Tea Leafing: A Novel (7 page)

She bobbed in a circle,
turning her back to the card’s owner while he arranged a VIP room with one of
the bouncers. Mouthing “Fifty thousand,” to indicate his requested cash amount,
Birdie spun back to face him without missing a beat.

Sam had heard all the
rumors about clubs overcharging men without their permission. Tired of
disputing charge-backs on credit cards, the club had long ago implemented an
iron clad
system. Any cash advance on a credit card required
three sets of signatures — the customer, the manager, and the pink pay
girl — and a fingerprint of the customer. The ink used for fingerprinting
was invisible until it reacted with the carbon-based paper of the purchase
ticket. Anything over five thousand required a photocopy of the customer’s
driver’s license. The system virtually eliminated the use of stolen credit
cards and provided the club with irrefutable evidence in case they decided to
dispute the charges. For each additional conversion of credit into Pink Pay,
the customer was required to sign again and be
re-finger
printed. Sam had seen it happen too many times before, the customer was willing
to pay the price to wrap himself in fantasy, struggling to focus while the
manager and pay girl explained the charges, line item by line item. Their eyes
would glaze over and nod their agreement, wanting to get on with their evening.
Dancers were not allowed to undress or distract the customer during this
process. The club wanted the undivided attention of the customer, giving him a
fair shot at backing out of what was usually an expensive evening. Sam had
never seen anyone get up and leave after realizing what the costs were.
Morning-after buyer’s remorse was another thing altogether.

Sam and Grace fell in
step behind Big Bird’s money train, heading for the VIP room. The club charged
a five hundred dollar hourly rate for the VIP room and the girls negotiated
their rates directly with the customer. Usual fees ranged from four to six
hundred an hour per girl. These charges fluctuated, depending on how busy the
club was and whether or not they had another sure thing, like a regular,
waiting for them.

Pink Pay girls made
frequent rounds in the VIP sections. These darlings were responsible for cash
advances on plastic — converting it to the club’s fake money. The
Pussycat charged twenty percent of the withdrawal amount for “processing,”
standard in the strip club industry. In return for the outrageous fees, the
credit card statement and all receipts read “Piedmont Bar & Grill” or some
other innocuous legend, making company reimbursements a breeze. C.F.O.s tend to
get cranky paying for table dances even though Kobe steaks are a-okay — a
commonplace deception in the relationship between Gentlemen’s clubs and big
business.

Unless the guy is a
regular and already has a favorite waitress, the girls usually get to pick.
This, of course, makes for some very profitable partnerships. Moneymaking is a
team effort and shrewd dancers grease the palms of everyone from bouncers and
DJs to waitresses and valets. Having a support staff work to find the biggest
spenders is how the serious money is made. If a dancer gets greedy and holds
back on tip out, she’ll go home the next shift with half her usual draw. Strip
clubs are nothing if not democratic.

While getting settled
in the room, Sam watched the flurry of activity unfold. The bouncer was going
through the house rules with Mr. Titanium. The moneychangers were waiting
patiently in the wings to start their transactions, and the girls chatted
quietly. China, their favorite waitress appeared.
She had
been summoned upstairs by a bouncer
.

China knew the deal.
Ginger ale in a champagne flute with a single, stemless cherry for
Sam, who didn’t advertise the fact that she didn’t drink because it made some
guys nervous.
She wouldn’t outright lie, it was more a matter of
omission. “Soda” would appear on the bill for Sam’s mocktail since charging for
alcohol and drinking something unleaded is a serious crime. Thankfully nobody
scrutinized the itemized bill at the end of the night. It may puzzle some the
next day, but Sam hadn’t ever been questioned about it, so the system worked.
China also knew to go to Mary Jane’s bar so she could get a piece of the action
too. The tips trickled down.

The bouncer finished
his spiel about club rules and called the manager, the Pink Pay money-honey was
up to bat. She was a cute little waif of a girl with a flirtatious smile. She
explained how the charges worked and what would appear on his statement.
Extracting a thin case from her apron that held the invisible-ink pad she explained
the fingerprinting process.

