CHAPTER FIVE
Bronx, New York
The $100,000 investment for the new club turned into a negative $40,000 within weeks. When it came down to the meat and potatoes of opening a nightclub, the Gilmores were just not built for it. There was no blueprint, no written plan and no accountant to watch the money. But, even in their ignorance, the effort was simple: “We got this here hundred grand in our pockets and we’re gonna turn these two garages into one big nightclub.” But, as they say, things aren’t always as simple as they seem; and the effort to open Fool’s Paradise was nothing but stress and frustration. It was like one desperate race for survival where the end always looked grim. Contractors for plumbing, electrical, masonry and general construction were on the job day and night. They all played it by ear, doing their best to convert the property into a fully operational topless bar. Most contractors extended credit and anticipated the huge outcome of wads of cash and plenty of dancers to spend it on. Meanwhile, the two-week downtime turned into a month-long attempt to salvage a businessman’s dream. There was no cash flow. Some contractors grew frustrated and walked off the job. One plumber was so full of rage that he took his heaviest wrench and began destroying work that he’d done, including bathroom sinks, in-ground pipes and valves. There were plenty of other bills that also had to be negotiated. But creditors had no other choice but to wait. Meanwhile, Gil’s lease payments at home were already 3 months in arrears and the fridge was bare. Gil’s life savings were tied up in this new venture, causing life-threatening heart pressure that ultimately sent him to the hospital. But, as soon as he could, Gil was back on his feet, determined to make money by any means necessary. Even without all of the permits in place, on a shoestring of a liquor selection, the club was opened.
“The liquor license is approved, so why wait?” Gil argued to his son. But it was this by-any-means-necessary attitude that forged the doors of Gilmore’s to open for good. Sure, it began as a weak effort to drum up some much-needed cash. However, even with a project that was nowhere close to finished, girls hurried to answer Gilmore’s calling. Sure, the grand opening was imagined to be a show-stopping event, and wasn’t even worthy of a street-corner announcement. But, even with its unfinished, cinderblock walls, a small bathroom and sparse lighting, contractors made the club slowly but surely come to life. They put up two-by-fours and insulated the walls of sheetrock. The walls were already 30 feet high, reaching to a heavy, stucco ceiling. And when the club wasn’t open for business, Douglass did most of the painting. He went with his vision of red and black colors. He painted the walls crimson red and used an air pressured paint gun to cover the ceiling in black. Ten foot mirrors were tacked to various walls in the establishment, creating an illusion of infinite space. The floors were almost completed with a checkerboard design, more black and red. Still, the unfinished part of the floor was still bare cement. Also, there was a division between the pair of garages that was a solid cinderblock wall and a doorway. Once the contractors got to work on the wall, the doorway was widened to a giant underpass. There was a solid beam which was left alone as a building support, and closer to the front of the club, a huge portion of the same dividing wall was broken out into the shape of a 20-foot high oval arch. Directly under the arch, stretching from one side of the club to the other, was a big stage. An oval bar enclosed the stage on both sides of the club. Just like that, raw and without the trimmings, Fool’s Paradise went into business. Instead of special effect lighting, a light bulb dangled in a corner of the club that was designated as the “stage area.” The stages that would inevitably be used by the dancers were still undergoing construction. So, with a blanket thrown over the cold, cement floor, dancers wiggled and twisted to the hollow tunes played over an oversized boom box.
Yes! This was cheeeeeeeeeeeeeees-y! And still dancers tolerated the rugged atmosphere, while construction continued with those heavy plastic sheets hanging from high above, shielding customers and entertainment from sawdust and the loud, searing saws spinning throughout the day. Although the club opened at 4PM, construction was still progressing on the serving bars, bathrooms, dressing rooms and offices. Men would mule into the club, grieving as if they were in withdrawal of some kind. But the entertainment was here, leaving them no other choice. For some the re-opening was long awaited. And for those die-hard regulars, the closing of the old spot was like suffering through a deadly storm.
