The Lights of Tenth Street (7 page)

“Do I really want to know what goes on in here?”

“Not what you’re thinking, obviously.” Maris leaned past her and firmly shut the door. “Our regulars often request private dances, but that’s
all
that happens.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I’m serious. The customers aren’t allowed to touch the girls. The bouncers are pretty darned serious about enforcing that rule.”

“I haven’t met the bouncers.”

“Really? Well, come on. You need to meet more of the staff anyway.”

She led Ronnie back to the front door and walked her around the room, introducing her to the bouncers and several other staff members.

Ronnie nodded and smiled and shook hands. The names were a blur. At least everyone seemed nice. What were such normal people doing working in a strip club? She shook her head in exasperation.
She
was here, wasn’t she? Everyone had her reasons.

“Maris, there you are! Are you two ready to start?” A young woman in a waitress uniform was hurrying toward them, cocktail tray in hand. “I should’ve been out of here ten minutes ago.”

“Oh, Tina, I’m so sorry!” Maris took the tray from her. “Tina, this is Ronnie. I was just showing her around. I completely forgot about your son!”

“That’s okay. I just need to get out of here.” Tina ducked behind the bar, took off her silver apron, and retrieved a small carryall bag. “If I hurry, I can get to the clinic before it closes.”

“Go.” Maris gave the girl a gentle shove toward the door. “We’ll cover here.”

“Thanks!”

Maris grabbed an order pad and several pens from the bar and gestured for Ronnie to do the same. “I can’t believe I forgot! I promised Tina we’d start a bit early so she could take her baby to the doctor. He has a fever or something.”

“She has a baby?”

“Two. One’s a toddler, the other’s just a month old.”

“Wow. She looks great for having just had a baby.”

“Yeah, there’s a gym around the corner. She’s getting back in shape to go back up.”

“Up where?”

“Up there.” Maris gestured at the stages and shoved the order pad in her apron. “Come on, we’ve got to hustle.” She strode onto the floor and made her way among the tables.

“Well, Mr. Travis, nice to see you tonight. I’m taking over for Tina. Can I bring you anything? … Hey, honey, welcome to The Challenger. What can I get ya? … Bob, you and that beer getting married or are you gonna want a fresh one any time soon?”

Ronnie watched and learned, ferrying away dirty plates and glasses and bringing out fresh ones. She was astonished to find that she was sweating from the pace her trainer set. At least this job would keep her in shape.

On her third trip out to the tables, Ronnie delivered a round of Tequila shots to a rowdy group of Japanese men wearing conservative business suits. They knocked the shots back and began cheering and clapping as a girl appeared at their table. Ronnie hurriedly collected the empty glasses as the girl started to dance beside the table.

One of the businessmen pounded on the table, pointing to the girl and then to the table. The others joined in, gesturing for her to climb up. The girl caught the eye of one of the bodyguards, who nodded and moved closer. The businessmen went wild, hooting and gesturing.

Ronnie glanced at the girl’s face, and was astonished to see her roll her eyes in private annoyance. Just as quickly, the exasperated look was gone, replaced by a dazzling smile. The girl nimbly stepped on a chair, then to the tabletop, and continued her dance.

Ronnie backed away and served another group, watching as the girl finished her dance to appreciative yells, climbed down from the table, and walked away, her smile vanishing.

Ronnie hurried to place an order with the kitchen, her mind whirling. That girl
didn’t look like she was having fun at all.

She checked the order with Maris, got it to the cooks, and was starting back toward the door when Marco came in.

“Maris, table twenty-two needs two orders of nachos and another round of rum-and-Cokes on the double. They asked for Sasha ten minutes ago, but she must not’ve gotten the message. They want the Platinum Room for a large party next week, and they aren’t happy.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got a call to make. Take care of it, please.” He vanished inside his office, closing the door behind him.

Maris yanked the empty tray from Ronnie. “I’ll get the drinks and nachos out to twenty-two. Go find Sasha on the double and get her out there.”

