caitrin to talk to her.”

“Portia, don’t get too involved in her business. If she wanted you to know, she’d tell you.”

“You know so painfully little about women.”

“Hey!”

Portia sweeps through the door to the kitchen and runs straight to Ronnie. She drops her purse and throws both arms around his neck. “Ronnie! You haven’t been to see me in so long!”

He picks her up off her feet and spins her around, both of them smiling like children on a playground.

Lynette and the rest of the housekeeping staff ignore them, and sweep through the kitchen into the laundry room with arm loads of sheets. One of them props the back door open to let in some fresh morning air.

“It’s Jackson’s fault,” Ronnie says. “He keeps you under lock and key, chained up all day long, won’t let you spread your wings to fly with me. Portia, Portia, let down your hair.” He twirls her one last time before setting her down.

“That’s not true, silly.” She slaps him playfully on the chest, and beams at Jackson.

His heart battles with his mind. He’s the one she trusts and always returns to, but never the one she touches. What he wouldn’t give to spin her in his arms, hold her tight, and listen to her joyful laugh.

“Jackson?” She approaches and raises her hand as if to set it on his arm, but stops just centimeters from contact. “Are you ready to go?”

He presses the transmission button on his headset. “Security Alpha One, out.”

A chorus of “yes sirs” fills his ears before he takes it out, switches it to off, and drops it into Portia’s waiting hand.

She places it safely in her purse. “Let’s go.”

The Art of Lily Gilding

At the door, a bouncer checks IDs, but allows Janice to pass with just a nod. She’s not exactly a regular, but her clients often are, and it’s good to put in some face time. Plus, Caitrin is performing tonight, and that was guaranteed to draw some interest in The Sugar House’s services.

Inside, pinpoint lights along the floor of a dark hallway illuminate which direction to walk. It’s an impressive effect for those who have never been there, or for those looking for some smoke and mirrors to hide the night’s show from their day-to-day lives. Blackness envelops her, but she knows the way. Music plays in the distance and the effect of total blackout continues.

She rounds the final corner and opens the heavy, velvet curtains. Before her, an old fashioned vaudeville theatre is revealed with small, round tables, which allow patrons to drink while they enjoy the show. The ceiling looms at least two storeys high, and chandeliers hang everywhere. The walls are covered with velvet and posters from old vaudeville acts.

Lanterns sit along the edge of a low stage on the far end of the room. Everyone in attendance had taken the extra time to dress to the nines, including herself. She wears a backless, black, floor-length gown that frames her curves and highlights the volume of her cleavage. The room is packed with people, and their heat and undisguised lasciviousness surround her, bringing her to life.

It’s been a hard week since she walked out on Salt once again, but tonight, she revels in the debauchery around her.

A woman wearing nothing but an elegant, black lace skirt and pasties approaches her with a smile. The girl is familiar, but her name elusive.

“Are you here for the show?” She hands Janice a pamphlet printed on heavy stock.

“No, thank you, I’ll sit at the bar.”

“Of course, Miss Necia.”

The girl bows her head and slinks away.

Janice leans against the edge of the bar in a dark corner and looks over the announcement:

Welcome to The Gilded Lily!

Where the dresses come off, but the beauty remains.

Please join us in welcoming:

Donovan – The Top Banana and his Mixed Nuts

ACT ONE: Donovan’s Parade of Oddities

ACT TWO: Comedy Stylings of Mixed Nuts

ACT THREE: Dance Presentation by Viva La Vixen

The bartender approaches her with a seductive smile. “What’s your pleasure?”

“A little cliché, isn’t it, Rose?”

The girl’s smile turns sincere as she recognizes Janice. “Miss Necia! How fabulous that you’re here. Cosmo?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Rose’s barely covered tits shake as she mixes the drink. They’re firm and perky, but by no means small. She’s perfect for this job.

Janice wonders if she’d be interested in making some extra money. She takes the Cosmo and thanks Rose, taking a sip as the lights dim and a booming voice comes through the amps on the walls: “Please join me in welcoming Donovan, the Top Banana!”

The crowd breaks out in cat calls and cheering. A bra flies on stage, and people stand to cheer. Donovan is tall, extremely well-muscled, and appears wearing only black leather pants. He fills the stage with the presence of 100 men, simply by standing there not saying a word. Janice is impressed by his showmanship. Stylized makeup colors his lips, cheeks, and eyebrows, but the rest of him leaves little to the imagination. His dark, curly hair is just long enough to rustle sexily as he turns his head, surveying the crowd.

“Now this is one ugly crowd. Seriously, where did you cocksuckers come from?” He moves to the edge of the stage and points to some unfortunate soul sitting at the front. “And you, did no one tell you there’s a dress code? What are you wearing? Did you just come from work? Get your ass up here.”

