Tea Leafing: A Novel (10 page)

“You are one sexy
fuckin minx.”

Sam heard Gio’s muffled
voice nearby.

“And I’m yours.”

Was that Nikki?
Sam couldn’t believe her ears. A small access
hallway used by the busboys was tucked beneath the staircase to Sam’s left.
Pressing herself against the back wall, she balanced on the tippy toes of her
stilettos and moved toward the corner.

“Do you like that?”
Gio’s voice grew louder as Sam edged toward the entrance to the hall.

“Mmmmm.”

Listening, Sam wondered
if she would be able to sneak a glimpse of what she suspected was going on. She
chastised herself for her curiosity, but not so much that she talked herself
out of it. Gio and Nikki? She couldn’t believe those two, of all people, would
be having a rendezvous. The conversation stopped and she could hear grunts and
squeaks coming from the hidden nook.

Three, Two, One.
Moving her head
slowly, she went just far enough to get a single eye past the corner and in
full view of the hallway.

Gio and Nikki were
doing something. Sam couldn’t tell exactly what through the tangle of clothing
and body parts, but she was sure it wasn’t anything Fedya would appreciate.

“And here’s Sam on
main. Gloria on Satellite One, and Kitten on Satellite Two. Please step up and
show these ladies your appreciation!”

Snapping her head back,
Sam had almost forgotten about the stage. She felt giddy with the power of
dangerous knowledge. Sure the coupled lovers hadn’t seen
her,
she sprang up the steps to the stage as her predecessor made her exit.

“It sucks.” The other
girl mumbled out of breath.

Sam nodded and smiled.
She’d make them tip. She had the rush she needed to command the stage, and
that’s exactly what she did.

CHAPTER 17

“Get whatever you want,
just
not
school girl. I hate that
shit. And I get to burn that Catholic
school girl
uniform. Don’t forget this is a trade.”

Birdie rifled through
the rack of string bikinis and skimpy costumes, studying each with a critical
eye, not unlike a jeweler examining the facets of a diamond.

“Tosh, tosh, tosh.”
Birdie announced as she slid the plastic hangers along the bar, dismissing
pieces not up to her standards. “I don’t know why you ah so uptight about me Catholic
uniform. It’s a Bogg’s Standard fantasy and it make me lots of money to boot!”

“You don’t think it’s a
prosaic way of encouraging child molesters, Bird?” Sam tried to suppress the
indignation in her tone.

“What’s prosaic?”
Birdie stopped clattering the hangers and looked at Sam.

“Oh for Chrissake
Birdie. It’s just gross. And look at you! I can’t say I’d feel much differently
if you were built like Pam Anderson, but you have the body of a prepubescent
girl! Don’t you ever feel weird dancing for guys who are into the juvenile
thing?”

“I fink you ah
over-analyzing it, love. I just part fools wif their money.”

Knowing this was an
argument she wasn’t going to win, Sam sighed and tried to steer Birdie toward a
display of shoes.

The theme song to Car
54 played from the muffled recesses of Sam’s shoulder bag. Birdie walked past
her, focused in on the wall of stilettos calling her name. Sam dropped her bag
to the floor and rummaged through its contents.

“Po-eter!” Sam caught
herself.

“Po-eter? Is that my new
name?” He laughed.

“Sorry.” Sam smiled and
gathered her bag, lifting it off the floor. “Any news for me?”

“Yeah, some. I can’t
talk now, but I wanted to let you know. I pulled the restraining order Lena
took out and got the guy’s name. It’s Charles Polczeck. I ran his rap sheet
just to see what we’re dealing with. Looks like he pretty harmless. He’s a
peeper, but doesn’t look like he can close the deal. No indicators of
violence.” He paused, “And Sam, he was in lockup the night Lena was murdered.
The whole weekend in fact. There’s no way he could have gotten to her.”

“What was he in lock-up
for?”

“Indecent exposure. He
apparently showed his goods to an eighty-four year old grandmother of seven who
pistol-whipped the shit out of him and held him at gunpoint until a patrol unit
got there.”

Sam stifled a laugh.
“Well, I guess that’s good.
Sort of.
Maybe not for him, though.
What about the task force?”

“I can’t talk about it,
Sam.” Peter’s voice was strained. “Don’t nose around. Just drop it. That’s all
I can tell you. You don’t want to get mixed up in that.”