This all convinced Gilmore that he had a “special” brand of entertainment that was unobtainable anywhere else. And it wasn’t just the customers and the ownership that were going through withdrawal during the closure. For instance, there was Disco Dave, the guy who generally cleaned the club once the night was over. “Disco Dave” was a nickname that Douglass gave to Dave because of his irritable, nervous bouncing in place. It seemed that Dave was always fidgeting and looking for some activity—dancing. The one good thing that he could do was clean the mirrors and take out the garbage at the end of the night. Because he sure couldn’t dance a lick. Douglass also had his personal label for Bob, the club’s manager. “Drunk-ass Bob” is what Douglass always whispered to himself. Now, Bob was handy as ever with fixing things and following directions. But leave that man alone with some liquor??? That would be a big mistake.
Now, there were two attractive bartenders. There was Katey who was working her way into Gil’s pants, and there was Veronica, a woman who Douglass bumped into outside of Bentley’s one night. She’d been turned away. There was already a “SOLD OUT” sign on the door. Douglass saw this, he waved his magic wand, and he grabbed her hand, muscling his way through the thick crowd of disappointment. Perhaps it was her southern drawl and good looks which attracted him, but he insisted that she join him, and the two slithered into the club. One thing led to another, and Veronica was working at Fool’s Paradise. Finally, the Fool’s Paradise staff was completed with Dan the cashier. Dan was no more than a damned loyal customer who gained Gil’s trust and happened to be in the right place at the right time. A team of weightlifters doubled as club security, completing the Fool’s Paradise family.
It was as diverse and colorful as the staff that, at least, projected their dedication, but most importantly, this was easy money to operate a club full of half-naked women. It was a service that paid salaries, and people needed the salaries to survive.
So, the organization behind Gilmore’s: Fool’s Paradise had now come back to life. It was a place where music bounced off of the walls, where black, Latino and white women took off their clothes on stage, and where men came to watch it all in living color.
A Visitor
It was afternoon, just before the 4 o’clock opening of the club. Electric saws still buzzed along with the banging of hammers, even as calypso music was blaring from the club’s sole source of music, a box radio. A short, stocky Italian in his mid-40’s walked up through the entrance, into the club full of activity, most of it illuminated by a single halogen lamp. The visitor had black hair, protruding cheeks and eyes, and a know-it-all expression. The knot in his tie was pulled halfway down and his dress shirt was opened so that anyone could see his few gold chains and the t-shirt. And since his oversized blazer matched his navy knit pants, the big picture here was that this guy meant business. He could’ve been a salesperson of some kind, since salesmen were approaching the club with increased regularity—sometimes 4 or 5 per day—peddling bathroom accessories, bar stools, chairs, liquor, soda, beer, chips and most every other imaginable need that a human could think up. Then finally the guy spoke.
“Hey . . . anybody know where the boss is?” The question was more or less shouted into the busy room, but with little more effect than a careless whisper. It was a busy day, with more than 20 workers huddled over their individual tasks. The guy raised his voice; more affirmative this time. More of his native accent.
“Yo! Anybody seen Gil around?”
With sawdust covering most of his body, a Jamaican carpenter stopped his circular saw and pulled back his protective goggles. The saw lost power, sounding like a falling, dying missile until it came to a halt.
“Whey yuh waaant!” The worker looked frustrated and ready to curse the stranger for interrupting. In response, the visitor widened his eyes, slightly traumatized, and cautiously chose his response.
“Is Gil in?” he answered after adjusting.
“Him de ya maan . . . ” The worker kissed his teeth and replaced his goggles.
“Mind if I wait around?”
Again the worker kissed his teeth, gave a casual wave as though he could care less and mumbled.
“Man, just watch where ya goin’.” Without another second of interest, the worker returned to his saw. His mind was obviously on his money and getting that stage finished as soon as possible. Besides, the girls were fed up with dancing on blankets on the hard floor.
The visitor’s name was Tony. He knew how to humble himself. Although, by far, he had been to more construction sites than he could count. Twenty years in and around his business brought him to many clubs, restaurants and numbers joints. Many, many construction sites. Fish markets. Gambling casinos. But today his mission was to speak to Gil, the owner of Fool’s Paradise.
