Small Town Spin (9 page)

“Maybe we could help each other out?” I asked. “With the sports stuff.”

She grinned. “Of course. I still want to kick your ass.”

“Not this week, Charlie.”

“We’ll see. But we’ll show the sports section?”

“We will. I was told this morning that TJ Okerson being left-handed was a big deal.”

“Left-handed. Got it.” She glanced at her cameraman and he nodded. She turned back toward her truck. “I have a live feed to set up for down at the bridge. Nice work this morning. How’d you catch that? My scanner won’t pull from this far.”

“Lucky break.” I winked.

“Fair enough.”

I waved as they drove off, glad she hadn’t come in five seconds earlier and heard me talking to Elmer.

I pulled out of the parking lot, checking the clock on the dash: four-thirty. I wanted to explore a little after the story Elmer had told me, so I turned away from town on the main road, passing the fork that led to the freeway.

If I were going to make moonshine, I’d do it out here in the woods.

9.

C-cup economics

I was almost to Gloucester, according to the road signs, when a cluster of flailing arms and screeching loud enough for me to hear over the closed windows and radio drew me into the parking lot in front of a squatty building with a dancer silhouetted on the front door. I stopped the car and looked up at the sign in the parking lot. Girls, Dance, Girls. A strip club? Here?

“Why not? There are men out here, too, right?” I muttered, turning to the source of the commotion.

The man in front of me was large, and bellowing at a pair of ladies in floral-print dresses and wide straw hats.

I climbed out of my car, my jaw dropping when I recognized Temper Tantrum: it was Mr. Suspenders from the sheriff’s office. Amos, wasn’t that his name?

“This is a public place and we have every right to be here!” A gray-haired woman with cracked lipstick the exact shade of the coral flowers blooming across her flared skirt drew herself up, inches from pressing her nose against bellowing Amos’s.

“You old bats are going to wreck half the marriages in Tidewater!” Amos stomped a booted foot in the gravel. “What in hell’s that got to do with family values?”

“I’ll thank you to keep your insults to yourself, Amos McGinn. Your momma would wash your mouth out with soap, God rest her soul. She’s probably tunneled halfway to Richmond rolling in her grave at your sinning.”

I leaned against the back of my car, taking in the scene. It didn’t seem, after watching for a minute, that anyone was in danger. But this had to be what Amos was hassling the sheriff about. And it might make a fun story for Monday. They were so busy hollering at each other, no one had noticed me.

“You and I clearly have two different ideas of what constitutes a sin, Miss Dorothy.”

They argued more, and I turned my attention to the woman standing next to Dorothy. She was quiet, outfitted from head to toe in lavender church gear. She was younger than Dorothy, but looked older than Amos. And she had a camera in her hand.

Holy pasties, Batman. I pursed my lips and smothered a laugh, the comments I’d overheard in the sheriff’s office flitting through my head as I pieced this puzzle together.

The church ladies were taking pictures at the girly bar and notifying the wives of the married men hanging out there. That’s one way to get rid of a business a gal doesn’t like, I guess. And from what I could hear and see, Sheriff Zeke was right: not only was it not his jurisdiction, it wasn’t against the law.

What it was, was a great story. The kind that would bounce all over Facebook and Twitter if I got the tone right, which made the bottom-line folks at the
Telegraph
happy. I whirled for the car door, digging for a pad and pen.

“Don’t you point that thing at me!” Amos glowered at Dorothy’s companion, who ducked her head and took a step back. I settled in for the show.

Dorothy swatted his shoulder. “Don’t you threaten us! We have as much right to be here as you do. More, even, because we are doing the Lord’s work and you are sinning.”

“Stop saying that! It’s not like anybody in there’s nekkid or there’s anything but dancing going on. It’s...art. Like the ballet.”

“With boobies.” Dorothy shook her head. “I can’t believe you just compared this to legitimate culture.”

“You wouldn’t know culture if it popped out of your Sunday bulletin in a bright red G-string—” Amos’s words cut off, and I looked up from jotting that down to find him staring at me.

He looked pissed.

Uh-oh.

“Now see what you did?” He stomped past Dorothy, his boots kicking up little clouds of dust. “That’s a damned reporter from Richmond. We’ll be the laughingstock of the state by morning.”

