the song, she’d removed her blouse, socks, and hair ribbons, and spun around a pole wearing nothing but the skirt and a jeweled rosary that hung between her ample breasts. The display was wrong on so many levels. The dancer who succeeded her paraded around to the explicit Lil Wayne song “Lollipop” with a pair of colorful, oversized suckers she strategically used to cover and then reveal her breasts.
Through the two-way mirror, I saw Nick come into the main room of the club. He swapped places with another bouncer situated on the far side of the stage. One of the ginger-haired girls dancing nearby spun around her pole, crooked her knee around it, and leaned backward to look at Nick, her hair hanging down behind her. Had her large breasts been natural, gravity would’ve dragged them down, too. Her girls stayed in position, however, like the solid silicone soldiers they were.
Nick slid the dancer his sexy grin and a sick feeling spread through me, as if my blood had turned toxic. I knew the smile was only an act, part of his cover. I’d seen the other bouncers and dancers flirting with each other. Nick had no choice but to play along, too. Still, that didn’t mean I had to like it any more than he’d liked Tarzan ogling my caboose.
I forced myself to turn back to the tips I was counting. I’d thought working another case with Nick would be fun. Clearly, working this particular case with him would be more difficult than I’d thought. I understood he had a role to play here, I only wished he didn’t play it so well and that I didn’t have to watch the performance.
The rest of the night was hectic, as Merle had warned. Seemed I’d just sit down and there would be another set of knockers knocking at the door. Tips streamed in from the dancers, including a Candee with two e’ s (and two double Ds), a raven-haired performer with a faux-fur G-string and clawlike fingernails who called herself Pussy Kat (real name Katrina), and a dark-skinned, blue-haired dancer named Starr (real name Starr). Yep, there was a girl for every taste, no matter how bizarre.
Aaron, Christina, and various other bartenders, bouncers, and waitresses also brought us their tips, cover charges, and bar income. I was knee-deep in cash when a bartender I had yet to meet came to the door. He was thirtyish, with blue-black hair, pale skin, and an abundance of tatts, including a strand of inked barbed wire around his neck.
“You must be the new girl.” He handed me his tip jar along with a zippered bank bag containing the contents of his cash register. “I’m Theo.”
This guy’s parents had named him Theodore? Seriously? No wonder he’d covered himself with tattoos.
“I’m Sara. Nice to meet you.”
I emptied the contents of his tip jar into one envelope, the contents of the bank bag into another. I returned both to him and went back to counting.
As I counted, I noted that Theo had taken in nearly twice as much in cash register receipts as Aaron and the other bartenders. Did Theo mix, blend, and pour faster than the other bartenders? Or was something more going on?
We’d been taught in special-agent training to follow the paper trail. The papers in this case bore pictures of dead presidents. It seemed that George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Andrew Jackson were trying to tell me something. Of course, some of the dancers brought in significantly more than the others, too, but perhaps that was to be expected. Some were willing to work a little harder for their money and not all were equally equipped for the job. Still, I made discreet notes on a spare envelope, tracking each employee’s income for later comparison. I hoped anyone watching me through the security camera wouldn’t become suspicious. If someone asked, I’d tell them I was jotting notes as backup to ensure my accuracy. After all, I knew how important precise accounting was to Mr. Geils and I wanted to do a good job for him.
Yeah, right.
By the end of my shift, I
Through the two-way mirror, I saw Nick come into the main room of the club. He swapped places with another bouncer situated on the far side of the stage. One of the ginger-haired girls dancing nearby spun around her pole, crooked her knee around it, and leaned backward to look at Nick, her hair hanging down behind her. Had her large breasts been natural, gravity would’ve dragged them down, too. Her girls stayed in position, however, like the solid silicone soldiers they were.
Nick slid the dancer his sexy grin and a sick feeling spread through me, as if my blood had turned toxic. I knew the smile was only an act, part of his cover. I’d seen the other bouncers and dancers flirting with each other. Nick had no choice but to play along, too. Still, that didn’t mean I had to like it any more than he’d liked Tarzan ogling my caboose.
I forced myself to turn back to the tips I was counting. I’d thought working another case with Nick would be fun. Clearly, working this particular case with him would be more difficult than I’d thought. I understood he had a role to play here, I only wished he didn’t play it so well and that I didn’t have to watch the performance.
The rest of the night was hectic, as Merle had warned. Seemed I’d just sit down and there would be another set of knockers knocking at the door. Tips streamed in from the dancers, including a Candee with two e’ s (and two double Ds), a raven-haired performer with a faux-fur G-string and clawlike fingernails who called herself Pussy Kat (real name Katrina), and a dark-skinned, blue-haired dancer named Starr (real name Starr). Yep, there was a girl for every taste, no matter how bizarre.
Aaron, Christina, and various other bartenders, bouncers, and waitresses also brought us their tips, cover charges, and bar income. I was knee-deep in cash when a bartender I had yet to meet came to the door. He was thirtyish, with blue-black hair, pale skin, and an abundance of tatts, including a strand of inked barbed wire around his neck.
“You must be the new girl.” He handed me his tip jar along with a zippered bank bag containing the contents of his cash register. “I’m Theo.”
This guy’s parents had named him Theodore? Seriously? No wonder he’d covered himself with tattoos.
“I’m Sara. Nice to meet you.”
I emptied the contents of his tip jar into one envelope, the contents of the bank bag into another. I returned both to him and went back to counting.
As I counted, I noted that Theo had taken in nearly twice as much in cash register receipts as Aaron and the other bartenders. Did Theo mix, blend, and pour faster than the other bartenders? Or was something more going on?
We’d been taught in special-agent training to follow the paper trail. The papers in this case bore pictures of dead presidents. It seemed that George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and Andrew Jackson were trying to tell me something. Of course, some of the dancers brought in significantly more than the others, too, but perhaps that was to be expected. Some were willing to work a little harder for their money and not all were equally equipped for the job. Still, I made discreet notes on a spare envelope, tracking each employee’s income for later comparison. I hoped anyone watching me through the security camera wouldn’t become suspicious. If someone asked, I’d tell them I was jotting notes as backup to ensure my accuracy. After all, I knew how important precise accounting was to Mr. Geils and I wanted to do a good job for him.
Yeah, right.
By the end of my shift, I
Similar Books
