The Lights of Tenth Street (5 page)

“Sure thing. For two years I been dying to meet the big man. I don’t even know his real name.” Snoop cocked an eyebrow. “Say, why do they call him Proxy, anyway?”

“Because,” the man at the door spoke softly, and Snoop whirled around, “I do all my work by proxy.” He nodded at Tyson.

Snoop swung back toward Tyson, who lifted a gun from the desk.

“Recognize this?”

He smiled as he pulled the trigger. Snoop stumbled backwards and landed in a heap at Proxy’s feet.

Five minutes later, Tyson watched as two other men shoveled a sheet-wrapped
bundle into the back of the truck in the empty bay. Proxy was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, as Tyson gave brief instructions to the two helpers.

Tyson walked over to his boss as the truck rumbled out the massive doors and into the quiet dusk. “That’s one problem solved.”

“And one created.” Proxy detached himself from the wall and stretched. “But necessary, of course. Let me know what you hear through your channels, and I’ll see you next month before the gathering. It’s imperative that this transition goes well.”

Tyson hesitated. “Of course. But … if I hear something urgent …?” He let the unspoken question hang in the air.

Proxy smiled slightly. “Just give me an e-mail or voicemail report as usual. The rest will have to wait until a regular contact point.”

“Certainly, sir.”

The two men went their separate ways in the growing darkness, and Tyson studiously avoided watching which streets Proxy’s small car took as its lights faded from sight.

Proxy checked his rearview mirror and backtracked several times, then headed onto a packed main road, convinced no one was following. On the thoroughfare, he kept a cautious eye on the cars around him, more out of habit than concern.

The Atlanta rush-hour traffic was heavy as usual, and he fiddled with the knob on the radio, hoping that this little rattlebox would even pick up a signal. Surprised by the clear reception, he listened to the local traffic report and made his decision.

One mile up the road, he abruptly turned left just as a traffic light was changing and pulled into a massive mall parking lot. He drove around the perimeter of several high-traffic department stores, then cut right and made his way up the ramp of a parking deck. He wound his way through the structure and out the other side, swinging back into traffic on a facing street. Five minutes later, after a few more maneuvers, he turned into a hotel entrance and drove up to the valet stand.

An earnest-looking young man stepped forward and opened his door, handing him the valet ticket stub. Proxy nodded his thanks, pulled his briefcase off the seat beside him, and stepped out with a dollar in his hand. He pressed it into the young man’s palm, discreetly returning the ticket stub, and stepped into the hotel.

Tyson’s people would retrieve the car, clean it, and dump it, and he would have new wheels before their next meeting. Proxy smiled to himself. He had chosen his top lieutenant well. Tyson was still learning the ropes, but he had the business acumen to properly manage their unique new opportunity.

He walked quickly through the elegant lobby and took the elevator down to the
hotel’s underground parking deck. He settled into the leather of his Mercedes 600SL, and enjoyed the tamed purr of the three-hundred-horsepower engine. Much better than that rattletrap Tyson had found for his use today.

The preprogrammed entertainment center came to life, and with a soft command, the strains of Mozart’s
Don Giovanni
filled the car. He hummed to himself as he pointed the car toward his next stop.

R
onnie applied her lipstick for the second time and fumbled to put the cap back on the tube. It slipped from her fingers and rattled onto the smooth marble of the bathroom countertop.

Tiffany’s towel-wrapped head poked around the corner from the shower. “Girl, you need to chill. There’s nothing to be nervous about. You want some weed before we go?” Her head disappeared, and Ronnie could hear her toweling off.

“No, I won’t be able to think. It’s not that. I just …” Ronnie looked at herself in the large mirror. “I just wonder if I’m doing the right thing.”

“Hey, it’s a job, right? Finding a good job these days is really tough. And it’s so glamorous; you’ll love it. It’s also great money … the best money you can make anywhere as a waitress at least.”

Something in Tiffany’s voice made Ronnie turn.

A moment later, the sound of the phone made her start. She put her hand to her chest. Maybe she
should
smoke some weed before the interview.

Tiffany hurried from the bathroom. “That’ll be Marco. I forgot to tell him whether you were coming in today or tomorrow. You’re good to go, right?” A pause. “Ronnie?”