“A reporter?” Dorothy turned and straightened her hat, putting a restraining hand on Amos’ arm as she skirted him. “I’ve seen TV cameras all over town this week.”

I smiled and put out a hand.

“Nichelle Clarke, from the
Richmond Telegraph
. I think I have a good hold on what’s going on here, but would you care to explain the details, ma’am?”

She shook my hand. “Happy to. I think you are Heaven sent, young lady.”

“Dorothy, have you gone completely off your nut?” Amos shouted. “Being in the paper isn’t gonna make you famous. It’s going to let the world in on how backward and crazy y’all are. And those of us who aren’t will be lumped in with you.” He turned to me. “This is not news.”

“I think it’s my job to decide that.”

Dorothy thumped Amos on the back of his head with her tidy lime green pocketbook. “There is nothing backward or crazy about wanting my home rid of this filth.” She turned back to me. “I’m Dorothy Scott, head of the First Baptist Ladies’ Auxiliary. We managed to keep this place out of Mathews proper, but then they came right across the line and opened up here. We don’t want our men’s minds poisoned.”

“For the love of God, Miss Dorothy, shut up,” Amos groaned.

“Don’t you take the Lord’s name in vain with me, Amos!”

“What exactly is your mission here, ma’am?” I asked.

“For the past week, Emmy Sue here and I have been making sure these men’s wives know where their grocery money is going.”

Amos threw his hands up. “I hear the laughter from Richmond already.”

I suppressed a chuckle. No sense in making him madder.

“Why do you object to this business?” I asked Dorothy.

“It’s a house of ill repute! Young girls in there gyrating while these heathens watch them.” She fanned herself.

“I can’t even get a lap dance in there!” Amos bellowed.

That was a state law. I knew, because a club in south Richmond had been busted for violation of it in their back room. More than a few of my cops had groused about the law being stupid as they helped the handcuffed strippers into patrol cars. 

Dorothy sighed, her voice rising to the condescending tone people often use with children. “Lust is a sin, Amos.”

“Appreciating an art form and the beauty of the human body is not.”

I kept scribbling as they continued to bicker, while the lavender-swathed Emmy Sue snapped photos of license plates.

“Is this a church-sponsored activity?” I asked.

Dorothy sniffed. “Not strictly speaking, though the board of the auxiliary voted unanimously to support my efforts.”

I took down the correct spelling of everyone’s name, except Amos’s, because he wouldn’t give it to me and said he’d sue the paper if I quoted him.

“I think your wife is going to find out you were here, anyway,” I said. “But have it your way. I don’t mind unnamed sources.”

Dorothy pumped my hand and thanked me, but stiffened when I stepped past her toward the door of the club.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Inside,” I said. “Part of my job is to have every side of a story before I start to write.”

Her jaw loosened, but she recovered quickly, pursing her lips. “I suppose if it’s part of your job.”

I waved at Amos. “Thank you both for your time.” I walked to the door as he berated her for talking to me and she shooed him off, turning to her station wagon with Emmy Sue in tow.

It took my eyes a minute to adjust to the dim room when I opened the heavy wood front door. The interior looked like I expected, with matted red carpet, leather-paneled walls, and about fifty tables and booths scattered through the room. The stage was front and center, with a catwalk that ran halfway to the back door and sported a pole at the end. The bar ran the length of the left wall, a mirrored backdrop half-covered by liquor bottles behind it.

The smell was the thing I didn’t anticipate. My stomach rumbled at the distinct scent of very good barbecue. I looked around and sure enough, about half the sixty or so guys in the place were watching the dancer (who, in Amos’s defense, was not naked. She wore what would amount to a skimpy bikini on any nearby beach), the other half stuffing their faces with brisket and ribs.

“Excuse me.” Amos’s voice came from behind me and I scooted out from in front of the door. He shot me a go-directly-to-Hell-do-not-pass-go-do-not-collect-two-hundred-dollars look and joined two other men at a table near the pole. A hot-pants-and-crop-top-clad waitress put a beer in front of him before he even asked.

I scanned the room for Boss Hogg, but didn’t see anyone who stood out as the establishment’s proprietor.

