Tea Leafing: A Novel (5 page)

Pietra relaxed into the
thought of her own irresistible beauty as the two made their way through the
sweaty crowd and approached the second floor manager’s office. Faces of
relieved co-workers blurred past, darting out of Sam and Pietra’s path to keep
from slowing their progress. Sam successfully pawned Pietra off onto one of the
bouncers who had been loitering outside Giovanni’s door and clearly hadn’t had
his earbud in. He looked composed on the outside but panic flashed in his eyes
as Sam turned to flee.

“Always a pleasure
Pietra. Take care of yourself and I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

Pietra waved her off,
already absorbed in the prospect of making this young muscle-bound hottie sweep
her off her kitten-heels. Her plans were thwarted by the sound of young Gio’s
voice “MA! What ah you doin’ here?”

Sam quickened her pace,
heading for the staircase leading back to the main floor. Once out of range,
she took a moment to rest against the railing and scan the club.

The Pink Pussycat was
decorated as you might imagine the library in a high-end brothel,
if
 
such
a
library ever existed. The walls were covered in mahogany wood paneling and
massive Baroque, gold-framed mirrors. The seating was a mix of overstuffed
leather, velvets and tapestry prints with a leather bench rimming the perimeter
of the main room. The floor was a dark, wide-plank laminate that mimicked a
rich wood but was much easier to clean.

From her perch on the
second floor, Sam could see the entire club with the exception of the front
entrance, which was tucked down a long hallway on the right side. The wall of
mirrors to her left was the backdrop for the main stage. The manager’s office
sat on the second floor, behind two-way mirrors, for easy monitoring.

The center stage was
home to the two-story, floor-to-ceiling brass pole. A floor vent blew cool air
up the girls’ legs and into their hair for that slow motion, cover of Cosmo
effect. A balcony ran the perimeter of the second level, where all thirty-five
VIP rooms were accessed. At either end of the stage, staircases ascended to the
balcony. These were used for what the club called the “Catwalk,” otherwise
known as full dress walkout, or the Pussy Parade as the girls nicknamed it. The
walkout, a break taken twice an evening, was an opportunity for the club to
push
logo imprinted
swag onto unsuspecting customers.
Shirts, hats and golf tees were just a few of the items the dancers were
expected to sell for thirty bucks, along with two “free” table dances. The
girls kept ten of the thirty and the house got twenty. So, the free part was on
the girls.

Rolling racks of
costumes — top hats and tails, Santa coats, or whatever the season
dictated — were brought into the dressing room. The girls wore their own
g-strings with the costume du jour. The club’s outfits were rarely washed so
they reeked of sweat and cigarette smoke. The dancers would split into two
groups and march down the staircases at opposite ends of the stage in a chorus
line kick, waiting to be picked by a customer. The whole experience was
gruesome. Humiliating if you were unlucky enough to be left on stage,
unselected for the two-for-one. It was a startling break in the regular hustle
of the evening and dreaded by dancers.

The dressing room and
service bars were all located on the first floor, at the far end of the
building from where Sam stood. Their entrances were camouflaged behind a series
of faux ficus trees that weren’t fooling anyone with their authenticity. The
club was set up in a well-thought-out arrangement, funneling men into cozy
seating groups close to small “satellite” stages, or near the elevator leading
to the second level, guarded by bouncers. It had the carefully applied ambience
of exclusivity.

As usual, the main
floor was a hive of activity. Dancers in brightly colored outfits twisted through
the slow-moving men clutching drinks and dollar bills. Waitresses carried trays
laden with glasses and beer bottles high over their heads. Just as Sam was
turning from the railing to return to her perch next to Boise, something caught
her eye at the mouth of the hallway leading to the main entrance. She paused,
making sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her.

CHAPTER 6

Fyodor Il’yavitch
Patrushev
, or Fedya as he is affectionately known, stood in a cloud
of thick, blue smoke, originating from the pudgy Cuban cigar he always carried.
As the owner of the Pink Pussycat Cabaret, he’d appear from time to time to
entertain business associates or just enjoy himself in the privacy of his own
sanctuary.