Ronnie took a deep breath and smiled into the mirror. “Right.”

Thirty minutes later, the two girls piled into the yellow convertible and headed out.

The air was cold, the sun high in the sky. Ronnie pulled some sunglasses from her purse. She watched as well-appointed strip malls and leafy subdivisions sped by, her mind a bit blurry but her sensations enhanced by the quick toke Tiffany had offered. The high was already wearing off, but at least she felt less jumpy.

“It’s so green. Even in the winter.”

Tiffany nodded. “Yeah, lots of trees. It’s even better in the summer. The whole metro area is really pretty, and these suburbs are my favorite.”

They turned onto another road, lined with residential areas under construction. Ronnie peered at the presale signboards.

Affordable homes from the $300s
 …

Ronnie’s mouth fell open. “Three hundred thousand dollars is
affordable!
”

“Yeah, those houses aren’t even the really big ones. In a couple days I’ll drive you around Buckhead. That’ll make your eyes pop.”

“Why is the club in this kind of area instead of … you know …”

“A seedy downtown neighborhood?” Tiffany glanced sideways, amused. “Where do you think the customers are?”

Ronnie looked down at her hands. “Good point.”

A few minutes later, Tiffany sped down Tenth Street—one of the busy arterials that ran for miles through the Atlanta suburbs—and steered into a strip mall parking lot. A dozen cars dotted the pavement here and there in front of a rambling, stand-alone building.

“Lunchtime. And late lunchtime, at that.” Tiffany pulled into a staff space at the side of the building. “Very few customers. Come on.”

The building was actually kind of pretty and—well—
almost
classy. It had no windows, of course, and was painted a dark plum with shiny silver trim. A neon signboard advertised
The Challenger
to passersby on the nearby highway.

It was very dark inside. Music was pulsing in the background as Ronnie followed Tiffany through a foyer and into a main room lined with tables. The primary light came from colored neon tubes high up on the walls or from the stages scattered around the room.

There was a woman on one of the stages, and Ronnie glanced up at her. She quickly looked away. She was going to have to get used to this.

“You must be Ronnie.” A man was approaching, hand outstretched. “I’m Marco.”

Tiffany made the introductions, and Marco ushered them to a booth near the door. “So, Ronnie. Tiffany tells me you’re interested in a wait-staff position.” Marco smiled and gestured a waitress over. “This is Maris. Maris, Ronnie is going to be joining us shortly.”

“Oh, goodie.”

Ronnie looked up quickly at the acerbic tone in the woman’s voice, but the woman winked, her eyes twinkling.

“Good to meet ya, Rennie.”

“Ronnie,” she said. “Short for Veronica.”

“Well, then,
Veronica
, what should I bring ya?”

“A Diet Coke would be great.”

The waitress took the others’ orders and sashayed away without a word. Bemused, Ronnie looked at Marco and then Tiffany, who started laughing.

“Maris is from the Bronx. You’ll get used to it. It takes her a while to warm up to the competition.”

“The comp—”

Marco’s voice was smooth. “Just a figure of speech, Ronnie. Wait-staff jobs are coveted positions. But we’re all glad you’ll be joining us. Now I know we have some questions for each other, so let’s get down to business, shall we?”

For the next few minutes, Marco asked about her background, and described the club’s operations. Ronnie gradually began to relax. Despite the atmosphere, maybe the managers and staff weren’t as sleazy as she thought.

“And what sort of experience do you have?”

“Well, for three years I’ve waitressed at the local pizza place, so I know the job.” Ronnie hesitated. “At least … I know a restaurant job.”

Marco smiled slightly. “You’ll find that being a cocktail waitress isn’t so different. You’ll have a bit of a learning curve, of course, and you’ll need to learn all the drinks—” He paused. “And, of course, I have to ask … are you at least twenty-one years old?”

Ronnie held his gaze as Tiffany had instructed her. “Yes, of course.”

“Of course. Anyway, as I was saying, you’ll need to be comfortable with all the different drinks, as we tend to serve far more alcohol than food. At least at night. Lunch time is more the business-lunch crowd.”