Ronnie grabbed her arm. “Wait, which one is Sasha?”

“Your friend Tiffany. Snap to it, girl. Two of our best customers are at that table, and if they walk out, heads will roll. The dancers’ changing room is down that long hallway and to the right. Green door.” She vanished inside the kitchen, her voice raised.

“Priority order, two Nachos Grande!”

Ronnie half-jogged down the corridor, her eyes frantically searching for a green door. Why did they call Tiffany, Sasha? She could hear female voices and hesitated. Cracking the door open, she poked her head inside.

“Tiffany?”

A girl standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror turned toward her, lipstick in hand, a confused look on her face.

“Uh—sorry—Sasha?”

The girl gestured toward the back of the room. A long, low mirror and counter-top littered with makeup bags, hairspray, and other accessories ran the length of the room. Several girls were clustered at the far end.

Ronnie spotted Tiffany’s distinctive dress in the group and hurried back there. The girl who had just danced for the Japanese businessmen was seated before the mirror, reapplying mascara with violent jabs of her wand, her voice raised in agitation.

“And if they think I’ll do a bunch of table dances for them for a lousy twenty bucks, they’ve got another think coming! I can’t
believe
I’ve only made two hundred dollars tonight! And not even that, once I cough up twenty to the DJ.”

Another girl was spraying her hair as she talked. “Girl, did you see my table earlier? Dan and his buddies were slobbering all over themselves as usual, but hardly coughed up a twenty.”

“What idiots.” The other girls chimed in. One girl told a crude joke mocking one of her customers and the others laughed.

Ronnie quickly circled over to Tiffany and tugged on her arm.

“Table twenty-two wanted you. Ten minutes ago. Marco had me come get you.”

“Oh, my gosh.”

They hurried toward the door and down the hallway.

“I thought you said this was fun.”

“It is fun. Just not when you’re making no money.”

Ronnie slowed to a stop as Tiffany pushed on through the door. “Oh, is
that
how it works? Yeah, great job,
Sasha
.”

T
he third floor of the old war-era building was no longer empty. The vast room was packed with people, mostly men, sitting on rows of folding chairs. Weak sunshine filtered in through windows set high in the twenty-foot walls. A low rumble of quiet conversation rolled around the room as the clock ticked toward ten.

Tyson finished his phone call, made a few quick notes, and left his cluttered office. He chuckled as he looked over the rows of people. It wasn’t every day these men were asked to sit on plastic folding chairs. Too bad he couldn’t take a picture.

He worked his way to the front of the room, casually greeting several people by name. Proxy had previously identified a few key players, and Tyson had his eye on one or two others. If he could recruit a few leaders for Proxy’s plan, it would solidify his standing in the boss’s eyes … and propel him into the elite financial strata he had been aiming for his entire life.

His Ivy-League MBA had given him financial means, but he was limited, always limited by the system, by the egos in the corner offices, by the overzealous regulators of capitalism. The system was broken and needed to be fixed. True capitalism needed to be refreshed, restored. And Proxy’s plan provided just the means to do it. It would come at a price, sure, but history would admit it was for the best.

Tyson stood for a minute by the platform, watching the hardened faces in the room—all hardened, but not all clever. All bold, but not all skilled. Dealing with people like that had been the story of his life. But not for much longer.

It was always for the best when the weak made way for the strong; when those who had the true skills and ingenuity were not hampered by the leeches of capitalism—the unskilled and uneducated, politicians and regulators, those who did not understand the proper use of economic power. Survival of the fittest was as old as the primordial soup, and it needed to be restored. It would be restored. And in the meantime, Tyson would gain wealth beyond imagining. All true innovators deserved their rewards.

Tyson carefully hid his disdain and stepped up to a small platform at the front of the room. He tapped on a microphone. The conversations stopped and all heads turned his way.

