The Professor (15 page)

30

Wilma Newton left the Sands fifteen minutes after closing time, tired and wishing she could go home. But now she had to crank it up for job number two. She grabbed a pint of Jack Daniel’s out of her glove box and took a swig. “Goddamn,” she said out loud, feeling the burn of the whiskey as it made its way down her throat.

It was about a twenty-minute drive from the Sands to the Sundowners Club, and Wilma had found that she did better when she started out with a buzz. Ironically, staying semidrunk allowed her to focus better on the job at hand—pleasing the men that came in. Flirting with them, persuading them to pay for a private dance, and literally talking and dancing the money out of their pockets. When the buzz wore off and she was back to the real world—picking up her kids from Ms. Yost’s house or refilling a pitcher of iced tea at the Sands—she hated what she had become. Unfortunately, it was the only way she could support her kids by herself.

She had come back to Boone’s Hill because it was the only home she had ever known. Her mom and dad were dead, but Ms. Yost—her mom’s best friend—was still around, and Wilma had been able to rent a small house down the road from her.

Lately, the rent was getting hard to pay. Also, Laurie Ann would start middle school in the fall. She was pretty and wanted to be a cheerleader. Those outfits cost money—more than Wilma had. She wanted Laurie Ann and Jackie, her youngest, to have the things she never had. Since there was nobody around but her, she knew she had to do something.

So a month earlier she had gone looking for a second job. She worked 2:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. at the Sands Monday through Saturday, so she had her mornings and late nights free. Her first thought had been a morning waitressing gig, but then she had met Darla Ford. Darla had come into the Sands for a cup of coffee right before closing one night. Said she was a “dancer” and needed a little energy boost before she started work. They struck up a conversation—Darla was a regular chatterbox—and Wilma asked her what a waitress might make at the club. Darla laughed and said, “Not much.” The money was in the “skin.” The dancers—the good ones—made twice what the waitresses made. Then she told Wilma that she had made fifty thousand dollars the year before.

Wilma had not hesitated. Fifty thousand dollars! She had gone to the Sundowners Club that night, and after enduring a job interview that included taking off all her clothes, leaning over to touch her toes, and getting slapped on the ass by the owner, Larry Tucker, she was hired.

The first weekend had been awful, and she thought she might be fired. She was uptight, nervous, and, according to Darla, a “buzzkill.” Darla, whose stage name was Nikita, finally made her do three quick shots of whiskey, and things got better. During the last two hours of the first weekend, she had three men ask for lap dances. After that she picked a stage name and Smokey was born.

She was now over a month into her job, and she was doing pretty well. On course to make $30K if she kept it up.

As she parked in the lot, which was framed in the neon blue light of the Sundowners Club sign, she took another shot of Jack and closed her eyes, allowing the hot liquid to settle into her stomach before turning off the car.
Showtime.

He watched her walk into the club before he stepped out of the car. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the El Camino, taking in his surroundings. The Sundowners Club was like so many other joints he’d been in. Concrete-slab building, parking lot with only a couple of light poles, long neon sign marking the front door, and broken beer bottles strewn everywhere.
Good place to get a tire blown out
, he thought, stomping out his cigarette. He reached in the car and took a little Afta and dabbed it on his stubbly face. He wore a golf shirt, khaki pants, and a pair of dusty boots. Six feet three inches tall, he knew he wasn’t handsome, but he had never had much problem with the ladies, or anything else for that matter. Of course, he didn’t give a shit, which he knew was the secret to his success. With women, with work—hell, with everything. Jim Bone Wheeler, a.k.a. the Bone, just didn’t give a shit.

As he walked toward the front door, he laughed out loud thinking of the thousands of dollars in cash in his wallet and his assignment from the boss.

31

This is my lucky night
,
Wilma thought. Lap dances were twenty dollars a pop and this man, James, had already paid for five of them. They were sitting at a table in the corner of the club, and she was drinking a Jack and Coke, which he had bought for her. Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” was blaring from the speakers, and Darla Ford, a.k.a. Nikita, was sliding down the pole on the main stage while Tammie Gentry, a.k.a. Sweet & Nasty, was pouring a sack of flour all over Nikita and herself. It was one of the highlight dances that always drew a big crowd. Most nights Wilma liked to be walking around during this dance, trying to seize on the momentum by landing a few lap dances right after the show was over. But tonight she had already hit the jackpot.

As Nikita and Sweet & Nasty’s show was coming to a close, James leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Listen, is there a VIP room where I can get a private dance without all these folks around?”

For a moment Wilma panicked. Lap dances were performed on a long bench near the back of the building. There was a small divider every few feet, separating the bench into little stalls. She was not aware of a more private area.

“I’ll be right back, honey.”

Without waiting for an answer, Wilma approached the main stage. Darla was walking down the steps, covered in a towel.

“Smokey is smokin’ tonight,” Darla said, hugging Wilma. “How was the show?”

“Great, as always,” Wilma replied. “Listen, this guy back there”—Wilma positioned herself so Darla could see—“is asking about a VIP room. Do we have one of those?”