While Tony swaggered about the sawdust, pipes and tools on the floor, he took in an eyeful of the surroundings. Two of three bars were almost complete. One was a circular bar positioned almost immediately to the right of the entrance. The stage inside of the bar could use some carpeting, Tony thought. And he wondered if that was it; the giant roll of carpet to the rear of the club and bagged in plastic.
To the left of the entrance was a service bar which reached about twenty-five feet into the club. Behind the bar was a weak display of liquors. Maybe 5 or 6 brands. The bottles were set on a miniature staircase of stained wood alongside various makes of soda. On the wall behind the bar and the liquor were mirrors which reflected the setting far across to the other side of the club. It created a fascinating illusion of endlessness.
Wandering, Tony walked through an underpass towards the opposite side of the club. This area was darker; illuminated only by a halogen lamp angled towards the floor. There was a giant, 15-foot movie screen affixed high on a rear wall onto which sports scores and replay highlights were projected.
“Can I help you?” Gil emerged from a rear office. He was clothed in his usual navy khakis, with a white button-down shirt, tucked in with sleeves curled back.
“Hey there . . . Gil?” Tony wasn’t so sure, but he had a clue.
“Who wants to know?” Gil was slightly evasive, sizing up the stranger. Salesman or creditor?
“Well, I came to offer you a nice deal for your club.”
“Like what?” Gil wasn’t a novice when it came to these sales tactics. He’d heard thousands of ’em through all of his years in the store and the club. However, he was still willing to hear the pitch. Tony readily opened a leather folder and presented Gil with a professional brochure. It was a colorful presentation of a coin operated basketball shoot.
“For 50 cents, a guy gets sixty seconds to sink as many basketballs into the hoop as possible. Something like foul shooting,” said Tony. Already, Gil warmed to the pitch.
“. . . There are six basketballs, see. And the balls are small enough for anyone to palm. Like they was on the court themselves . . .” Tony pointed out the various benefits on his brochure. “. . . if a person makes more than fifteen baskets, they receive a bonus of thirty seconds to score more points.” Tony spoke fluently, as if he’d done this a hundred times.
“Hoop shoot, huh?” Since Gilmore was already a basketball fan and found himself captivated by the bold type, the imagery and the idea that he could have this clever amusement in his establishment.
“Yeah and it’s a monster. Customers love dis here, and it would fit nice into a spot . . . er, a club like yours.”
“How big is this machine?”
“ ’Bout fifteen feet. But it’s narrow and doesn’t take up much standing room. Like in a corna or sumpthin’.”
“How much?” Gil inquired.
“Well, that’s the beautiful thing here. You don’t pay us, we pay you.”
Gilmore let out a murmur.
“Dat’s right, Gil.” Tony was becoming more talkative by now. “We could give you three thousand and have the game in here in three days. Brand new.”
All Gil could think of was his enormous debt and the cost of living. Every day, every hour was one that required money being spent. Some way, somehow. Gil’s dreams were even consumed with spending money whenever he managed to squeeze in a few hours of sleep.
“Could you do five?” asked Gil. “Cuz I could use it right about now.” And Gil’s audacity led to a handshake. There would be a $2,500 payment up front and 50% of the take from the machine would settle the deal until the full $5,000 was paid. After that, all but 25% of the proceeds went to Tony.
Although Gil agreed and shook hands with Tony, he had no idea who he was associating with. He did not know that Tony was with the Bianco crime family. It was through Tony’s efforts that the Biancos planned to finagle a percentage of the club’s profits. It was a hidden agenda that Gilmore didn’t even detect as he signed the agreement with Tony “the HoopShoot salesman.” As Tony pivoted to leave the dusty air he heard Gilmore ask his name.
“Angelo,” Tony lied.
