Heist 2 (24 page)

From
Games Women Play

 

 

 

T
he Bounce House was not one of those inflatable castles parents rented for children's parties. It was a small gentleman's club set in a strip mall on 7 Mile with a beauty supply store, a rib joint, an outlet that sold men's clothing, and an unleased space that changed hands every few years. In no way was The Bounce House on the same level as some of the more elite clubs in Detroit; with a maximum capacity of two hundred fifty and limited parking, it would never be a threat to The Coliseum, Cheetah's, or any of the big dogs. It wasn't big but it was comfortable and well managed, plus the owner was very selective in choosing the girls, so this had earned it a small but loyal patronage.

The owner, Tuesday Knight, knew that Mr. Scott, her neighbor and owner of Bo's BBQ, would be waiting in the door of his shop the moment her white CTS hit the lot. The old man had a crush on her and always made it his business to be on hand to greet her whenever she pulled in to work.

She frowned when she saw that someone had parked in her spot right in front of The Bounce House. The canary Camaro with the black racing stripes belonged to Brianna, and she was definitely going to check that bitch because she had been warned about that before.

Since all the other slots outside The Bounce, Bo's BBQ, and KiKi's Beauty Supply were taken, she had to park way down in front of the vacant property, and she speculated about which business would spring up there next. In the past five years it had been an ice cream parlor, a cell phone shop, and an occult bookstore. She wished its next incarnation would be as a lady's shoe outlet that sold Louboutins at a discount.

She shrugged the Louis Vuitton bag onto her shoulder then slid out of the Cadillac.

Up ahead on the promenade Mr. Scott was standing in front of his carry-out spot pretending to sweep the walk but really waiting for her. This was practically a daily ritual for them.

“Hi, Mr. Scott,” she said, beaming a smile.

He did an old-school nod and tip of the hat. “Hey. Miss Tuesday, you sho lookin' mighty fine today.” He always called her Miss Tuesday even though it was her first name.

“Thank you, Mr. Scott. You lookin' handsome as always.”

He removed his straw Dobb's hat and was fanning himself with it even though the afternoon was mild. “Girl, if I was thirty years younger, I'd show you somethin'!”

“I know you would, Daddy! You have a nice day now, okay.”

She strutted by him and since her jeans were particularly tight today, she threw a little something extra in her walk and made the old man howl: “Lord, have mercy!” Mr. Scott was seventy years old and had always been respectful of her and all the dancers so she didn't mind putting on for him. Plus the harmless flirting made his day and got her free rib dinners. When Tuesday reached the door of the club, she turned back to give him another smile and coquettish wave.

What The Bounce House lacked in size it attempted to make up for in taste. There was nothing cheap about the place despite being a small independent establishment. The design wasn't unique: a fifteen-foot bar ran against the far right wall, a large horseshoeshaped stage dominated the center with twenty or so small circular tables surrounding it, booths lined the left wall and wrapped around the front, the entrance was where that front wall and right one intersected, and the deejay booth was next to it.

Before Tuesday had taken over, the entire place was done in a tacky red because the previous owner thought that it was a sexual color. The bar was a bright red Formica that was peeling, the stools and booths were done in cheap red leatherette, the floor was covered in pink and red checkered tile, and the tables wore hideous black and red tablecloths with tassels that made the place look like a whorehouse from the '70s.

Tuesday had brought the place into the new millennium with brushed suede booths, a bar with a granite top, more understated flooring, and mirrored walls that gave the illusion of more space. She even gave it a touch of class and masculinity by adding dark woods, brass, and a touch of plant life.

When she came through the door, the first thing that jumped out at her was that the fifth booth hadn't been bused. There were half a dozen double-shot glasses on the table, an ashtray filled with butts and cigar ends, and a white Styrofoam food container that had most likely come from Bo's. She knew that it was her OCD that caused her to immediately zero in on this but before she could start bitching, one of the servers was already headed to clean it up. Everyone who worked there knew their boss had a thing for neatness so she shot the girl a look that said,
Bitch, you know better!