Ms. Pink Pay scurried
off to get the customer’s money just in time for China to return with a bottle
of Dom and several glasses. She popped and poured with a flourish. Once the
drinks were flowing, she discreetly slipped Sam’s drink from the pocket of her
apron.

The Pink Pay girl
returned from the manager’s office with an impressive stack of paper bills.
After unbanding the stacks, she counted them out for Mr. Black Titanium so as to
be sure there wasn’t a miscount, which could be disputed later on. It took a
few minutes to get through all $40,000 of it, the total, less the club’s
service charge. Finally done, Birdie stood on a table. With one hand she pulled
her breakaway dress off. With champagne clutched in the other hand, and head
thrown back she yelled, “Let the games begin!”

Sam and Grace glanced
at each other, grinning. “Here we go,” mouthed Sam.

* * * *

Sam learned Mr. Titanium’s
name was Mark Something-or-other and he had taken his software company public
before the market crashed, making an obscene profit from the sale. It was a
record-breaking night for all three girls, clearing almost twelve grand each
after tip-out. Grace would invest hers, Sam would spend some and save some, and
Birdie would buy God knows what.

Clearing that kind of money
required a trip to the manager’s office to convert the Pink Pay to cash rather
than having the house-mom, Lucille, do it — as was customary for smaller
sums.

Sam watched Giovanni
scoot around behind his desk in the rolling swivel chair, making seated trips
back and forth between the desktop and a safe bolted to the floor against the
back wall. An automated money counter sat on the desk next to the phone.
Leaning back in her chair, Sam’s eyes wandered around the interior of the dimly
lit office. A bank of closed-circuit security monitors lined the wall behind
where she sat with Birdie and Grace, opposite Gio. Cameras positioned
throughout the club recorded every minute of the day. Even the dressing room
was subject to constant video surveillance. To her left, a glass wall ran the
length of the office, giving an unobstructed view of the main floor and VIP
suites.

“Good night, huh?” Gio
lifted an eyebrow as he loaded the counter with a fresh stack of bills. “Really
cleaned up. How many times does a Centurion cardholder show up and spend like
that?”

“Yup. That’s our Bird.
She feathers her nest with money.” Sam glanced at the back of Birdie’s head,
which was resting forward on the edge of Gio’s desk.

“
Birdie . . .
” Birdie moaned from her slouched position.

“I don’t think she’s
gonna pass the
breathalyzer
. One a’ yous gonna get her
home?” Gio asked without taking his eyes off the money
thwiffing
into a neat pile.

Employees had to leave
their keys with the valets at the start of the shift. After work, they waited
in line. Well, lots of lines, really, but one of them
was
to feed two quarters into a breathalyzer mounted on the wall of the dressing
room. Sam thought it was a good idea conceptually, but was irritated that after
two years of blowing a point zero zero, she still had to wait in line, blow
through the disposable straw, and call out her numbers like everyone else.
Anything under a point zero eight would clear a girl and Lucille would radio
the valets, letting them know which cars should be brought around for pick-up.
If the test was failed, a cab was the way home.

“Yeah, of course. We’ll
drive her.”

Gio nodded as he lined
up a brick of money on the desk in front of each girl.

“Whatevah the fuck you
three is doin’ to make this kinda’ dough,” he paused, chuckling under his
breath, “well, you must be good. Fuckin’ platinum pussy.”

Sam stopped moving and
stared at Gio.

Grace went into
overdrive, desperate to avoid a confrontation. She plucked the stacks of money
off the desk and tried to gather Birdie up from her slumped position.

“Well, thanks for your
help! We’ll get out of your hair . . . Sam?”

Sam clutched the arms
of the scratchy office chair, she said, “What did you say?”
Tic
.

Gio looked up,
apparently having already forgotten his comment. He had the attention span of a
goldfish. “Wha?”

“Did you just imply
that we’re hookers?” Sam’s eyes narrowed.

Pushing himself back
from his desk, Gio straightened in his chair. A single pulsing vein began to
rise in his forehead. Grace had re-doubled her efforts to get Birdie up. Sam
felt the cool touch of Grace’s hand as she tried to urge her from the office.

“I’d advise you to
watch your mouth Samantha. If I want to call you a whore, I’ll say it to your
face, not imply it.” He glared across the desk.