Finally
Four months after the struggles, the hard times and the tears, Fool’s Paradise was bustling with business, as if all of those challenges were just an illusion. The Certificate of Occupancy was finally obtained thanks to Jeff Weiss, the attorney whom Douglass had contacted with the help of his friend. And Jeff sure knew his stuff. He pulled more strings than a puppeteer. A few payoffs and some promises. And finally, the club was now legit. All required paperwork was in order for Gilmore to showcase tits and ass as well as sell liquor. White collar workers and auto mechanics patronized the club from 12 noon till 4 pm. Blue collar workers, civil service workers and more auto mechanics piled in after 4 pm. By 8 pm, the night crowd was a mix of hustlers, lady-killers (just another title for playboy) and unfaithful husbands. And although these were the only hours a nightclub was permitted to open, it was a sure bet that, if the law allowed, Gil would have been open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, just like the donut shop next door. He was already repeating his old Mt. Vernon ritual; how he opened the club every day of the year, including Christmas and New Year’s day. And Gil’s non-stop, relentless approach paid off in spades. The regulars became regulars once again, as well as they began to bring in new customers. Besides auto mechanics, the area was loaded with drivers. There was a Fed Express depot whose drivers serviced more than 100 cities and towns. There was the department of sanitation and the New York City Bus Company which accumulatively housed and dispatched over 2,000 vehicles. There were oil companies, bakeries, dairies and tow trucks. There were depots for both the telephone company and the electric company. Add to all of these critical services the six lane traffic, and the end result turned out to be the deepest money-well imaginable.
In the club on a busy Friday night, the colorful lights, as well as the infectious bass and drums of urban music, fueled this saucy, sexy atmosphere inside of Fool’s Paradise. Dancers gyrated on 3 elevated stages, conversations and outbursts of laughter competed with the music, and all of this mixed with this hazy, crazy fusion of temptation. Also interesting was the reality of how this erotic experience forced a culture clash that had white men, Latino men and black men, both young and old, to sit along-side one another in perfect harmony while being consumed, constrained and put away by violent and aggressive hip hop beats and lyrics. The sound system and a house deejay were a standard now, creating an ultimate impact.
In the meantime, Sadie, China, Cinnamon, Moet, Champagne, Dynomite, Extacy and close to 80 other black and Latino dancers filled the club day and night. Sadie, China, Dynomite and Cinnamon were considered top-shelf dancers. Moet had been part of the old Gilmore’s crew, along with Champagne, Extacy and Juicy. Dynomite, on the other hand, was considered the craziest, loosest, wildest entertainer on the stage. She was always good for the most unexpected exhibitions, often pointing at a particular customer, indicating that he could have her ass. If you blinked your eyes you might miss her pointing to another customer, winking at him, promising him that she’d take him in her mouth, between her legs, or wherever, however. To say the least, Dynomite left very little to be imagined, and was received well because of it.
Most other dancers were visitors to the club. They had no specific schedules or commitments with management, sometimes coming from other boroughs or states. There were also the local girls who added to the huge selection of flesh for customers to feast their eyes on. But, aside from the “top shelf” girls, it was clear that Gil allowed most any shapely woman onto his stages. If you could at least stretch a bikini, a teddy or a lacy bra—even cut-off jeans—you were good enough to work at Gilmore’s Fool’s Paradise.
Naturally, this was a very sexist trade. And when desperate or out-of-work women came to the club they would look forward to immediate tips from lap dancing, wall dancing or be paid for merely becoming a customer’s so-called date for the night. The whole scheme of getting a man’s money was a well-known science among prospective dancers—
“All you gotta do is grind and wiggle in a man’s lap or up against his groin for ten minutes. But you gotta be good enough, real seductive-like, cuz you wanna sell ’em the fantasy. Do it right, and the tip could be ten, twenty or even fifty dollars. Sometimes more if the guy ejaculates in his pants . . .” Women had developed a talent for encouraging men who were too timid. And if the dancer was creative enough, she could make a week’s salary in one night. She’d hustle her ass off, being aggressive with the conservative man, or even straight up demanding with the humble types.
China, in particular, always had that certain attitude and charisma.
“You need to come with me,” said China, her eyes speaking louder than her whisper as she directed her prey to the wall-dance area. And naturally, the patron followed obediently while China sought out an empty place up against the wall.