“Good morning. Thank you for coming and for your flexibility with this location. I know we had originally agreed to hold this gathering at the beach compound, but I think you’ll agree the change is more than worth it. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Tyson picked up a small box and pressed several buttons. Shades came down over the windows, plunging the room into near blackness. Two giant panels on the wall behind Tyson slid smoothly sideways, revealing a massive, state-of-the-art multimedia screen.

He allowed himself a careful smile as murmurs rippled around the room. It had been a long wait, but his value was finally being recognized. He
would
succeed where others had failed.

“Gentlemen, many of you may be concerned about our prospects in the current environment. I’ve heard as much in many private conversations. However, I have to tell you that I’m not concerned. I’m enthralled. I’m invigorated by the possibilities. The turmoil in our country provides us with opportunities that are virtually unprecedented. Allow me to set before you a vision for the next year.”

He clicked the remote and the screen came to life. He clicked through his presentation as he spoke, outlining strategies that most of these parochial captains would never have had the foresight to recognize.

After a few minutes, a silent video clip appeared, showing police patrolling a major airport.

“Many of you have been worried about the ever-increasing presence of law enforcement on our streets, at our borders, and in the air. You are right to be concerned, which is why we’ve revamped our procedures over the last few years. But I have news for you.” He leaned forward. “This time presents our greatest opportunity thus far.”

The next slide was a comical drawing of a police officer barely visible under a stack of paperwork. The audience chuckled.

“As you know, gentlemen, for the foreseeable future, law enforcement will be fully preoccupied with bolstering homeland security against foreign intrusion. They’re looking for terrorists, not traffickers in substances that shouldn’t even be illegal to begin with. Their technology is outdated, they’re overloaded with new demands, and their abilities lag far behind their new requirements … much less their old ones. A longtime informant recently confirmed that our law enforcement agencies have been given official—if confidential—orders to prevent violent terrorist actions even
at the expense of
pursuing other illegalities such as drugs, prostitution, and the like.

“Given this reality, Proxy believes the time is ripe for this organization to expand
its activities. At first, we contracted, intimidated by the visibility of law enforcement. But now we believe distribution and profits can be increased by at least 20 percent with very little increased risk. Here’s how we foresee using your networks in the coming year.”

Tyson outlined the plan, step by step, and he could see the faces before him changing. Several still looked confused, but most grasped the possibilities. And a few savvy businessmen asked astute questions, carefully considering his answers. Good. Good.

An hour later, Tyson turned off the screen. “We recognize that more analysis is needed before we decide which markets and distribution channels hold the least risk and the most promise. Therefore, we’re putting together a special task force to consider all the options and will present our findings and recommendations to you within the month.”

Several of the captains began to raise their hands. Tyson pretended not to notice and busily tapped his presentation papers together on the podium. “As you leave, please remember to pick up the latest CD-ROM with the quarterly spreadsheets and your new codes. Thank you for coming.”

As he stepped down off the stage, he was besieged by several of the leaders.

“What do you mean ‘a special task force’?”

“If you think you’re going to push me aside …”

“Who will serve on this thing? If it’s Magnus instead of me, I swear—”

“Gentlemen,
gentlemen!
” Tyson held up his hands and gave his best placating smile. “This task force is merely an administrative formality. We need to crunch the numbers and ensure that our market recommendations to you are accurate. After all, we’re here to serve you.”

Several voices rose again. “But you can’t …”

Tyson heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, listen. If you feel that you have a head for statistics and really want to spend several weeks doing regression analyses of purchasing trends, then by all means let me know.” He made a pained face, and several of the captains chuckled and relaxed slightly. “But otherwise, we’ll appoint just a few people who have a track record in this sort of thing and get back to you soon on our recommendations. Sound fair?”

As the group nodded and turned away, Tyson went looking for his intended targets. Within a few minutes he had discreetly invited all five of them to attend a private meeting in his office after the others had left. As expected, no one declined the invitation.

He stepped into a quiet corner and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. Proxy was expecting an update, a message in his anonymous, internet-based voice-mailbox.
Tyson flipped open the phone and pushed a few buttons. He glanced around to ensure he would not be overheard.