“You’re shitting me,” Darla answered, walking to the bar while Wilma tagged close behind. “Seven and Seven, Saint Peter,” she bellowed, and the bartender—a bearded man named Peter—slid the already-made drink over to Darla. “Aren’t you a sweetie,” she said, winking at him and downing half her drink in one swallow. Then she turned and looked at Wilma.

“Listen, honey, if he’ll pay a hundred dollars, then go through that door past the benches. There is a stairwell that will take you upstairs to a hallway with two rooms. You can use either one. The first has an old beat-up leather chair, and the other one has a couch.”

“What do you do up there? I mean, I guess you’re supposed to . . .” She stopped because she didn’t have a clue what she was supposed to do.

“Anything and everything. There are no cameras up there. No rules like there are on the floor. If you like him and he’s nice, show him a good time. If not, then don’t.”

“How long should I stay up there?”

“As long as he’s paying and you’re comfortable.”

Wilma had another question, but she wasn’t sure how to ask it. She looked back at James and then Darla.

“Have you ever . . . ? I mean . . . up there have you ever let the guy . . . ?”

“Yes, honey. I have.” She put her hands on Darla’s shoulders. “But only because I’ve
wanted
to. I’ve gotten hot just like the guy. The guy’s hard, he’s throwing money at you, it’s, you know . . . you’re still a woman. But I don’t do it because he’s paying for it—I do it because I want to. There’s a difference.” Darla drained the rest of her drink and put her glass on the bar.

“One more thing,” Darla said. “Me and Tammie are the only girls in this joint to ever get a VIP dance. It’s a status symbol around here. Larry will notice it and you may get a raise. But—and, honey, this is a big but—you don’t need to take a guy up those stairs if you think he might try to force you to do something you don’t want to do. That’s a big buck over there. Just be careful and have fun.” She slapped Wilma on the ass and walked away.

Wilma looked at Peter and was about to order another drink when she felt two firm hands on her shoulders.

“Well, what’ll it be? How about that private dance?” James asked. Wilma tried to return to Smokey mode, turning her back to him and leaning over the bar.

“Saint Peter, James here wants to buy me another drink. Right, James?” She looked back at him with what Dewey always called “the bedroom eyes.”

“Yes, ma’am. How about making it two?” he said to the bartender, and then to Wilma he whispered again, “How about that private dance?”

“You got a hundred dollars?” she asked, trying to sound as sexy as possible.

“I got a thousand dollars. And I want to spend every dime of it on you.”

Wilma was stunned beyond words. After a few seconds she leaned over the bar and motioned Peter over and whispered something in his ear.

“Will do,” Peter said, looking over his shoulder at James and back at her.

“Right this way,” Wilma said, taking his hand and walking toward the door. Without allowing herself to think, Wilma led him up the stairs and into the first room she saw. There was the leather chair—brown with several patches—positioned right in the center of the room. There was a coffee table to the left of the chair and an old jam box on the floor against the wall on the right. Wilma put her drink on the coffee table and turned quickly to James.

“Sit down and I’ll be right back.” She walked down the stairs in time to see Peter placing the fifth of Jack Daniel’s on the floor behind the railing.

She picked up the bottle and looked at the stairs.
What in God’s name am I doing?
She put the bottle down and folded her arms. It wasn’t too late. She could go into the dressing room, put on her clothes, and be at Ms. Yost’s house in thirty-five minutes. There were other ways to make a living. Then she saw the faces of her girls. Laurie Ann couldn’t be a cheerleader if she couldn’t afford the uniform. And that wouldn’t be the last thing. Wilma wanted more for her girls. College. Opportunities. A real chance. Everything she never had.

She picked up the bottle and unscrewed the top. She cocked it back and took a long swig. “There’s a difference,”
she whispered out loud, repeating what Darla had said, trying to believe it, as she ascended the stairs. She took another swig of whiskey outside the door and brushed her hair back with her hand.

Then, steeling herself as best she could, she opened the door.

But when Wilma saw who was now sitting in the leather chair, she almost dropped the bottle of whiskey.

“Hello, Wilma.”

“Hi.” It was all she could get out.
Jack Willistone?
Behind her the door closed, and Wilma wheeled to see James.

“Relax, Smokey the Bear,” James said, his voice much harder than it had been down on the floor. “Just hear the man out.”

Wilma turned back to the chair but her feet were glued to the ground.

“Wilma, please . . .” Willistone said, gesturing to the table in front of the chair. “Sit. I’d like to talk to you about some things. Explain, so to speak, why I’m here.”

Though still in shock, Wilma forced her feet to move, and she did what he said.

“It’s about Dewey, Wilma. We don’t think we’ve really done enough for you since Dewey’s death. How have you been getting along?”

Wilma tried to gather herself.

“I’m making it if that’s what you mean. I . . .” She wanted to ask him about James, what the connection was, but she wasn’t ready yet.

“I imagine times have been tough, though, what with Dewey not around.”

She just nodded her response.
Where is this going?