There was lap dancing and table dancing, but not until Fool’s Paradise tripped over that next level of innovation was there such a thing as the “wall dance.” Sure, couples had most probably turned a “slow dance” into something of a wall dance, maybe in some quiet cove in some dark corner of some nightclub somewhere in the country. However, Fool’s Paradise made it a routine “service,” actually setting rules and regulations for wall dancing so that the recreation didn’t turn into a “slow screw up against the wall.” So, while the lights and music flickered and pounded; while the stage shows and porn movies and closed-circuit sports events kept everyone’s eyes and ears busy, the illusion of simulated sex went on against every available wall in the club.
Punish Claudine
“Go home,” exclaimed Gil. And he was serious this time. There would be no more excuses. Claudine was certainly not a top-shelf dancer and had acted up many times in the past. Late for work; missing items from the dressing room; altercations with other girls over who owned what G-string, and various other incidents with dancers and staff. Claudine was a nuisance. Claudine was the type who tried to copy the styles of the top-shelf dancers, trying to be aggressive with the timid customers. In most cases, that customer found the courage to snatch his hand back and catch his very own attitude. Her nerve!
If the popular adult entertainment venue was known for the best-looking girls with the best moves, Claudine certainly didn’t qualify; not even with her double-D breasts or the piles of makeup she wore to make herself look like something that she wasn’t. At 6 feet tall, Claudine was taller than a lot of customers but very disproportionate. Her 19-year-old body still carried excessive body fat. Her ass was also excessive; similar to the side of beef that you’d see hanging up on sale at the butcher shop. And not that there’s anything wrong with excessive fat, an excessive ass, or simulating a side of beef; it’s just not that type of party at a topless nightclub. Moreover, Claudine, whose hair was always plastered in wild, swooping styles with a pound of sticky gel to keep things in place, often made customers laugh at her, always trying to be something that she wasn’t. Up on stage doing the Cabbage Patch dance or the Harlem Shake, as if she knew what she was doing. Frankly, if not for Gil’s “anything goes” attitude about who could and who couldn’t dance at the club, Claudine would be shown the door. She’d end up working down at The Goat on Hunt’s Point—a hole in the Bronx where girls were giving head for crowds of onlookers.
But Gil tolerated Claudine. Until now, that is. This was a busy Friday night.
“Not a night for your shenanigans,” Gil had to tell her constantly. “This is not a nursery school, and I shouldn’t have to watch over you like a little kid. You’re a grown-ass woman.” Gil ripped into her. He was very focused on making money. The club had quickly become New York’s premier adult entertainment complex and his objective was to get through every night without a hitch. His take-home for Fridays had grown to a steady $10,000 a week. And that was after expenses.
So Claudine’s antics sho’ nuff wouldn’t be tolerated. Gil repeated his order before shifting his eyes toward club security. Claudine finally took him seriously, standing with her hands on her hips. The black Spandex she wore was stretched to the stitches, covering all but the cellulite on her waist and reaching down to her calves where a furry pair of pink socks stood out. Her pink blouse was stained and discolored, pressing into her cellulite to create a pseudo-cleavage.
“Fuck this place. And fuck you, Gilmore!” Claudine was arched to one side and then the other. Doing her damned best to create a scene. She was stuttering now, knowing that she had reached a limit and that her future in Fool’s Paradise was now questionable. But her ’tude flipped a switch within her that said FUCK IT! And she snapped. A few more profanities were spit and exhausted, and Claudine swung out of her hooker’s pose, almost crashing into a customer on a stool. Onlookers peeled out of Claudine’s way as if a drunk driver had come through. She strutted across the floor through dazed patrons, finally disappearing into the dressing room.
“No question, that broad’s drunk. She’s acting up, as usual, Jimmy. So she’s barred for a week,” said Gil to the head of his security staff.
And indeed Claudine was drunk. Earlier that evening, she swallowed a few shots of Hennessy straight up. Maybe it was in response to her poor financial status for the night. Or her poor financial status forever.
Nevertheless, that scene between Claudine and Gil went virtually unnoticed in the adventurous atmosphere. The giant screens to the front, side and rear of the club were projecting the usual sports of athletics and sodomy. Sadie was on the main stage with old-assed Juicy to the side. Juicy was laying on a blanket, spreading her wrinkled folds for her small fan-base. She was a mismatch in comparison to Sadie’s youth and beauty, but Juicy could care less. She had her own thang goin’ on, slithering and seducing her group of three aging onlookers.
