Chapter 2
Brad Taylor stood behind the bar at the Clown Lounge polishing glasses. It was nearly four in the afternoon and the first shift workers at the Zarta factory were beginning to filter their way in ones and two into the joint.
Many of them would only stay for a quick beer or two and a peek at the Go-Go girls before they went on home to supper. It was usually nine or ten at night before the Lounge really began to swing.
About a dozen men had collected near the front of the tiny stage. They leaned against it, watching the plump little red-head up on the stage as she half-heartedly rolled her more than ample hips in rhythm to a wailing rock number that blarred from the juke box.
The dancer called herself "Bubbles" and years before she had been a high-priced stripper-burlesque, but that had been thirty pounds and five kids ago. Still, there was an undeniable aura of sensuality about her. Many of the younger girls who traveled the "Go-Go" circuit with her spent a lot of time studying her movements, studying the way she used her body to excite the patrons.
"Go, Bubbles-go you sexy ole bitch," cried a short, balding man. "I swear, she moves me. She really moves me. I swear, old as she is-I've give a week's pay to have her sit on my face!"
"I hear you, man," cried another patron.
"That ole bitch could raise a hard-on on a dead man," said still another patron. "And believe me-that's a natural fact of life. Look at them fits! Look, look...." He grabbed the shaft of his cock through his pants and began to squeeze it as he gazed up at the undulating redhead. "God, if only my wife was half that much woman!"
The woman smiled out at the faceless crowd, her huge, green eyes seemingly on fire with excitement. She closed her eyes, lifting her face up toward the ceiling and began to massage the inside of her heavy thighs, raking her nails across the flesh there as she drew zigzagging patterns that moved closer and ever closer to her snatch. The spotlight seemed to explode hotly against her blood-red nails, somehow intensifying the sensual quality of the game her fingers played with her thighs. You could hear several men snort in frustration above the wild, electronic boom of the pulsing rock number.
"Oh, oh-ohhhhhhhhhh," the redhead moaned.
Brad smiled to himself, amused at the way the woman handled the tiny crowd. A strange aroma seemed to fill the lounge-call it expectation. It was almost as if each man there was in bed with the woman on the stage, that it was his fingers kneading the flesh of her thighs-his fingers moving closer and ever closer to her love hole.
Bubbles wore a haren-girl gown on stage-a mint green outfit that was see-through sheer. She had golden "pasties" fixed to her nipples and snatch and those metalic bits of paper seemed to shimmer under her gown, catching the spotlight. The redhead wore them to draw attention away from those areas of her body that carried excess poundage-her hips and middle and bottom.
The rock number ended and the woman stared out at the crowd with her hands on her hips. "Hey," she cried after a while, "isn't anyone going to feed that thing so that I can dance for you?" Her voice was low and husky, seemingly alive with the wildest sort of invitation.
Two men dashed for the juke box. The bigger of the two dug down into his pocket with one hand while he held the other man away from the machine with his free hand. After a moment he located a quarter and dropped it into the machine. "Punch A-9 and and E-7," the redhead cooed, and the man dutifully pressed the right buttons and then returned to his standing space at the front of the stage. "Thank you, lover," Bubbles said, and the man waves at her.
"Let's see some tits," the man cried.
Bubbles winked at the man and then turned her back to the crowd as the juke box groaned to life. She began to wiggle her more than ample bottom in rhythm to the new tune. Her flesh seemed to ripple and jerk, jiggling about wildly as she rolled her hips in undulation.
"Turn around," the big man cried. "Let's see some tit!"
"I'll bet you were a bottle baby," the redhead cooed at the man, and one of his friends slapped him on the back, saying that she had him there.
"TITS," the man cried. "TITS, TITS!"
The crowd made a chant of his words, calling, "Tits, Tits-let's see some tits!"
The redhead spun around and faced the crowd. She cupped her hands under her enormous breasts, began to caress them-and the crowd went wild, hooting and whistling. They began to beat their hands against the front of the stage in rhythm to the music. Bubbles fell into a bump and grind routine and the hooting and whistling became deafening.
Brad shook his head in amazement.
A half-down new patrons had entered the bar. They each purchased a beer or a shot and chaser at the bar and then carried their drinks over to the stage. Bubbles greeted each man individually-or 'seemed to. She nodded her head at the faceless shadows, grinning seductively.
"Will you look at that ole broad move," cried one of the newcomers. "Goddamn, goddamn...."
"Thank you, kind sir," the redhead cooed.
A friend of the newcomer punched him playfully on the arm and then tossled his head. "Hey, partner-she's talking to you," he said, and the first man lowered his head, embarrassed by the sudden show of attention.
"WHAT ABOUT SHOWING US SOME TIT?" cried the man who had fed the juke box. "C'MON, BUBBLES-BE A SPORT!"
