A few blocks away, he could hear the rumble of a Metro North train, and in the far distance the lights of the George Washington Bridge twinkled. Farther south, he could make out the façade of Yankee Stadium. In the darkness, he realized they were near the Highbridge section where he’d been earlier in the morning.
“The homies nicknamed this place Chino’s,” Billy said, “because of all the Chinese waiters and market guys from Hunts Point who used to come here.”
They watched the old men enter the club and, against Jack’s better instincts, followed them. The black bouncer barely noticed them, just another bunch of little Chinamen.
T. A. P. tits. ass. pussy
BOOTY’S WAS DEEP and wide. In a past life it might have been a garage or an auto repair shop. Now one of the long walls had been mirrored, in front of which a narrow runway, like a catwalk, supported the prancing of the dancers. There was a pole at either end. Under the dramatic play of track lights above, the scene was like a raunchy off-Broadway musical. Way way off-Broadway, thought Jack.
Along the opposite wall was a long bar where you could get a tiny slice of pizza with your second overpriced drink. Some twenty little tables in two long lines filled the rest of the space.
There weren’t that many Chinese from what Jack could see in the otherwise dim lighting. There were a few other Asians-he couldn’t tell what kind, Filipino or Cuban maybe-but most of the patrons on this cold night were black and Latino, many wearing Yankees or Knicks caps and sweatshirts.
Jack waited by the bar across from where the runway began and ordered a beer just to hold his spot there.
Billy made his way to the area where the old men sat, at the other end of the runway. He ingratiated himself by buying them a round of the joint’s watered-down beer with the cash they’d helped him win. He ordered a Jack Daniel’s for himself, also probably watered down.
“Gangsta’s Paradise” played over the loudspeakers, and the girls on the runway-two white, one black-continued dancing. They wore dangerously high heels, G-strings, and barely there bikini tops. They stole glances at themselves in the wall mirror that was angled to reflect full-body views as they swayed and gyrated under the stage lights. They knew their poses well, letting their breasts dangle just right, perfect, with their lower parts beckoning whenever they bent over.
The men nearest to the runway got their dollar bills ready. More, gimme more. Yeah, right there, baby girl, culo, clika.
Flesh trade, Jack thought, they got that terminology right.
The girls worked through their simulated pornographic poses. One of the white girls humped the end pole while sucking on a long red blow job lollipop.
“Hom lun,” one of the old men chortled in Cantonese. Suck cock.
The second girl, a bootylicious black princess, played with a pink dildo as she spread her legs open to a bow-and-arrow pose, pretending to jam herself.
“Eww hei,” another of the old men said in Toishanese. Fucking pussy.
The other white dancer, near the first pole, went from a pile-driver pose, which exposed her bottom, to crawling on all fours, which brought a chorus of wooos from the crowd.
The music pounded on.
The men seated farther back folded their dollar bills into little airplanes and hurled them like darts toward the stage. As if on cue, the three dancers pulled aside their G-strings, momentarily revealing shaved and waxed labia and anuses to the delight of the men. The music amped up even more, and a crew of pink-wigged waitresses made their rounds.
The old men nursed their beers and waited for the Korean girl.
The dancers gathered up their dollar bills and changed places on the runway to give the other customers an equal-opportunity viewing. And to suck up more money. After another ten minutes, the song changed to “Waterfalls,” and the dancers gleefully squirted each other’s privates with water pistols shaped like phalluses. There was another set of lewd poses-standing doggie, reverse cowgirl, missionary spread-as the girls on the ends spun around, rubbing their crotches and butts against the long, hard poles, wearing only their G-strings now.
Jack figured they’d been there almost half an hour.
A new rotation began as an Asian girl stepped to the front end of the runway and started her routine at the first pole, farthest from Billy and the old men. Jack could see they were eager for her to dance her way to their section.
The pop/rap beats changed to a rendition of “Sukiyaki.” Jack frowned at the racial overtones playing out but couldn’t take his eyes off her. The Korean girl named Soomi sexy-strolled around the pole amid a chorus of low moans from the men nearest her. Soomi was a knockout, drop-dead sexy gorgeous, a perfect voluptuous body on a Victoria’s Secret frame, almost six feet tall, strutting atop sequined fuck-me high heels. She wore a tiny glittering G-string and a transparent brassiere that showcased her large budding nipples.
Someone yelled “Kimchi!” and she giggled.
She had a pretty Asian face framed by long black hair, an exotic-fantasy look that captivated the mostly non-Asian audience of lechers and perverts. Jack didn’t count himself among them but couldn’t help admiring her beauty, and even though he’d expected it to be this way in places like this, he was still turned off by the bestial behavior of the men in this so-called gentlemen’s club.
Soomi continued her routine by bending over and adjusting her platform heels. There were more hoots as Billy came over to Jack, licking his lips at the closer view.
“She got a butt like Jennifer Lopez,” he crooned. “Lips like a blowhole, titties bouncing like Jell-O!”
Jack shook his head, took a pull from his bottle of warming beer. Billy was mesmerized, hypnotized, like all the men, gunned down by Soomi’s raw, visceral display of her shaved womanhood. Like a prime cut of sashimi, considered Billy, more yellowtail hamachi than red toro. Brown eye, in the other men’s eyes. She offered a sweet smile to the men seated near the runway who were laying money at her feet. She paraded in front of them, kicking the bills toward the mirror wall, removing her see-through bra in teasing stages.
“Sukiyaki” remixing over the speakers.
A few gyrations, shaking her JLo booty, and she had her bra off, tossing it mischievously at the mirror. Million-dollar breasts with puffy nipples. She saw in the glass how beautiful she really was. A blessing. A squadron of dollar airplanes crashed into the mirror wall near her. She spread her feet apart, bent over, waved to the crowd between her legs, her long black hair pooling onto the stage. Then she slowly straightened up, turned, and braced her back against the glass wall. She spread her feet wide again, cupped her breasts in her hands, and stroked her nipples with her thumbs until they were hard and stubby.
Crumpled balls of paper money plopped and bounced onto her end of the runway. Soomi pulled up the shiny front patch of her G-string, and more dollar bills appeared at her feet. She wiggled the string so that it nestled into the folds of her fleshy labia. This provoked another round of moans from the front row. Billy winked at Jack, folded a few dollar airplanes, and went toward the front section.
Jack could see him pitching them in Soomi’s direction as she slid to the floor and did a slow doggie crawl, slapping the assorted scatter of dollars toward the mirror. Billy wadded up a few more dollars and tossed them, like hand grenades, toward the other dancers. Just like Billy, mused Jack, trying to keep everybody happy.