Ronnie risked a glance around at the few patrons scattered throughout the room. She saw the woman who had just been onstage—now wearing a stunning gold dress—weave her way toward one table, stop and chat for a moment, and then take a seat with the three men.

She turned back to Marco, gesturing at the table, her voice rising slightly. “We have to
eat
with the customers?”

Tiffany snickered. “No, silly, at least not the waitresses. When it’s slow, the dancers sit down with them so the guys get to know them and come back as regulars.”

Ronnie took a deep breath and looked at Marco. “Just one thing. I need to know if there’s anything I should be aware of about what goes on … you know … behind the scenes.”

“Ronnie!” Tiffany turned to her, aghast. “You can’t be implying that—”

“Look, I’m not implying anything, and I’m no prude. I trust you, Tiff, but this is all really new to me and I just want to know if I—”

“It’s a legitimate question,” Marco said. “This is a valid, law-abiding business and we will not tolerate any illegal activities of any kind. We pay our taxes and comply with all government regulations. We provide legitimate adult entertainment for those who choose to access it, and have the strictest procedures to ensure that the legality of our operation is not compromised.” He looked across the table, his eyes
intense. “Does that answer your question?”

Ronnie straightened. “Yes, sir, it does. Sorry for asking.”

“It’s understandable.” Marco stood, and the girls joined him. “We’ll check your references, but based on what Tiffany has said, I don’t foresee any problems. We look forward to having you on board, Ronnie.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And call me Marco.”

“Okay, Marco.”

“We’ll see you tonight for your first shift at seven, then. It’ll be a busy time to be trained, as Saturdays are our highest-volume night. But I’m confident you’ll be able to handle it.” He gestured to Maris, across the room. “Maris will be working a double shift, and she’ll handle your training tonight.”

“Maris?” Ronnie looked at Tiffany, confused. Tiffany looked away. “But I thought Tiffany would—”

“I’ve assigned Maris to train you, for various reasons. She’s been a waitress far longer than Tiffany, and essentially functions as an assistant manager.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll see you in four hours.”

Ronnie started to thank him, but Marco was already weaving his way through tables and vanishing behind a “staff only” door at the far side of the large room. She let out an explosive breath, and heard Tiffany chuckling beside her.

“You did great. He digs you.”

“
That
was digging me?”

“Yep.” Tiffany put her arm around her friend and gave her a little squeeze. “You’ll get used to all this soon, and you’ll love it. I’m really glad you’re here.”

“Well,
I’m
glad
you’re
here, as I certainly wouldn’t be doing this by myself!” She took a surreptitious glance into the darkened room, where a lone woman again danced onstage, then looked away, embarrassed by her own curiosity. For the briefest moment, she wondered what it would be like to be up there. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They stepped from the gloom into the light, and Ronnie winced and shielded her eyes. “Wow, that is bright.”

“You’ll get used to it. You’ll get used to a lot of things.”

Ronnie shook her head as she climbed into the car. “It’s going to take me a while to adjust to this, I can tell.”

“You’d be surprised. After two weeks, it’ll seem the most normal thing in the world.” Tiffany pulled out of the parking lot. “So what did you think of Marco?”

“He seemed okay, and I’m glad he was patient with me.”

“Yep. He liked you. Be prepared for The Question.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ‘are you ready to try it?’ question.”

“Try what?” She looked sharply at her friend. “Stripping, you mean? Forget it!”

“That’s what I thought before, too. But I’ll tell you … after being around for a couple months, you won’t have any problem with it. I’ll bet you’re asking for a try-out within four weeks.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

Ronnie crossed her arms. “Tiffany, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I came all the way to Atlanta for this. You promised me it wasn’t anything weird.”

“And I’m telling you,” Tiffany sounded impatient, “it’s
not
anything weird. You’re just not used to it right now, but just give it a few weeks.”

“A few weeks—a few years! There’s no way anyone is going to convince me to take my clothes off in front of a bunch of people!”

“You’ll convince yourself. Once you get acclimated, and once you see the difference in your income, you’ll get into it.” She hesitated. “And … it’s fun.”

The greenery was a blur as the car sped toward Tiffany’s apartment. Ronnie didn’t look at her friend.