“Can I help you, honey?” A voice drawled at my elbow. I turned to find a pretty waitress in the same uniform looking at me with a raised eyebrow. “You just sit anywhere, we don’t have hostesses.”

I smiled. “I’m not here for the show.” I offered a hand and introduced myself. “I’m a reporter from the
Richmond Telegraph
. I was hoping the owner was around and would have time to chat for a minute.”

“Let me see,” she said as she turned toward the bar. Another waitress walked past and mine grabbed her elbow. “Hey, is Bobby around anywhere?”

“I think so. Want me to go look?”

“That’s all right.” She turned back to me. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

She sashayed toward the swinging door at the far end of the bar and I pulled out a chair at the nearest table, looking around at the clientele.

Mostly blue collar guys, though there were a few suits in the mix. On the whole, it was pretty tame. In college, I did a story on a strip club near campus that boasted fully nude women and fall-down-drunk frat guys who hooted and hollered demeaning phrases by the truckload as they flung money onto the stage.

The music here was way louder than the men, and a pickle jar sat on the far end of the catwalk, customers dropping a few bills into it every couple of minutes.

It was a much more civilized girly bar than I’d ever heard of. More like an old-school roadhouse.

“You looking for me, honey?”

I turned to find the waitress I’d talked to, smiling next to a petite woman in jeans, a pale yellow cashmere sweater, and gorgeous stilettos in the same color. Even in the shoes, she was probably a foot shorter than me.

I glanced at the waitress, who nodded before scooting off to a nearby table where a man in a checkered button-down was waving for a beer refill.

The other woman pulled out the chair opposite mine and offered a firm handshake. “I’m Bobbi Jo Ramsley, and this is my club. Sasha said you’re a reporter. What can I do for you?”

I pulled my notebook from my bag and clicked out a pen. Introducing myself, I smiled at Bobbi Jo. “I hear you’ve caused some controversy with the local ladies’ auxiliary.”

She rolled her green eyes skyward, pushing a wayward lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “None of those old biddies would know pornography if it bit them in their spandex-girdled asses,” she said. 

I jotted that down, giving her a once-over. She was pretty, her pale face devoid of makeup. And either the light was extremely forgiving, or Bobbi Jo wasn’t over thirty.

She grinned. “I know. I’m young. I’m female. Why do I run a bar like this?”

“To be perfectly fair, I don’t know that I’ve ever been in a place quite like this,” I said. “The food smells divine.”

“Thanks. My grandmomma was one of the best cooks on the island. I use her barbecue sauce and side dish recipes, and Sam’s got a way with a smoker. I think it’s magic, or something.”

I nodded, my stomach gurgling again. Three days of tea and soup wasn’t enough, apparently. Bobbi Jo flagged a waitress down. “Bring us a C-cup and two setups, an iced tea and a…” She looked at me. “What would you like to drink?”

“Is it sweet iced tea?”

Bobbi nodded.

“Iced tea, please.”

The waitress nodded and moved toward the kitchen.

“A C-cup?” I asked.

“Barbecued chicken breast. Good size. I can’t eat a whole one by myself.”

I swallowed a giggle and made a note.

“I do have to admit, I am dying of curiosity here, Bobbi Jo,” I said. “How did you come to run a barbecue joint with a sexy floor show when you don’t look like you’re any older than me? And if you are, I won’t leave ’til you tell me what kind of moisturizer you use.”

She laughed. “I’m twenty-nine. For the first time, anyway. And the short answer to your question is, the economy sucks. It sucks everywhere, but out here, it sucks worse.”

I nodded, keeping quiet and waiting for her to elaborate. She obliged.

“So many places in the county have gone out of business in the past few years.” Bobbi Jo leaned her elbows on the table, fiddling with a sugar packet from the bowl in the middle. “The mill cut a lot of jobs. When my grandaddy died two years ago, he left me his farm and a nice chunk of cash. There was a drought the first summer and the crops withered in the fields. I decided that wasn’t a reliable way to make a living. And my friends—I bet ten girls I graduated high school with moved away in the last year. When there’s only a hundred people in the class, that’s a lot, you know?

“I started reading about how economic systems can collapse, and we had some of the warning signs. I love Mathews. I love the people and the town and the island, and I didn’t want to see that happen here, but you can drive over the bridge and see for yourself how close we came to being a ghost town. So I read up on recession-proof businesses. Guess what’s number one on that list?”