“The name is
Sam
, not Samantha. It’s a fucking stage
name so don’t get
all authoritarian
on me. And you
did
just call us whores. You aren’t
clever enough to edit yourself, GIO! Just because we make better money than you
doesn’t give you the right to say we can be bought. And don’t you threaten me,
motherfucker.
Ever
.”

“
Evah
.” Birdie parroted under her breath.

Gio sat for a moment
staring at Sam with dead eyes. Sam met his gaze, determined not to look away
first. “I think you need to take a week and think about whether or not this is
the right enviro’ment for you. Maybe the stress of working here is just too
much. Didn’t you hear Fedya say he doesn’t want you affecting morale here,
Sam?” He narrowed his eyes. “You need to be careful. Don’t invite trouble. I
know that’s not what you want.” His jaw clenched and a tendon in his neck strained.

Sam’s vision wobbled
dangerously close to tunnel vision and colors faded to gray. Adrenaline rushed to
her extremities. Tense and ready for a fight, she heard the warning bells in
her ears, but ignored them. “Are you
suspending
me?”

“Just take a break. Get
yourself in check, you can come back next week.” Gio hissed through gritted
teeth.

Sam sucked in a deep,
bitter breath. “You’re right, maybe I do need to figure out whether or not I’m
going to allow myself to be
‘bought’
as
you say, and not just by customers.”

Gio exploded. Jumping
to his feet, the chair he’d been sitting in slammed into the wall behind him.
“You’re a stripper. You’ve already
been
bought. You’re fucking expendable! Wake up! Why do all you bitches think you’re
so goddamn special? You’re all the same shit in a slightly different package.”

“Expendable, huh?” Sam
fought the rage that told her to jump the desk and gouge his eyes out.
“Interesting choice of words, Gio.”

Sam rose from the
chair,
biting her
tongue so hard she could taste blood. Grace had Birdie upright and was heading
for the door. She snatched Sam’s arm and pulled her along. Sam kept her eyes
locked on Gio. Boring holes through his skull with her stare, she tromped
backwards. A sleazy little smirk turned the corners of his mouth. He looked
pleased with himself, feeling victorious.

“Goombah Macaroni
Fack!” Birdie had regained consciousness and shadow boxed the air.

Sam grabbed Birdie’s
other arm and they forced her out the office door before she could launch
herself at Gio.

“A week for both uh you
cunts!” Gio’s voice boomed after them.

Birdie continued
muttering garbled slurs under her breath as the three made their way to the
dressing room.

CHAPTER 10

“Meet us down at
Birdie’s, Mary Jane. We’re gonna’ take her home and probably hang out for a
while.”

“Cool. I’ll see you
there. Do you want me to bring some food? I’m sure Birdie doesn’t have any.”

“Yeah
,
burritos, doughnuts, whatever’s
on the way. That’d be great, we’re
starving.”

“See ya’ there in
twenty minutes.”

Birdie’s loft was in an
area known as Cabbagetown. Nestled just south of downtown, it had an incredible
view of the Atlanta skyline. Brick and exposed beams were a reminder that the building
was an old cotton mill that had fallen into disrepair before an ambitious
developer saw the vision of this chic city dwelling and converted it into
lofts. The area’s name derived from the ambient odor of its former inhabitants’
modest food choices. Outsiders used it as a term of derision. But Cabbagetown
was a term of pride for its post-bellum Appalachian-transplant residents.
Birdie loved the rehabbed building, because it reminded her of Manchester.

The main room was
completely devoid of furniture, pictures, rugs or any adornment. Her bedroom
consisted of a king size mattress on a low platform slab in the center of the
floor. Blankets were scrunched up and feather pillows tossed indiscriminately
on the expanse of the 1000 thread count sheets. In true Birdie style, there was
no ‘right way’ to sleep. No careful tucking or pillow placement indicated the
head or foot of the bed. She had unscented, white altar candles in clusters on
the floor and a single paper lamp she used for reading. Books were stacked in
the corners of the room and had started spilling along several of the walls.
Two racks of clothing stood against the far wall under a series of high
windows. Her closet overflowed with shoes, purses and accessories of every
description.