“Well, that’s why I’m here.” He scooted forward in the leather chair so that their knees almost touched. “I want to help you.”

“Why?” Her thoughts had become words.

“Two reasons. One, because you’re the widow of someone who was a very valuable employee, and I don’t think we’ve treated you the way we should’ve.”

That sounded all well and good to Wilma—the shock had worn off now—but it rang hollow.
Why the strange rendezvous if that was it?

“So what’s the second reason?” Her voice was tough, and she hoped it conveyed a simple message.
Let’s cut the bullshit.

“Our company has been sued by the estate of the family that was killed in the wreck with Dewey. They say Dewey caused the family’s death because of his bad driving.” He stopped to take a sip of his drink.

Wilma, who had been leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, now sat back and folded her arms.
I should’ve known
, she thought.

“They also say that we—the company, I mean—were negligent in hiring, training, and supervising Dewey.” He stopped again, and she knew he was gauging her reaction.

“OK . . .”

“We wanted to ask you a few questions about the lawsuit.”

She looked over her shoulder at James, who continued to stand by the door. “We?”

“Well, me mainly. Bone here was just the instrument I used to set this up.”

“Bone?” She again looked over her shoulder, and this time James winked at her.

“Nickname,” he said.

“We actually call him JimBone. ‘Bone’ for short. Don’t ask me where that name came from.” Willistone was laughing now, and Wilma was furious.

“He has been paying me for lap dances all night, and he requested a VIP dance in this room,” she said through clenched teeth. “Was all that part of the plan?”

“Actually, yes,” Willistone said, sporting a humorless smile. “I figured if Bone could get you in this room, you would have already made the decision to whore yourself out.” He paused, and Wilma felt her skin turn cold. “What I am about to offer is a much easier way to make a lot more money.”

“I’m out of here,” Wilma said, standing from the table. “You people are crazy.” But before she could do anything but stand up, JimBone caught her by the arm.

“I don’t think so, little lady. Why don’t you hear what the man has to say? I think you’re gonna be pleased.”

“Let me go or I swear I’ll scream,” Wilma said.

“Scream all you want,” Jack said. “I told Larry this meeting might be rough.”

Again, Wilma was stunned. “Larry . . . knows about this?”

Jack laughed. “Larry and I go way back. Who do you think was one of his initial investors? No telling how many pickle tickles I’ve gotten in this room. But go on, scream. Let loose with a humdinger if it’ll make you feel better.”

Tears formed in the corner of Wilma’s eyes as she sat back down on the coffee table.
Damn, damn.

“Wilma.” Willistone’s voice was quieter. “We know you’ve been through a lot, and I’m sorry we’ve had to use these tactics.” He paused. “Have they contacted you?”

She was still crying. All she could think about was that Jack was right. She had agreed to prostitute herself the minute she entered this room.

“Have they contacted you?” Jack repeated, his voice louder. She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was James . . . JimBone . . .
whoever
.

“Come on now. Answer the man’s questions. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

“Have they contacted you?” Willistone asked for the third time.

“They?” Her voice was weak.

“The family. Lawyers for the family. Anybody that would be against us in this lawsuit.”

She knew it was pointless to lie.
They probably already know and are testing me.

“Yes,” she said, looking at Willistone.

“Who?”

“The lawyer. Rick I think is his name. He and this girl—I think his assistant—came to see me at the Sands a couple of weeks ago. They asked about Dewey. About the accident.”

“What did you say?”

“He was most interested in the schedule y’all had Dewey on. I . . . I was mad at y’all. I—”

“You what?”

“I told him that the schedules were crazy. OK? Everyone knew they were crazy. And”—Wilma sucked in a breath—“and I told them about how I helped Dewey fix his driver’s logs sometimes. So they looked good.”

There was a pause as Willistone got up from the chair and snatched the bottle of whiskey off the coffee table. He took a long pull on the bottle, nodded his head, and then took another, smaller, sip.

“We’re gonna have to fix this, Wilma. That won’t do.” He shook his head. “That won’t do at all.”

“Plan B?” JimBone asked, eyeing Willistone.

Willistone peered over Wilma’s shoulder to JimBone and slowly nodded.

“Yeah, I think so. A variation anyway.” Willistone looked back at Wilma.

After a couple of seconds he sat down beside her at the coffee table and draped his arm over her shoulder. She was scared. More scared than she’d ever been in her whole life.

“I think we can fix this, but it would have been easier if you hadn’t talked.” He smiled and gently stroked her hair.

“Let me ask you something, honey,” Willistone continued. “You came up here because you thought you were going to at least get a thousand dollars, right?”

She nodded.

“You were prepared to take your clothes off and dance nekkid for Bone over there, right?”

Another nod.

“Judging by what I know happens in this room, you were prepared to go even further. Right?” When she made no response, he nudged her elbow. “For that thousand you would have done more than just dance, right, Wilma?”

She was crying again, and Willistone finally stopped talking. He got up and moved back to the leather chair, crossing his legs as he sat.

“Well, I’m not going to ask you to do any of those things.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Wilma wiped her eyes and tried to focus.