“Your friend, Harry. Behave yourselves in the Dew Drop, boys.”
“You told MK she had a big butt?” Cirba asked.
Harry didn’t answer right away. He was too busy squealing like a little girl. It wasn’t until after the terrifying G-forces of the Drunken Indians abated that Harry said: “No, well, I might have said her ass looked like the back of a bus but that was hypothetical.”
“’Cause if you told MK she has a big ass I’m gonna have to fire yours.”
“You’d fire me for insulting your friend?”
“No, just for poor judgement. MK’s ass is fine.”
“Shall I add that to the list of things I’m not to tell Mrs Cirba?”
“I’ve decided you’re never going to meet Mrs Cirba.”
“Wise.”
Cirba pulled his unmarked car into the parking lot of a run-down tavern and went in. He arrived back in the car with two six-packs of beer.
Harry took the beer as Cirba put the car into gear. “My place or yours, officer?”
“They’re for the strip club.”
“They don’t sell beer there?”
“No, it’s BYOB.”
“What? Why?”
“That way they don’t have to bother with a liquor license and the girls can be 18 as opposed to 21.”
“How do they make money if they’re not foisting overpriced champagne?”
“That’s a good question. The general consensus is that they don’t make as much money as they claim.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Money laundering.”
“Oh. Mob?”
“Don’t know, it’s just a theory. Places like these seem to make a lot more money than the traffic should allow. It grossed over two mill last year.”
“That’s a lot of lap dances.”
“Yeah.” Cirba pulled over. “Right, you get out here.”
“Say what?”
“Out – here – you. There’s a good chance somebody in there is going to recognize me. We can’t go in together, and when you’re in there, pretend you don’t know me.”
“That seems kinda lonely.”
“I’m sure you’ll find someone to talk to.”
* * *
A few cars passed Harry as he trudged the quarter of a mile down the side road to the club. None of them stopped. Apparently, a guy walking alone with a six-pack under his arm wasn’t an unusual sight on this country road.
About five minutes later Harry saw the lone floodlit establishment glowing off the road like a campfire. The club was an architecturally challenged white cement box with a huge furling American flag painted on the side. Along the top was the message, “GOD BLESS OUR TROOPS”. Underneath in smaller letters it read: “God Bless the First Amendment”. The entrance was below a fancy out-of-place canopy. Above the canopy a red neon sign read, “Dew Drop Inn – A Gentlemen’s Club”.
Harry opened the door and was ignored by a bored bouncer who in a previous life ate his woolly mammoth raw. A voice to his left said, “fifteen bucks.” Harry fished out a twenty and a little guy sporting a goatee with a bald spot in the middle of it handed Harry his change in ones.
He held up a stack of singles and said: “Want anymore?”
“Why?”
He leaned in and examined Harry closely. “I would’a thought that a guy who walked to a strip club would know what singles were for.”
“For tips… yeah I knew that. And I didn’t walk here. I got a lift; she dropped me off up the road. I didn’t think it was appropriate to make my mother bring me all the way to the door.”
The little guy snorted but Harry kept a straight face. It was Friday night and that meant that a weekend of fibbing had begun. Harry gave him another twenty and received a stack of bills. He resisted the temptation to count them and turned the corner into the club.
Cirba had been right – Vegas this was not – it wasn’t even Scranton. If this place had really made two million dollars last year they certainly hadn’t wasted it on décor. There were two stages with poles reaching up to a high ceiling. The small one in the centre of the room was currently unoccupied. The larger was on a catwalk that stretched into a backstage area. To the left of the catwalk, behind glass, was a bearded DJ in a shiny jacket. He was enthusiastically introducing music, encouraging the crowd to applaud and tip the dancer on stage. He was the only enthusiastic thing in the place.
There were about a dozen customers in the room. Half were sitting around the catwalk watching a remarkably straight-figured skinny girl doing a move that Harry decided should be called the “Wish I Was Elsewhere” dance. The rest of the customers were dotted around the room. Most of them were chatting intimately with a girl wearing – not much. Another bouncer, obviously a distant relative of the guy on the door, pointed to a corridor on his left and said: “The beer room is back there.” Harry didn’t know what a beer room was but did as he was told and hoped there wasn’t a third cousin lurking in there with a blackjack.
He found a room with a supermarket-style glass-fronted refrigerator. He pried one can from his six-pack and left the rest with the other gentlemen’s beer. He wondered if beer was often stolen. Is there honour among perverts?
Harry walked back into the main room and took a seat at the catwalk across from Cirba. He wanted to give the trooper one of those secret nose-touching signals like they used in the movie The Sting but Cirba never took his eyes off the naked woman before him. Harry pondered if he was staying in character or was truly enthralled. After having a long look around at the crop of girls working here at the Dew Drop he deduced that it probably wasn’t enthralment. He didn’t have a lot of experience with strip clubs. Usually it happened at a conference in Vegas and always with a bunch of guys where the emphasis was on a bit of fun and not serious sexcapades. When Harry had entered one of those other clubs he had always been struck by how outstandingly beautiful the women had been. Here… not so much. This group of women made Harry want to sit down and ask them what they really wanted to do with their lives.
The music ended as the DJ failed to get the handful of customers in the room to applaud the dancer. She made one last round of the men sitting at the catwalk and picked up the dollar bills left for her. She smiled as she bent to retrieve Harry’s tip. It didn’t require any expertise on his part to recognize the smile as not quite genuine. The DJ gave an exuberant introduction for the next dancer that ended with, “Let’s give it up big time for – Harmony.”
Cirba and Harry shot each other a furtive look when they heard the name that Feather had said was the nom de plume of Big Bill’s girlfriend. She was an attractive girl, Harry thought, or would be if she didn’t look so… hollow. She sported bleached blonde hair cut short and wore a tiny plaid skirt, a white shirt and a tie. If she was going for the whole schoolgirl look it was ruined by the clear plastic platform shoes. Whereas the previous dancer had looked as if she wanted to be somewhere else, Harmony actually was somewhere else – at least in her mind.
Although she was dancing on autopilot it wasn’t without exuberance. A running start launched her at the chrome pole in the centre of the stage. She caught it and while