The three of us are standing on the stage, just beyond the steps. Shirl’s nervous. I’m sizing up this young, stocky warrior, and Roy’s probably doing the same to me. He’s waiting for me to speak, but I’m in no hurry. They’re on a time clock here, not me.
Roy says, “Get your ass center stage, you piece of shit.”
Shirl moves quickly. As she passes him, he puts his leg out and trips her. She stumbles, but shows remarkable athleticism correcting her fall at the last second. She manages to keep from hitting the stage. He snarls, “You and me are gonna have a little talk tonight.”
She looks at me.
I nod back.
“You got something to say to me, asshole?” he asks me.
“Nope.”
“Then get your ass back with grandpa before I kick the shit outta you.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“You’re still here.”
“I am?”
He pauses. Then says, “You don’t want to piss me off.”
“Of course not.”
“Then get the fuck outta my club.”
“Wait. I thought you wanted me to get my ass back with grandpa.”
He shows me that look people give when they wonder if I’m some kind of wise ass.
“What’re you, some kind of wise ass?” he says.
“Yeah, but it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
He makes a sudden move, hoping to catch me off-balance, to push me backwards. There are only four steps, but we’re high enough that a push could cause serious injury.
No matter. I’ve been expecting the shove since Roy joined us. Most bar fighters want to shove you before launching their power shot. It gets you off balance, gets your hands away from your face, so they can inflict the most possible damage before you can retaliate. If they get you on the ground it can be a rough night if you’re unskilled.
Unfortunately for Roy, I’m plenty skilled. Before his right hand makes contact with my chest, I reach up and grab it with my left hand and start squeezing. Roy’s been around tough guys all his life, but he’s never had his hand stuck in a vice grip like mine, and it shows in his expression as I crush the bones in his hand. He screams in pain and tries to get his hand away, which only makes it worse for him, because it gives me the opportunity to clamp down harder.
In the background, I hear the emcee go quiet. The whole club is watching us, but Carmine’s holding a hand up, to keep them from interfering. I turn my attention back to Roy. His eyes are bugging out. As he begins to panic, he makes another blunder by moving his body into mine, attempting to muscle me down the steps. But before Roy’s chest makes contact with my body, I grab his belt with my right hand and spin us around to where our positions are reversed. I continue squeezing his hand, but now I’m also grinding the broken bones together. Tears are pouring from his eyes, and he’s holding his left hand up in supplication, trying to get to his knees. I lower his hand enough to accommodate him.
Now, with Roy on his knees, I lean over and whisper in his ear, “You don’t hit Shirl, you don’t touch her, ever again. You got that?”
I squeeze his hand harder, for emphasis. Then back it down slightly so he won’t pass out.
“I got it!” he gasps.
“If you so much as raise your voice to her, I’ll hear about it, and you’ll regret it. Tell me you understand.”
He nods his head, vigorously. “I understand,” he says.
Roy really is a tough guy. I’ve crushed the bones in his hand so badly it’s going to require extensive surgery to correct. In a few years he’ll probably end up with the worst case of arthritis imaginable. Roy’s at a point where I could make him do anything. I consider making him sing Mammy, by Al Jolson. I mean, he’s already on his knees, right? But that would be cruel. And anyway, I have a better idea.
“One last thing,” I say.
Roy’s trying not to cry in front of the whole bar. His tough guy persona is really taking a beating tonight, and he’ll probably have to maim some drunks to re-establish his rep. I just hope he doesn’t treat the other girls worse because he’s angry at Shirl. I’m not going to threaten him about it, though. These girls, they come and go. They’ve been around the block. I’m not going to warn Roy not to pick on them. I don’t know the other girls. They could make something up about him, and I wouldn’t know the difference, and that wouldn’t be fair. But there is something I need to warn him about that will be easy to monitor.
“You’re disrespecting Carmine,” I say. “And I won’t have it. He made his bones before your parents were born. In other words, he’s earned his place. I’m going to let go of you, and when I do, you’re going to walk over to Carmine and kiss his ring. And Roy?”
He looks up at me.
“If you don’t, I’m going to kill you before the sun comes up.”
He looks down. Then back up.
“Do you believe me?”
He nods through his tears.
I release his hand and watch him walk over to Carmine with his head bowed. When he gets there, he apologizes, and kneels to kiss Carmine’s ring. As he does so, Carmine slaps the side of his face, hard. There’s not much force on the blow, since Carmine’s old and out of shape, but it makes enough of a sound to fill the room.
Then Carmine stands and embraces Roy, and calls someone over to drive him to the hospital. When that’s worked out, I rejoin Carmine at his table in front of the stage, and the emcee announces how the game is played.
22.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, you’re in for a treat,” the emcee says, “because it’s time to play PNQ!”
The rules are simple. Anyone who wants to play gets a card to fill out. The card costs ten dollars. Carmine insists I play, and buys me a card. At the top left is the number one, and beside it are pictures of a penny, a nickel, a quarter, a half-dollar, and a silver dollar. The pictures are repeated for numbers two through eight. There will be eight strippers on stage. The idea is to pick the smallest coin that can completely cover the aureole on the left breast of each girl.
We’re given a marking pen to make our choices. Looks like thirty of us are playing. Winner gets half the pot and a lap dance from the stripper of his choice. The girl he chooses gets one-fourth of the pot, the house gets the rest.
First girl up is Shirl, wearing her nurse costume. She walks to the front of the stage and peels down to her bra and panties, which surprises me, because she’s wearing an actual bra and panties instead of stripper gear. Gear’s probably not the right word, but I don’t know the lingo. I don’t frequent stripper bars. They’re too depressing. Take Shirl, for instance.
While she’s up there, smiling, the men hoot and holler. She puts her arms in the air and moves for them, and ends her little dance by turning her backside toward the audience and shaking it. The men like what they see. They like it a lot.
This is why I don’t do strip joints. I’m quite annoyed watching Shirl perform for these rowdy drunken customers like some sort of stage monkey. If I weren’t Carmine’s guest, I’d walk out right now. Of course, if I weren’t Carmine’s guest, I wouldn’t have entered the Top Six in the first place. I watch Shirl play up to the men. She’s facing us now, caressing herself, licking her lips while giving that universal bedroom look these women have all perfected. I can’t imagine why Shirl would act like that.
Then it hits me.