It was just past eleven as I dismounted my motorcycle and walked up to the front door of "San Garibaldi's Own" Club Naw-Tee. Judging by the cars in the parking lot, I guessed the joint was only moderately busy; I liked timing my entrance to catch the early crowd leaving, and the later partiers just arriving.
Louie nodded at me. "Sir," he said quietly in that mashed-potato voice of his, holding the door as he eyed the drunken frat boys in line. The idiots in line started to protest my skipping ahead. "Who the fuck's this old bastard," one of them muttered.
Casually Louie dropped the door. He stepped forward -- guy's built like a big hunk of granite, it's weird seeing him walk -- and backhanded the young man across the mouth with a loud thwack. Kid dropped like a rock. His buddies started to protest, but another raised hand from Louie sent 'em scattering.
I frowned. That wasn't necessary; kids might have become my customers. Still, even though Louie's about as smart as my right toenail, he meant well. And I did have to feel impressed by his willingness to commit casual violence on my behalf; he's the only Meat whose name I'd bothered to learn. I nodded at him and slipped him a fifty, and he held the door open again, thanking me politely. Nikki at the cash register flashed me a big smile and a wink as she took some schmoe's money to get in.
It was gratifying having these babes and mooks treat me with respect, for sure. Funny how that worked, when I'm merely a humble distributor of a product they have an interest in: unadulterated, fentanyl-free, fuck-up-your-shit cocaine. When I promised the club's owner a decent cut of what I made -- and my margin was incredibly high, I could afford it -- Rico had Meat look out for me, steering away any undercover officers and generally watching my back. Our relationship, aside from a hiccup or two caused by a poor decision he'd made, was generally good. Although this club was a little dingy, it was a far cry classier than the other joint across town, The Rooster, populated by aged skanks and burnouts I wouldn't fuck with your dick. I needed a drink.
Cassandra was at the bar, her dirty blonde hair done up tight just like her ass. Her electric blue latex getup, relatively modest for this dive, looked fabulous on her toned frame. She didn't like me, didn't like that the girls loved what I got for 'em. I'd a theory she was a coke whore in a past life. Just shy of thirty, she'd been a fixture of this place since before I found it: beautiful, but with apparently no desire to have strange jackasses pay her to get naked, or to snort drugs. Terribly tragic character flaws. But I'd long ago given up on getting my dick into her.
"Hello, 'Sir,'" she said mockingly. One of the early rules I'd made with Rico: none of these people were gonna know my name. They don't make up a name for me. They don't think up some kind of cutesy nickname. They called me Mister, they called me Sir. Maybe it was a power thing on my part, maybe it was an added layer of protection, maybe it was just my kink. I really didn't give a fuck.
Cassandra was already pulling my drink, a special bottle of impossibly expensive whiskey kept in a lockbox. It's not that I was a liquor snob or anything, but ever since some broke-ass lawyer gave me a bottle of this for a key back in oh-seven, I always drank this stuff. Because I could afford it, and doggone it, I was worth it. Last year with a similar bottle I was keeping here, I'd discovered it used up far faster than it should've been. I didn't get mad or violent... I simply stopped coming by the club. Within days I had coke whores at my feet licking my balls, begging me to come back and oh so apologetic. By Rico's order, Cassandra now marked the liquid level with a piece of dated tape, and kept it in a lockbox installed especially to ensure only I slurped this stuff. I could tell she hated doing it, but by god if I couldn't fuck her, I could at least fuck with her. She slid me my whiskey rocks, I saluted her happily, she flipped me the bird. I grinned, then put on work face as I turned to start my real working day.
Fuckin' Todd was the deejay again. I hated Fuckin' Todd. The girls heard me say that a few times, and that nickname caught on, so he wanted to hate me too. Unfortunately, Fuckin' Todd liked booger sugar way too goddamn much, and due to shall we say some accidental drunken magnanimity a couple months prior, owed me four thousand dollars. If he was getting blow now, it wasn't from me. I guess he felt my eyes boring a hole into his ugly face, because he glanced up, saw me and went pale. Fuckin' Todd better have my goddamn money tonight, I thought, before pushing that away. Ah, life's too goddamn short for negativity, even in a shitty strip club like this one. I readjusted my work face and looked for that familiar need people seemed to have in my presence at these places.
As soon as they saw I'm in the club, a few girls bounded up to me happily, pressing money into my hand for little baggies of blow from my satchel, then kissing me on the cheek before skipping away to go powder their noses. I've no great love for the current crop of women Rico's got now; they're mostly petite little spinners with small chests but flat tummies. Maybe you find that hot, but I need something to grab onto. Still, these girls don't seem to mind doing me little favors for flake, and their pussies are usually tight. I often wondered how many other fifty year old quasi-burnouts like me had it twisted to be drowning in young stripper snatch. I did love my job so very very much.
After the dancers came the schmoes who knew they could hit me up here. These guys may have been occasionally rude or grabby with the girls, but with me it was straight respect, with no bullshit. Getting jacked wasn't a thing on my mind here; guys who tried to get weapons past Louie didn't tend to be visiting a lot of clubs afterwards. Despite his numerous flaws Rico does have a good idea for Meat, and it's clear Meat knows me and I have the blessing to sell as much joy dust as these schmoes and hoes can cram up their greedy little noses.
Twenty minutes after clearing the door I'm up five, maybe seven grand and I'm feeling good as I settle into my anointed home in this shithole. Fuckin' Todd couldn't face me, but had one of the girls bring me a) cash, specifically a grand, a quarter of what he owed, Fuckin' Todd; and b) a blowjob. She looked like she would've mostly because she feared Fuckin' Todd -- I'd have to work on that because no physical entity anywhere on Earth ought to fear Fuckin' Todd -- but I demurred and sent her away, too early to fuck yet. She looked grateful, and I thought about giving her a bump, but fuck that.
My open booth was somewhat near the VIP section. I picked it special, so I could glance over and see the schmoes getting felt up and rubbed on, while maintaining a good view of the stage, though calling it that was a stretch. It was little more than twenty feet wide with a pole that never looked entirely clean, nor would I trust its stability. Place is a dive, but I was in my element.