I looked up from my scribbling. “That makes total sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” She thumped a fist on the table. “And there wasn’t a club around here. I thought I’d found the key to saving the whole damned town, and Dorothy Scott and her old band of bats decided they wouldn’t have it. Look around. I’m a woman. I’m not in this to demean women, and I’m not ‘peddling smut,’ either. The girls don’t look any different on stage than most of them do when they go to the beach, and the waitresses are dressed in Hooters uniform knockoffs. Though, Dorothy’d probably pitch a fit if Hooters wanted to come to Mathews, too.”

I looked at the stage, where a new dancer in a neon pink bikini and fabulous black patent Louboutins (I had that pair at home) strutted toward the pole.

She jumped and grabbed it, flipping upside down and curling her legs around before she arched her back and reached her arms over her head.

“Damn. That looks like something out of Cirque du Soleil,” I said.

“Exactly!” Bobbi Jo nodded. “There are so many women around here with so much talent. Becca there studied dance at RAU for four years. But when nobody’s going to the ballet, the ballet can’t pay new dancers, right? She came home and moved in with her momma. She was working at the 7-Eleven, for Pete’s sake. Now, she’s doing what she loves and she makes enough to have bought her own house last month.”

“And some killer shoes,” I mumbled, scribbling. This story was fast becoming more about what Bobbi Jo was trying to do for the town and how her club was different than about the showdown in her parking lot.

“So, it looks like you’re definitely helping the economy, but you’re not in Mathews,” I said.

She sat back in her chair, frustration plain on her face. “Unfortunately, thanks to Miss Dorothy and her friends, I am not. We must have had ten town hall meetings last summer, and no matter how much I tried to explain or what I argued, she convinced damn near every woman in the county that their husbands were going to run off with my dancers if they allowed the club. First off, more than half the dancers are married. Second, I have a way stricter contact policy than the state. They can’t even grab the girls’ hands or give them money. That’s what the pickle jar is for.”

“Have any of the other women in the county actually been here?”

“You are the first female non-employee to darken my door since I opened. I wish I could get them to come see that I’m not threatening their marriages, but fear-mongering is a powerful tool.”

“Indeed it is.”

Sasha stopped at my elbow and laid a huge platter of barbecue chicken in the middle of the table, then a basket brimming with baked beans, coleslaw, pickles, and cornbread in front of each of us. My stomach roared.

Bobbi Jo giggled. “Don’t be shy. Dig in.”

Sasha handed me a fork and I scooped beans into my mouth. They tasted like they’d been smoked, with just the right hint of sweet in the sauce.

“Oh, my,” I said, smiling at Bobbi Jo.

“It’s good, right?”

“Indeed.”

It was all good. The cornbread was the kind of crisp on the outside and moist on the inside that can only be achieved with the right recipe and a cast iron skillet, and the chicken really was magical. The pickles weren’t standard-issue, either. Sweet and hot, they were addictive. I emptied my cup of them in half a minute and Bobbi Jo offered me hers.

“My grandmomma’s recipe. Dill, sugar, and jalapenos.”

Stuffed, I pushed my plate away and turned back to my notes.

“So, what kind of money are you making here? And how much has the county benefitted from it?”

“We clear about a thousand a night on the weekends after everyone’s paid, and probably two-thirds of that during the week,” she said. “That’s twice what we made when we opened, and it goes up every month. I paid five grand in taxes last month.”

“Seems a shame you can’t have that money going to your hometown.”

“I buy everything I can from Mathews. All the vegetables we serve in the summer come from the county. The baskets are from a local weaver. I’m trying.”

I jotted that down.

“It was nice to meet you, Bobbi,” I said, putting my notebook away. “I have to pitch this to my editor, but I’m sure it will fly. Do you have a card, just in case I have more questions when I start writing?”

She stood with me and pulled a business card out of her hip pocket. “Thank you.”

“Thanks for talking to me. And feeding me. I’ll be in touch.”

She turned toward the kitchen with a wave and I watched her go, impressed with her business savvy and her dedication to the town.

It didn’t occur to me to ask her about moonshine until I was halfway back to Mathews.