The instrumental of the club classic to Rapper’s Delight (or Good Times, depending on how you looked at it) kept the walls and floors vibrating all the while. It had been a few minutes since she argued with Gil, but Claudine was now dressed and half bouncing along the club floor with her knocking knees. She swished her Amazon frame and toted her travel bag towards the club’s entrance. Gil shrugged off her obscene gestures with a gradual blink of his eyelids. And now he signaled Jimmy.
“Jimmy, I don’t want her back in here. Put her in a cab or something.” Gil was leaning over the circular bar, his elbow and forearm planted on the Formica surface. A lukewarm black coffee was within reach. At the same time, the ousted dancer finally lowered her middle finger and worked her way into the foyer, under the metal detector and towards Jimmy, who was holding open the front door. She looked Jimmy directly in the eyes and sneered.
“Jimmy, you can keep yo’ dick in yo’ pants. I can handle myself tonight.” With her palm raised and flagged inches from his face, Claudine passed Jimmy and stepped through the doorway. Jimmy casually accepted Claudine’s snide remarks as nothing unusual, and he stood outside the club’s entrance, leaning back against an exterior wall. Two fresh customers were thrown for a moment, but didn’t hesitate to scurry right through the entrance. Jimmy lit up a Newport and watched Claudine as she turned into the parking lot.
The parking lot was the least of the priorities in renovating the property. It was still unpaved, with loose dirt and gravel on its surface. Claudine rested against a Mercedes and fumbled in the dark for a joint from her artificial Gucci purse. From the short distance, Jimmy could see how sorry she looked with her fake fur half-on and half-off her body. Claudine’s left breast was showing almost to the nipple, just barely ready to spring from her tight, pink halter top. This was one of those days when she raced out of her boyfriend’s place. So the blond wig had to suffice. Even that wasn’t on straight.
Finally having an opportunity to relax, she slipped the strap and travel bag from her shoulder and dropped it to the ground. She searched her pockets for a book of matches and eventually lit the stick of weed in the cup of her hands. Squinting her eyes from the fumes, she sucked in the smoke. After a long drag there was a mild burn in her throat as the marijuana found its way through her body. With her face tight, as if she was pressing out a rocky bowel, Claudine was now high as well as intoxicated. She was out here at a time when the last of the after-midnight crowd had paid their $10 admissions. It was now 2:30 AM. Jimmy had returned to his indoor post and Claudine had begun to talk to herself, alone, under the cool moonlit sky. The hum and drone of Cameo’s Candy filtered through an exhaust fan in the wall and could be felt like a soft tremor in the parking lot. There were close to 50 spaces in the lot with every one of them filled. The stillness in the lot seemed stranger with all of that excitement only feet away, inside the wall. Like a wake for shiny vehicles.
“Fuck Gilmore.” Claudine was slurring her words now. Just above a mumble.
“He just mad cuz I didn’t let him eat my pussy tonight . . . fuck ’em.” She took a last pull from the blunt wedged between her thumb and forefinger until the orange flow touched her skin.
“Shit . . . Fuck. Fuckin’ shit!” She shook her hand furiously like she was trying to force the ink down in a malfunctioning pen. “He ain’t the only motherfucker payin’ . . .” Claudine was disoriented, now blaming Gil for her burnt fingers. “Fuckin’ stud . . . man, my hand is hurtin’ . . . fuckin’ killin’ me!” She looked up to see two full moons and then cradled her head into her inner elbow, reaching her hand to the back of her neck.
“I need a break from this shit. Wack-ass, cheatin’ men. Dogs! All full of shit.” If Claudine wasn’t high and twisted, then maybe things were in fact spinning fast around her. Maybe all was wrong with the world, while her little universe was fine and dandy.
“Motherfucker gonna give me a dollar tip and ask me for change. Got his fuckin’ nerve.” Claudine opened her eyes again, swearing that relief was somewhere. Somehow.