Fedya had proven
himself to be a shrewd businessman. His generosity extended to any number of
charities. Foundations such as AIDS, Make a Wish and ironically, Susan G.
Kommen Breast Cancer — were at the top of his list. His philanthropic
activities placed him on Atlanta’s A-list of darlings sought after for events
and parties. Sam found it interesting that Atlanta’s proper society was able to
not only forgive the Russian for his involvement in the skin industry, but also
embrace him in their culture. He was everyone’s favorite naughty boy, although
nothing particularly naughty was ever linked to him — other than the Pink
Pussycat, of course.

A bouncer hustled past
Sam, speaking into the microphone on his headset. He was headed for the back
door next to the Skybox. Sam knew one of Fedya’s friends must
be
using the back entrance. It was common for politicians
and celebrities to slip in through the privacy of the club’s rear door.

Fedya’s hair was a salt
and pepper tousled mix, finger-combed back into a style that made him look
younger than his years. His clothing was custom-made with the telltale drape
only an expensive tailor could achieve. His shoes, Italian leather loafers,
were polished to a shine without a scuff in sight.

Sam watched Fedya’s
face melt into a warm, genuine smile as employees approached to pay homage. He
shook hands with the bouncers and gave the dancers innocent hugs as if they
were his own daughters. Sam admired his business sense and always liked that he
was accessible to his employees. He was so different than other club owners who
kept their distance and resented interruptions.

A customer slipped past
the horde surrounding Fedya. Even though he moved through the shadows, Sam
recognized the shiny,
bald head
. A few strands of hair
long enough to braid reached across his skull like stringy fingers.
Tic
. The muscle above her eye jumped as
she looked around for a bouncer.
Anyone
who could help her
catch
the greasy intruder. There
was no one. She pushed herself off the rail and trotted toward the staircase.

A shrill “Aw my Gawd!” rang
out as Pietra Maria Speranza DiFrancesco offered up her mating call. Her eyes
locked on Fedya. She rushed past Sam, plowing through people like a freight
train to reach her beloved. Gio tagged helplessly behind her in an attempt to
derail her efforts.

“Ma! MA!” Gio shouted
through gritted teeth.

“Just a minute
Giovanni! I
gotta
say hello to my dawling Fedya. He
loves me!”

“Ma. Please. Give the
man a minute. He just got here. Please, stop.”

Pietra cut through
Fedya’s entourage with the deft maneuvering of a champion quarterback faking a
play. Before he could react, Pietra had cupped her hands around Fedya’s face
and was planting a big, wet kiss square on his lips. Sam wondered if she ever
tried to slip him tongue, feeling her stomach turn for poor Fedya.

Even from her vantage
point, Sam saw irritation flash across Fedya’s face. Smiling to
herself
, this quick peek of reality endeared the club owner
to her even more. The bouncers crowding around Fedya peeled Pietra off him. Gio
arrived on the scene and began apologizing as he tried to usher Pietra away.

“Gio, stop Goddammit!
Let me say ‘hello’ to Fedya!”

It
was like watching a parent pull a petulant child away from a rack of candy at a
five and dime
,
only the roles were reversed
. A
temper tantrum ensued.

“Iz okay Gio.” Fedya’s
baritone boomed, “Come here my Pietra! Hellooo.” Fedya wrapped the aged nitwit
in his bulky arms and rocked her back and forth in his hug. He beamed at her.
Gio watched, having apparently developed a twitch of his own.

Sam saw Nikki, Fedya’s
Atlanta
girlfriend, and a local politician, flanked by
bouncers, glide
into VIP 1, known as the ‘Skybox’. The largest of the
rooms, it was located at the top of the staircase on the far side of the club,
and was outfitted with a private bar and bathroom. When Fedya wasn’t present,
the room was reserved for high rollers and celebrities who could afford the
hourly rate. It was the only VIP room with a door. Just outside the Skybox was
another door leading to the cold, concrete stairwell that led up to the roof
and down to a back entrance that emptied out by the dumpsters behind the
building. This passageway was casually known as ‘the red carpet,’ for obvious
reasons.

Sam continued along the
balcony, trying to keep an eye on combover’s progress through the club. She’d
lost him. Glancing into a VIP room to her right, she saw Grace sitting with a
handsome forty-something she had seen before. Sam poked her head in.

“Hey lovebirds.” Sam
cooed.

“Sammy! Come sit for a
minute!” Grace looked happy and relaxed. “Drew, this is Sam. Sam, Drew.”

