A Fateful Decision
"You sure you want go there?" said the Russian cabbie as he looked dubiously across the street at the club, a big old converted warehouse building. He didn't like coming into this part of the city and if the woman in the back hadn't offered him three times the fare he wouldn't have agreed to drive her.
He leaned over his seat and looked at her. She was mid-20s, about 5' 6" and with a good but in-shape figure. She had a pale complexion, high cheekbones and a pleasingly proportioned face. Her intelligent blue eyes were fixed on the club and her mouth was set in a frown. Her hair was chestnut and reached to just below shoulder length. Her outfit was clearly expensive and more suited to work than a night's clubbing. Her hand was on the cab's door handle but she was hesitating.
"This not for people like us", he went on. People like us? A down-at-heel first-generation immigrant cabbie in his 50s didn't have much in common with her. She was clearly a blue-blood, one of the elite, no shortage of money and a big wedding ring on her finger. Outside of a white skin they had very little in common - but that white skin was important in these surroundings. Perhaps not 'the ghetto' but certainly part of the city left to the Blacks and left to rot. What was she doing out here on her own? His tradition kicked in, "Let's go back, eh, you got husband no?"
Her eyes flashed with anger as they switched to him. A hand darted into her pocket and then pushed a fist-full of notes at the driver. He took them and watched as she left the cab and strode purposefully towards the club. He counted - twice as much as he was owed! He shook his head, 'Go with God," he murmured and put his cab into gear.
An Exclusive Club
Two suited doormen watched her crossing the road towards them. One, showing tattoos on his neck and hands, stood back and ran his gaze up and down her. The other, just as Black but much less menacing, took a step forward and held up a hand.
"Club's not open tonight, ma'am, Thursdays are always private here. Members only, I'm sorry."
"I'm here to meet my husband. He's inside." She spoke with confidence and moved to step past him.
The large black hand shifted to directly in front of her and forced her to stop. "Sorry, ma'am, you have your membership number?"
"I seem to have left it behind but my name is Jessica Clarke, my husband is a member and I've often been here."
"Uh-uh," said the tattooed doorman, shaking his head.
The man in front of her smiled, "I think we'd know if you'd been here before."
Jessica thought quickly, "We come as part of a group - you probably just haven't noticed us in the past. I know it gets very busy here..."
"Bullshit," said Tattoos.
A blush came to Jessica's cheek, as a corporate lawyer she'd heard worse but this thug was unnerving her. "How can you be sure?" she demanded.
"Simple," Tattoos explained with a smile, "you real fine. You been here before then I'd have tried to get in your panties." He nodded as if that settled it.
Jessica's mouth gaped open for a moment. She was about to explode with anger when the more respectable doorman spoke up for her. "Ty, have some respect man!"
"Yeah, like you wouldn't have been trying to fuck her too, " grumbled Tyrone.
His colleague, James, didn't deny it but apologised to Jessica before adding, "Tyrone is a connoisseur of beautiful white women and if neither of us have noticed you before then its likely you haven't been here. You say your husband is inside?"
"YES," the rage burst out from Jessica, "he's here with his fucking whore! I need to get in to see him."
"Shit," said Tyrone, "ain't letting no wife ruin a brotha's evening."
James gave him another glare. "Sorry, ma'am, we can't allow trouble like that in the club. I can call you a cab and you can settle this at home."
"Huh," said Tyrone, "you got his picture - least we can tell you if he's here. Bet the brotha ain't even here!"
Jessica fumbled in her wallet and produced a picture of her and Christian on vacation.
Tyrone took it and beamed. He gave an exaggerated whistle, "Damn you look fine in a bikini, Mrs Clarke. If you want to be a member I'll be happy to recommend you."
"Cut that shit out," snapped James and took the photo. Then he smiled too. "This white guy your husband?"
"Of course," said Jessica, puzzled by their apparent surprise.
"Well, OK, get Jenny down here Tyrone, " said James, "seems Mrs Clarke might have made a mistake."
The Club
Jenny turned out be a blowsy blonde in her late 40s. A bit over made-up and with peroxide hair flowing down past her shoulders. She wore a tight grey dress which barely stretched over her huge breasts.
"I manage these evenings," she said with a toothy smile, "come in and take care till you adjust to the darkness."
Jessica followed her into the club and was immediately hit by the heavy beat of the music. She followed the grey dress around the dance floor while her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness broken by the coloured flashes of the club's lighting system.
Jenny finally stopped and Jessica followed suit. She turned and surveyed the club to look for her husband and that whore of his.
She saw a huge club dance-floor pretty much full of groups and couples. She saw a few Latinas and an Asian but otherwise the women might be tall or petite, chunky or slim, blonde or brunette, but they were pretty much all white. The men - she noticed immediately - were, without exception, either African-American or at least partly so.
She tried to grasp the situation and at that moment noticed her husband's secretary, the whore. She was thrusting and grinding to the music but not with Jessica's husband. Instead she was sandwiched between two very tall and very Black men. As she watched she saw one man put his hand inside the woman's top and openly grope her breast.
"See your husband?" Jenny shouted. Jessica shook her head and the older woman led her up a set of stairs and into a room with a large window overlooking the dance-floor.
"We can talk here," she smiled. "You noticed why Ty and James were confused?"
Jessica nodded.