Things were slow even for a Monday afternoon. There were only three customers at the bar with eleven more scattered throughout the tables and booths. Most of them were entranced by a dancer named Cupcake who was on stage rolling her hips to a Gucci Mane cut. Two more girls were on the floor giving table dances.

Whenever Tuesday came in, on any shift, her first priority was always to check on the bar. The bartender on duty was a brown-skinned cutie named Ebony who had started out as a dancer then learned she had a knack for pouring drinks. She took a couple classes, became a mixologist and has been working at The Bounce since back in the day when Tuesday was just a dancer.

Ebony called out: “Boss Lady!” when she saw her slip behind the bar.

Tuesday pulled her close so she wouldn't have to compete with the music. “Eb, how we lookin' for the week?”

From the pocket of her apron Ebony whipped out a small notepad she used for keeping up with the liquor inventory. “What we don't got out here we got in the back. We pretty much straight on everythang, at least as far as makin' it through the week, except we down to our last case of Goose.”

Tuesday made a mental note to send Tushie to the distributor.

Ebony asked, “How dat nigga A.D. doin'?”

“He all right. Reading every muthafuckin' thang and workin' out. That nigga arms damn near big as Tushie's legs.”

“When was the last time you holla'ed at em?”

Tuesday scanned the bar, quietly admiring how neat Ebony kept her workstation. “Nigga called the other day on some horny shit. Talkin' 'bout, ‘What kinda panties you got on? What color is they?' ” She did a comical impersonation of a man's deep voice. “Nigga kept me on the phone for a hour wantin' me to talk dirty to 'em.”

Ebony poured a customer another shot of Silver Patron. “No he didn't!” she said, smiling at Tuesday.

“So I'm tellin' him I'm in a bathtub playin' with my pussy, thinkin' bout his big dick. The whole time I'm out at Somerset Mall in Nordstrom's lookin' for a new fit.”

“TK, you still crazy!” Ebony was laughing so hard that she fell into her. “The funny part is, he probably knew you was lying and just didn't care.”

“Hell yeah, he knew I was lying. A.D. ain't stupid. But when I know that's the type of shit he wanna hear, I always tell 'em somethin' good.”

“That nigga been gone for a minute. When he comin' home?”

Tuesday's smile faded a bit. She hated when people asked that question, especially when most of them were already familiar with his situation. A.D. was doing life and a lot of times people asked her when he was coming home just for the sake of gauging her faith and commitment to him. If she said “Soon,” she looked stupid when the years stretched on and he didn't show, but if she said “Never!” it looked as if she'd just wrote the nigga off. Her and Ebony had been cool for a long time and she didn't think that the girl was trying to play some type of mind game but the question still bothered her.

As much as she hated being asked about A.D., it happened so often that over the years she had come to patent this perfect response: “He still fighting but that appeal shit takes time.” This way she doesn't commit herself to any specific date while still appearing to be optimistic.

Ebony nodded thoughtfully. “Well, next time you holla at 'em, tell that nigga I said keep his head up.”

Tuesday left from behind the bar agreeing to relay that message.

She was crossing the room by weaving her way through the maze of tables on the floor when suddenly:
whack!
Somebody smacked her on the ass so hard that it made her flinch.

At first Tuesday thought it was some new customer who didn't yet know who she was, and just as she turned around ready to go H.A.M., she realized that it was her big bouncer DelRay.

DelRay was six foot seven and close to four hundred pounds. He was heavy but didn't look sloppy because it was stretched out by his height. He also knew how to handle himself, possessing a grace and speed rarely seen in men his size. DelRay could be very intimidating when the job required it but by nature was a goofball. While he had the skills to deal with unruly customers physically, he had the game to get most of them out the door without making a scene. This was what Tuesday liked most about him.

She said, “Nigga, I was about to flip!”

“We at four!” he yelled over the music. Lil' Wayne was playing then.

She shook her head. “Hell naw, nigga, we at five!”

He used his thick sausage-like fingers to count. “Two Saturday night, one Sunday before you got in your car, and one just now.” He grinned and rubbed his hands together like a little kid eager for a gift. “I get to smack that fat muthafucka six more times!”

“Fuck you!” she said but with a smile. Actually she knew it was only four.