“I’mma wait for Sadie . . . she ’bout it. Take me home, girrrl . . .” Claudine moved her legs like they were weighted down with sandbags, and eventually she reached the rear of the lot. She could barely keep on her feet as the hallucinations fought with her want for sleep. With different sets of black tires and spirals of whitewalls to guide her, Claudine came to a halt and leaned against a black Cherokee jeep. She wasn’t conscious of the tear sliding down her face, creating a path down through her layers of makeup.
“Hi, Moet. Wassup wit’ chu? Tired or sumpthin’?” Claudine asked. There was very little light back here, not even enough to see that Moet’s eyes were shut. Still, Claudine carried on like this was a usual conversation. “You need to fix yo’self, chile, wit yo’ lame ass . . . guess Gilmore threw you out too, huh?” High as a kite, Claudine was having a one-way conversation with Moet—Moet, one of the top-shelf dancers at Fool’s Paradise.
Moet began dancing for Gilmore at age 13, but nobody suspected her of being a minor. She was short and physically gifted. Cocoa-brown skin. C-cup breasts. She had the stage presence of a pro, demanding a man’s unquestionable focus. Her alluring gaze and provocative dance swerves did it for a man. Her on again-off again “ghetto attitude” only helped to spice up her performance. She wasn’t into the flashy outfits that Sadie or Dynomite wore. She was simple. Some denim short-shorts and a bleach-white brassiere might do it; as if she just threw something on. That was all she needed to make money. For sure, Moet had grown up in the business. She was 21 now and a seasoned veteran. One of Gil’s top moneymakers.
Claudine assumed Moet was sleeping—sleeping?! On the dirt of an outdoor parking lot???—
She slumped down to sit beside her friend on the dusty ground, offering her companionship. Moet looked comfortable to Claudine; so peaceful with her eyes half closed like they were. And she was stretched out on the gravel like she was at the beach. Moet’s right leg was cocked and leaning against the jeep, with part of her body exposed under the oversized sheepskin coat she wore. Claudine thought Moet was lookin’ sexy for real. She relaxed against Moet’s leg and the Cherokee, pulling her knees to her breasts.
“Did you make yours tonight? That motherfucker didn’t even pay me . . . I wish he would get a life, huh? Yo, you feelin’ me, Moet?” With the club music making a dying transition, from uptempo to slow jams, R. Kelly’s “You Remind Me” now drifted through the air, and the beats were strong enough to have the ground thumping. Claudine reached over to Moet’s torso, her body now twisted and hovering over the dancer. Then she stroked Moet’s elevated knee with her free hand and glided it down her stocking-smooth leg and thigh.
“Hmm . . . silky baby. I always liked your legs, chile . . . and you got that chocolate-ass skin too.” Claudine put her hand to Moet’s forehead, realizing a bit of moisture. She never really got to touch Moet like this before, and didn’t mind the frisky feeling she felt—like she was moving from first to second to third base in record time.
“Damn, baby, I don’t know if I got a feeva or if you just makin’ me hot all ova.” Claudine moved her breast closer to Moet and pressed her forehead into the area under Moet’s chin, looking again into the sky. She warmed Moet’s cool body with her own heat while her hands and palms freely caressed and pried for easy access into Moet’s crotch.
“Oh, Moet . . .” Claudine moaned. “Let’s be together tonight.” Claudine’s mind was drifting, still disoriented as she lifted her head to Moet’s. Now completely covering Moet’s body with her own, she pulled her own coat over the both of them and began to probe her bitter tongue into Moet’s half-opened mouth. The force of Claudine’s weight caused both bodies to move and rock on the ground in slow unison as she wiggled on top of her. Sleepily, Claudine kissed all over Moet’s neck, cheeks, nose and forehead. Moet’s forehead was extra moist now. Gooey even. Claudine changed her focus to Moet’s breasts until she had a nipple in her mouth. She eventually fell asleep there with the nipple feeding her . . . drifting finally into unconsciousness. Claudine was asleep. Out cold. But she wouldn’t have any idea that Nadine Butler (aka Moet) was stiff as a rock . . . and as dead as a doornail.