Sam was silent, waiting
for Peter to say something.

“I’ve got too much at
stake now, Sam.
A baby on the way . . . shit.
Just let
it drop. I gotta go.” The line went dead.

Sam listened to the
silence until tones played letting her know the call had been disconnected. She
stared at her phone for a moment before slipping it back in her bag.

“This is facking
brilliant!” Birdie chirped excitement from behind Sam.

Turning to face her,
Sam was greeted by the sight of Birdie in a large feathered headdress,
clutching a matching bodice to her chest. Radiating joy, she looked like she’d
found her soul mate.

Sam doubled over
howling. Her cries drew the shop owner who looked like she was a hundred if she
was a day. She hobbled towards the two, maybe to help, maybe to chastise.
Shffft. Shffft
. The polyester pants
crammed between her thick legs made a sound that reminded Sam of church when
she was a kid. Old ladies in pantyhose made an almost identical sound.

“That’s from some new
hot shit designer out of Vegas. Thinks he’s gonna’ bring back the ol’ burlesque
style.” The
shop keeper
grinned, revealing a set of
perfect chompers that Sam guessed were dentures. “I think it’s pretty hot, but
what do I know? I been outta’ the business since Christ was in Kindergarten.”

“I fink it’s fackin’
smashing! I love it!”

Sam managed to fish her
wallet from her bag, trying not to look at Birdie. The sight alone was killing
her, especially since she knew Birdie would wear the damn thing at work.
Stifling a laugh, she asked, “Okay, I promised her an outfit to replace her
schoolgirl uniform. What do I owe you?”

Screwing up her face,
the woman looked the two over. “Tag says three-fifty, but I’ll give it to ya at
my cost. Two-seventy-five if you payin cash and promise to tell the girls where
you bought it.”

Sam’s jaw dropped.
“Two-seventy-five?”

“It’s genuine ostrich!”
The woman protested, reaching for the feathers.

“So no imitation
ostriches were harmed?” Sam sighed with a smirk.

“Come on Sam, you
promised! I’ll frow out the schoolgirl if you buy me this bit a cleverness.”
Birdie chimed in.

“Fine.” Sam crammed the
bills back into her purse. “Hold it at the counter while we finish looking, please.
I need to stock up on garters and g-strings.”

Taking the pieces from
Birdie the woman shuffled back to the counter.

“Oo was that?” Birdie
asked.

“What?”

“On your mobile? Oo was
it?”

“Peter. You know, the
cop with the pregnant wife.”

“Roit! Peter. ’Is
wife’s in the puddin’ club?”

Sam smirked. “Classy.
And yes, she’s pregnant. He was calling to give me some info about Lena’s
stalker. He sounded strange though.”

“Strange ‘ow?” Birdie
returned to her assault on the circular clothing rack.

“He seemed nervous.”
Sam headed toward a display of thong bikini bottoms with plastic clasps for
easy access. Changing the subject, she went on, “So, what do you think about
the Nikki and Gio thing?”

“I think it’s proper
fitting those two pillocks shaggin’ each other. They deserve wha’ever they get.
Bloody daft if you ask me.
Buggering the bosses bit o’
stuff. What’s he thinkin’?”

“Obviously he’s not.”
Sam thought for a minute. “Bird?”

“Yeh?”

“Do you suppose it’s
possible — just for the sake of argument, I mean — that screwing
each other behind Fedya’s back isn’t all Gio and Nikki are up to?”

Birdie paused, “Like
what?”

“Well, Gio was acting
weird about Lena’s death and compound that with Nikki’s bragging and what do
you come up with?”

Narrowing her eyes,
Birdie faced Sam. “Ya know, you may be on to something.’ Those two ’ave been
acting weird for weeks now. But I don’t see how Lena could ’ave been crossways
with them. She never did anything to anyone.”

Sam nodded. “Yup.
That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?”

“May never know.”
Birdie shrugged and turned back to the rack.

“So you’re just
okay
with that?” Sam tensed.
 
“Oh well, fuck it! Whatever
happened,
happened, and there’s not a damn thing we can do
about it? I thought
you
of all people
would be interested in finding out the truth about Lena!”