He teased her. “Don't be mad at me, you should be mad at yo boy Lebron! When it get down to crunch-time he always choke.”

Tuesday was a diehard Miami Heat fan who swore that she was going to suck Dwyane Wade like a pacifier if she ever met him in person. At the time Miami had the second-best record in the eastern conference so when they came to Auburn Hills to play a struggling Pistons team, dropping a hundred on them seemed like a safe bet. After the Heat lost in overtime, the bouncer asked his boss if he could trade that bill she owed him for the right to smack her on that juicy ass ten times. Tuesday had no interest in fucking DelRay but they were cool like that, so she agreed.

“That's all right though,” she fired back. “I still like Miami to win it all. Yo weak-ass Pistons ain't even gon' make the playoffs.”

“Give us two more years to draft, we gon' be back on top again!”

Changing the subject, she asked, “I saw Bree's car out front but is the rest of 'em here?”

DelRay nodded. “Everybody but Tush. Jaye in the locker room skinnin' them bitches on the poker. Bree and Doll in there with her.”

“Tush will be here in a minute, I already holla'ed at her. But go tell the rest of them bitches I'm in my office.”

“I got you, Boss Lady.”

Just as she turned to walk away:
whack!

She whipped around trying to mug him, but DelRay's fat face made one of those goofy looks that always melted her ice grill. “I'm sorry, Boss Lady, I couldn't help it. You shouldn't have wore that True Religion shit today. You in them muthafuckin' jeans!”

She jerked her fist like she was going to punch him. “Now we at five!”

“You wanna bet back on Miami and Orlando?”

“You ain't said shit, nigga, I ride or die with D. Wade! But if you win this time, goddammit, I'm just gon' pay yo heavy-handed ass.”

DelRay lumbered off toward an entryway at the left of the stage and parted the beaded curtain that hung over it. That hall had three doors: one for a storage room where all the extra booze and miscellaneous supplies for the bar were kept; the second was the locker room where the dancers changed clothes and spent their downtime in between sets; the third, the door in which the hall terminated, was a fire exit that led to the alley behind the strip mall. DelRay went to the second door, knocked three times, then waited for permission to enter.

An identical hall ran along the opposite side of the stage, only this one did not terminate in a fire door. It was where the restrooms were located, and just beyond them was a door stenciled with the words:
Boss Lady
.

Her office was a modest but tidy space that was only fifteen by twenty feet long. It had a single window with only a view of a garbage-strewn alley. There was a cheap walnut-veneered desk holding a lamp and computer, a small two-drawer file cabinet, two plastic chairs that fronted the desk, and an imitation suede loveseat given to her by a friend. The most expensive thing in the office was her chair: a genuine leather high-back office chair ergonomically designed for perfect lumbar support, costing over fourteen hundred dollars; she had spent more on it than her computer. The office also came with a wall safe that Tuesday never kept any cash in. Other than the above mentioned items, there was nothing else in the way of furniture or decor. Tuesday didn't have anything hanging on the walls and no framed photos were propped on her desk to give it a personal touch. She stepped into her Spartan little space and closed the door.

Tuesday had spent twenty-one years at The Bounce House—ten as a dancer, four as a manager, and seven more as owner—but whenever she came in the office her mind always flashed back to that first time she stepped into it. She was sixteen years old, expelled from all Detroit public schools, a runaway crashing at a different friend's house every night and desperate for money. She had an older cousin named Shameeka who danced there but at the time the place was called Smokin' Joe's. Because Tuesday was light-skinned, pretty with green eyes and a banging body, Shameeka swore she could earn enough money for her own car and crib in no time. So led by her favorite cousin, a young and naive Tuesday was brought in and walked to the door of this office. Shameeka handed her a condom then pushed her inside like a human sacrifice to a sixty-two-year-old bony Polish guy, whose name, ironically, wasn't Joe. There was an eight-minute pound session in which he bent her over the very same desk she still had, then fifteen minutes after that, Tuesday's new name was X-Stacy and she was on the floor giving out lap dances for ten dollars a pop. The old man never asked her age, or anything else, for that matter.