She grins. People have such a love/hate relationship with audience participation, but it always makes for the best kind of show. She glances over the tables and takes in the number of couples, singles, and groups in attendance. A table with a number of well-dressed men catches her eye. She feels relatively certain one of them is the father of a socialite who had considered employing The Sugar House last year. His short, salt and pepper hair and broad shoulders certainly look familiar. He drapes his arm around the back of a young woman’s chair. Had he employed her competition, or found a Sugar Baby to entertain him instead?

The woman Donovan singled out stands onstage. She wears a simple khaki skirt and blue, satin blouse. Her creamy skin shines soft and smooth in the bright light, and long, black hair hangs down her back like silk.

Janice smiles.

“And what’s your name?” Donovan holds her hand like a 17th century Duchess.

“Caitrin,” she replies shyly.

“Well, I’m afraid you’re not dressed appropriately for this show!”

“I didn’t know. I’ve never been here before.” She looks down at her feet.

“Here, let me help you fix that!” He reaches over and rips her shirt open, shooting buttons into the crowd and revealing a red, sequined bustier with the cups cut out and heart-shaped jewels covering her nipples.

“Why, I never!” She punches him in the face, and a collective gasp emits from the crowd. As he stumbles back, she slips her shirt off her shoulders.

“I guess as long as it’s ripped, it might as well come off!” she yells, receiving hoots of encouragement. “Ladies, my dressing screen please!” She claps her hands twice, and two women in leather bustiers, thongs, and thigh highs come running as fast as they can on stiletto heels, carrying an oriental screen.

Caitrin saunters behind it as Donovan retakes the main stage.

“That, my friends, was the lovely Viva La Vixen!” He claps and directs the audience’s attention to the back-lit screen displaying Caitrin pulling stockings up over her thighs.

The light dims, and Donovan turns back to the crowd. “Now for those of you who’ve never been here before, this is the Banana and Skin Show, and I’m your host, Donovan! To get you acquainted with what you’re about to witness, I’ll tell you something my father imparted upon me at a young age. He said, ‘Donny my boy, don’t go to a burlesque show—you’ll witness things you shouldn’t see.’ And he was right! The very next night, I saw my father in the row in front of me.”

“Donovan, stop telling jokes. You ain’t that funny.” Caitrin steps out from behind the screen wearing thigh high stockings attached to a garter, and a red and black can-can style skirt to match her red bustier.

“Ah, my Vixen!” He greets her with an embrace, bends her over in a passionate dip, and kisses her.

She wraps one leg up around his back, balancing on only one stiletto heel, and the audience goes crazy. People stand and cheer.

The club pulsates with the passion of the performers, driving the desire of all those in attendance higher. Most of the patrons are aware of the after parties and back room arrangements. It’s a game of smoke and mirrors; make a whorehouse look like one, and no one will suspect it actually is. Instead of competition for The Sugar House, The Gilded Lily offers a relaxed atmosphere for deviants of every predilection. The owner, Rafael, and Janice have an amicable understanding.

She was right: Donovan and Caitrin are the perfect distraction from an otherwise dreary day. She sips her Cosmo and lets the effects of the drink carry her along a wave of thought. She’s haunted by the shadow of Salt’s hand on the small of her back, the warmth of his lips on her shoulder. He would like it here—the playfulness of the show. Would he ever come to understand the fantasy on stage is no different from what she offers her clients?

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Donovan announces.

“Hussies and cocksuckers,” Caitrin corrects.

“We invite you to join our Parade of Oddities!”

Donovan and Caitrin sit on opposite sides of the stage and hang their legs off the apron, announcing the performers as they come out. The parade includes a fire dancer, a sword swallower, a midget dressed as a baby being carried by a very fat man, an Asian Lolita who just happens to also be a contortionist, a Cambodian throat singer, and several other things most people never encounter.

Conversation picks up during the modern day freak show. Drinks flow, and some tables order finger food. They don’t ignore the show so much as allow it to blend into the general atmosphere: Watch a man with a Mohawk perform a blockhead act, driving nails up his nose, then take a sip of your drink and rub a hand along your companion’s cock.

In the middle of the room, Janice spies Pierce relaxing next to his client for the night. She knew he had good instincts—it was an excellent choice to bring him here.

She approaches the table and places a hand on Pierce’s shoulder. “Good evening, I hope you two are having a good night.”

“Spectacular,” the elderly man coos without looking away from Pierce.

“I’m thrilled to hear it. I’ve had the bar pull out one of their top shelf champagnes for you, on me of course.”