"So yuh heard about this girl her name is Maxine
Her beauty's like a bunch of rose
An' if I ever tell you bout Maxine
You would a say I don't know what I know (but)
Murder she wrote
Murder she wrote
Murder she wrote (Na nana)
Murder she wrote . . . "
With Chaka Demus blaring from the speakers the walls seemed to dance with a vibration all their own. The heavy base line was hypnotic and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dimness in the club.
When I saw her pole dancing I had to stop and stare. I mean, the woman was absolutely spectacular. Dark skinned - the color of freshly roasted Jamaican coffee beans - long jet black hair (hers, not some wig), full breasts, tapered waist, curvaceous hips and an ass to die for! That woman had some serious junk-in-the-trunk. She was the real deal and she knew it. So what was she doing in this dump?
Machele and I met before they ever renovated "The West" and even that's gone now. It was just a tiny neighborhood bar back then, but it was one of the best places I knew. The Wild West had the friendliest and prettiest bartenders in the city and never overcharged or watered down their drinks. The head barmaid, Ingela, was from Sweden. Eventually she went online and was featured in a documentary about the adult industry held at the JavittsCenter. I loved Ingela just the way she was but she saw herself differently. Her breasts were never big enough. Bullshit. They were perfect. After the first augmentation she proudly displayed them when I walked in the door:
"J'ordy! Look!" (Her accent was definitely Swedish)
Up came her top. (Cheers and whistles from the other patrons)
"Aren't the girls purr-fect?" she said, laughing and waiting for my reaction.
Purr-fect? Maybe that's where her "Dream Kittens" concept came from.
"Yes Ingela, they're beautiful, but they were beautiful before."
No sooner had she healed then she went back under the knife. The next time I saw Ingela, her breasts were humongous.
All I could think about was how, in the future, she'd have back problems and would need to go for a reduction. But it was not my back and not my problem. Anyway I wasn't really interested in Ingela or "the girls". I was only interested in Shelly.
Initially I was just a "mark". "Marks" are prey. The object of the game is simple. Make the "mark" think that you're interested in him -- no - I mean really interested. Like you want to go home with him - or at least check out the short stay rates at motel. Get him to tip you lavishly while you're onstage and buy you drinks when you're offstage. Play him against other guys so that there's a bidding war going on. Keep his attention. Get him drunk and empty his wallet. When the wallet's empty, move on - but only after you let him know that you can't wait for him to come back - with a full wallet. So that's how it was initially - I was a "mark".
Shelly knew she'd caught my eye as soon as I walked into the bar. She smiled and the place lit up like sunshine through an open window. She knew a good thing when she saw one - I was one of the only "suits" in the joint. It meant that I had money in my pocket and that I wouldn't try to grope her when she approached me for drinks. Funny thing was, as soon as we started talking, she was the one in trouble. Game plan shot to shit. I was actually nice. Well spoken. Attentive without being pushy. Generous with the tips but not stupid. And I listened. What's the old saying? "God gave you one mouth and two ears so maybe you're supposed to listen twice as much as you speak." I was a good listener. Suddenly she's talking to me about real stuff. Her family, her life, where she came from - the whole nine yards. Not quite ready to give me a phone number but happy to accept one. Letting me know when she'd be back and what other clubs she worked.
"Will I see you again, Jordan?"
Yes Machele. Yes you will.
We'd been drinking together for several hours. We both liked our vodka on the rocks with lime. It was one of those days when drinking with me was preferable to getting on stage. The place wasn't empty but the patrons were less than desirable - mostly Hispanic laborers from the local factories, Dominicans and Puerto Ricans. Dirty hands and dirty mouths. Always looking to "cop a feel" and not willing to tip.
"Let me see jor poo-say bee-tch! Jeu wan my moe-nay den I wan to see jor poo-say!" they'd say in a loud drunken slur.
Shelly needed money too, but not from them.
"I could really use your help Jordy," she said in hushed tones. "I'm just not making ends meet."
"Let me think on it, OK?" I wanted to make sure that it was me talking, not the liquor.
"I'm going to be at that club I told you about in the Bronx on Friday. I don't have to work that late. Maybe we could hang out afterward?"
By that time I had her phone number.
"OK. I'll call you to confirm."
The place in the Bronx, on the Westchester border was, to say the very least, interesting. It was actually two clubs side by side. On the one side was a regular topless bar and the other was an all-nude club without alcohol. The dancers would work alternate shifts on both sides of the club. The bouncer would stamp your hand so you could patronize both without additional cover charges. It was the first time I'd seen Shelly completely naked. I wanted - no - I needed more, and she knew it. Smart gal. It pays to advertise!
It was after 2:00 AM when we checked into the Lincoln Motel, a typical hot pillow joint. Sure did get a lot of stares though when I checked us in at the front desk as Mr. & Mrs. So what if this young chestnut-skinned beauty was with this older white dude! Shelly and I acted more like a married couple than my ex and I did. There was already an easy familiarity about us, as if we'd been together for a very long time. Cool. Very cool. But it was molten lava by the time we got into the motel room.