After pleasantries and
some brief small talk about Drew’s periodic visits to Atlanta, a waitress
appeared to check on drinks and see if he needed a Pink Pay girl to replenish
his stack of pornographic Monopoly-style money. The pink bills were how the
club guaranteed all cash drawn on credit cards stayed in the club, unlike a
cash advance from an ATM.

“Fedya’s here and so is
Pietra.” Sam whispered to Grace while Drew ordered another Jack Daniels. “But
more importantly, combover is here too. I need to find a bouncer or at least
get to him and see what he knows!”

Grace’s eyes widened
slightly but her smile never faltered. “Where is he? Sam, don’t talk to him
alone! Let me come with you.”

Sam shook her head at
Grace as she rose to leave. Bussing Drew’s cheeks lightly, she smiled and said,
“Nice to meet you Drew, take good care of baby Grace, okay?”

Drew smiled and slipped
Sam a few pink bills with a wink and a smile.

“Nice to meet you too.”

Ignoring Grace’s wide-eyed
stare, Sam stepped outside the VIP room and made her way back along the balcony
toward the elevator, tucking the money into her garter.

The DJ’s voice boomed
over the sound system “Next up on main stage is our own little Chick-a-dee from
the other side of the pond. Please welcome the
one
, the
only
,
 
BIIIRRRRDIIIEEE
!”
A cheer went up from the crowd of men Birdie had been sitting with. Prodigy
screamed “Smack My Bitch Up” through the speakers, causing the entire building
to thump in time with the music.

The Bird pounced on the
stage like a force of nature, commanding the attention of anything drawing
breath. By the time Sam reached the first floor, Birdie had shimmied half way
up the pole, locked her legs around it and extended backwards, arms
outstretched into an inverted iron-cross, causing a gasp from those who hadn’t
seen this move before. Few dancers were able to elevate the art of the pole to
something straight out of Cirque du Soleil. No fear, no nets, no limit to the
money. It did, however, require a tremendous amount of strength and athleticism.

Sam watched the edge of
the stage to see if combover — Lena’s former stalker —would
approach to tip.

Nothing.

One
of Sam’s favorite waitresses slipped by her.
“Seen Mary Jane?” Sam
inquired. The waitress nodded toward the dressing room and was off through the
crowd. Sam quickly weighed her options. Combover was nowhere to be seen and
money was ticking away.
Making a
brief pass by Boise, she promised to return quickly. He nodded and smiled, transfixed
by Birdie’s ability to defy gravity.

Mary Jane sat in front
of Sam’s locker in the dressing room drawing deeply on her Marlboro Ultra-Light
100. Sam admired the bartender’s profile as she approached. Her features were
chiseled without being hard. She kept her smokes tucked into a granny-style
clasp-top cigarette pack with embroidery on the front that read: “Between two
evils, I always pick the one I’ve never tried before.
 
— Mae West.” Mary Jane studied the pack as she slowly
spun the clutch in a circle by the metal prongs, her cigarette balanced gently
between her first and second fingers.

Mary Jane had the
perfect Florida girl look, which was fitting since she’d grown up in
Jacksonville, raised by her single mother. Her white-blond, blunt-cut pageboy
framed her features perfectly. Razor-straight bangs sat just above the arched
eyebrows guarding her piercing blue eyes. Not just blue, but a white, gray,
blue so pale if it weren’t for the darker ring around her irides, they might
blend imperceptibly with the whites of her eyes. She was medium height, but in
a world of six-inch stilettos, she seemed shorter than her five-foot six. Her
skin glowed with a light tan, although not nearly as dark as most of the
dancers.

Mary Jane looked up as
Sam grabbed a nearby chair and sat backwards on it, folding her arms across the
back and propping her chin on her forearms.

“Combover is in the
house.” Sam whispered.

Lowering her head, Mary
Jane did a quick scan of the dressing room out of the corners of her eyes. The
beauty of a strip club is that there isn’t much loitering in the dressing room
when it’s a packed house. Straight commission is a great motivator. But as
Birdie always pointed out, it’s not straight commission since girls are in the
hole a minimum of a hundred and twenty dollars when they set foot inside the door
to work. Between house fees, DJ fees, house-mom tip-out and various other
charges, the club sees to it that a dancer’s pay supports the rest of the
staff. So, the dressing room was almost empty except for Lucille, the house
mom, who was rumored to have once slept with Elvis. She lurked nearby,
pretending to be preoccupied, like a bad spy.
And that’s
exactly what she was, a spy for the management.