“Don’t get stroppy with
me Sam!
I’m the one’s been ’avin your back.
I’m the
one’s been trying to figure this out with you. Bloody ’ell! Stop jumping all
over me!”

The shopkeeper peered
over her half-moon spectacles at the two.

Lowering her voice, Sam
said “Sorry. I just feel like nobody gives a shit about any of this. Nobody
cares what happened to her. I mean, what if this happened to you or me? Would
it go unnoticed? Would anybody other than our families care? Grace and Mary
Jane have their own, ummm, issues. The cops can’t find their own
asses
with a map and both hands! The club just doesn’t want
any bad press! What the hell is wrong with everybody?” Sam could feel her eyes
sting. “Damn.” She dug into her bag for a tissue.

Birdie grabbed Sam and
folded her into a firm bear hug. The shampoo Birdie used was the same as
Lena’s. The familiar scent brought an onslaught of tears.

“Shhh. It’ll be right
as rain, love.” Birdie whispered to Sam as the older woman figeted, unsure of
what to do about the drama playing out next to her g-string display. “I
do
care, Sam. I just don’t know what to
do. Tell me what yeh need from me and I’ll help you. I promise.”

Sam wiped her eyes, “We
just can’t let her down, Birdie. I need help. I can’t do this alone.”

Fixing Sam with a
serious look, Birdie nodded. “I know hen. We’ll figure it out.”

CHAPTER 18

The club was in full
swing. Sam marveled at how the number of people in a place affected the energy.
The more crowded
the club became
,
the
more frenzied the activity
. It seemed like a natural progression of
events. But Sam wondered if this wasn’t an example of Boyle’s Law as much as it
was about human nature. Hours passed more quickly between ten and three o’clock
when the head count was at it’s highest. The energy buzzed as she slipped
through the horde of bodies, looking for her next benefactor.

A glance at the
bouncers on the balcony outside the Skybox told her Fedya was in the club and
holding court. She saw Gio slip through the sliding door and hang a right
toward the office.

“Sam.” A bouncer gently
took her arm just above the elbow, drawing her near through the tidal flow of
gawkers. Leaning in, he put his face close to hers and spoke in a low voice.
“We gotta’ VIP in room nineteen. His manager requested you.”

“Who is it?” Sam’s
heart fluttered at the idea of an easy money VIP.
Please let it
be
a dignitary or lottery winner
.
She prayed.

Being summoned to a VIP
room was luck of the draw if a bouncer or waitress didn’t recommend you. Sam
would see guys gather on the balcony, picking girls from their perch above the
main floor. They’d see a dancer on their way in, or on stage and send someone
to get her.

The bouncer leaned
closer,
hoping passers-by wouldn’t catch the name of the
flavor of the minute rock star he was whispering into Sam’s ear.

“No.”
She crimpled her face.

“No? Why Sam? This guy
is big money and he requested
you
.”

“Who requested me? Him,
or his manager?” Sam remained unconvinced about the profitability or prudence
of joining Señior Superstar in his room.

The bouncer paused,
“Um, the manager is the one I talked to, but he said he wanted you for a few
hours. C’mon Sam.”

“Pass. Tell him I’m
busy.”

New dancers were easily
star-struck. The thought of spending an evening with someone so powerful, so
important, so public was thrilling. More seasoned girls avoided celebrity like
the plague. Most of them were arrogant. They believed they were entitled to
more than just a table dance and didn’t think they had to pay for anything.
Just the pleasure of soaking up pure narcissism and fighting off advances for a
few hours should be enough to keep any half-nude bimbo happy, right? Stars were
a nightmare, and the managers were sleazy fast-talkers. Sam preferred Joe Schmo
nice guy to fame any day of the week.

Athletes, musicians,
actors and comedians were all the same. Pro-wrestlers were the exception to the
rule. Sam loved the wrestlers. They were a well-mannered and funny group of
guys. She would spend hours sitting with them just to laugh, and gladly do it
without pay – although they would
never
let that happen.

The bouncer sighed and
looked down the front of his pressed tuxedo shirt. “Shit.”

“Sorry, I’d love to
help, but I’m not in a masochistic mood tonight.”

Nodding, the bouncer
said, “You’re the third pick to say ‘no.’”

Sam grinned at him.
“You’ve got to find a new girl.” Patting him on an arm that was larger than her
thigh, she melted back into the flow.