The crowd agreed. "Tits, fits," they cried again and again. "Show us some tits, Bubbles!"
The redhead moved to the front of the stage, bent over with her hands on her knees and glared out at the crowd. She seemed to be looking right into the eyes of each faceless shadow in the crowd as little animal noises began to gurgle away in her throat. Her huge, billowing breasts seemed to dangle out at the men, wild with invitation.
"Show 'em to us, Bubbles!"
"Yeah, yeah-show 'em!"
"Let's see some nipple," cried one of the new-comers, and the crowd all laughed.
Bubbles orange eyebrows shot up high in mock surprise as her lips formed a wet, breathy pout. She moved the fingers of her right hand to the catch at the front of her halter, played with the bits of metal there for a long, teasing moment, and then suddenly stopped.
"Hey, Bubbles-c'mon!"
"Yeah; what kind of prick-tease deal is this?"
"What's it worth to you, fellows?" the redhead cooed.
A dollar bill appeared in a man's hand and then floated down to the floor of the stage. It was followed by another. Several quarters hit the stage, a half-dollar. Bubbles stood up and placed her hands on her hips. She glared out at the crowd, a look on her face that said she was both hurt and angered at the cheapness of those men who had not yet contributed to the cause.
"Aw, c'mon, fellows," one of the men pleaded. "Let's show the lady our appreciation!"
Another dollar bill floated to the stage, and then another and another, and yet another. The redhead sighed in mock frustration. There was perhaps seven or eight dollars on the stage at the moment more than she had a reasonable right to expect considering the time of day and all. Still, she decided to tease the crowd a bit more. After all, what could it hurt.
The song ended, a new number took its place. Bubbles turned her back to the patrons, swaying easily to the hard, biting rhythm that blared out at her. Several more coins hit the stage and one man called out, "Here's another buck, baby. Let's see 'ern, huh?"
The redhead released the catch at the front of her halter and then raised her hands high up in the air, above her head, as she began to move like a palm-tree swaying in a gentle wind. The eyes of every man in the crowd moved with the gentle roll of her rump, gliding from side to side, all but hypnotized by her motion.
"Turn around, Bubbles," a man shouted.
"Yeah-quit fucking around, bitch! Show us some tits. Enough teasing...."
Bubbles looked back over one of her shoulders, a lusty sort of grin on her freckled face. Suddenly the pout returned to her lips and once again she sighed in seeming exasperation. She slipped the halter from one of her shoulders, let it dangle loosely down across her back.
"Yeah, yeah," the crowd shouted, and pounded its hands on the floor of the stage. "Yeah, yeah, yeah...."
The dancer did something with her back, a rippling little motion that sent the halter falling from her other shoulder. It ended up dangling from the crook of her arm. She grabbed it with the fingers of her other hand, worked it down over her forearm to her wrist.
"Do it, broad. C'mon, do it-do it now!"
The redhead glared out at the men, still with her back to them, and slowly shook her head from side to side. Brad had to stifle the laugh that ripped at his throat. She never failed to amaze him. The way she handled a crowd was a fantastic sort of thing. She was a pro-a real pro, and if anyone could squeeze a few more dimes out of the crowd of beer nursers it was Bubbles. Hell, the big, sandy-haired giant had to beat down the urge to leap across the bar and drop a buck or so on the stage himself.
"Let's see them, sweetheart," a man cried.
Once again Bubbles shook her head. She tossed the halter up into the air, stood with her hands on her hips, her back to the group, and then moved about the stage in a tight, grinding sort of circle, rippling her rump at them.
"C'mon, you clowns," a voice cried. "Let's show her that we mean it. Put some more bread up there!"
"Here's another dollar," cried one of the new-comers.
"Yeah here's two more, Bubbles!"
Suddenly a shower of coins hit the stage as yet another man dug into his pocket-and this time tossed all the change he had in his pocket up onto the stage, near the feet of the dancer. "That's every dime I've got," he bellowed. "I'm stone broke now!" A second man did the same thing. "That goes for me, too," he called!
The redhead began to twist from side to side, exposing just a bit more of her enormous breasts to the crowd with each new twist and turn-left and right, left and right. The men on the floor bellowed and howled, growing more and more excited by her action. Many of them were openly fondling their cocks through the material of their pants.
"C'mon, you bitch-you fucking teasel"
Suddenly Bubbles spun around and faced the crowd. She sprang up onto her toes, moving her hands high above her head in a sweeping sort of motion that made her breasts appear to be firm and proud-like a teenage girl. The number ended and then the spotlight went out on the stage as Brad hit the dimmer switch under the bar.
The men hooted and groaned as they moved away from the bar but it was all a good-natured sort of grumbling. They sauntered back to the bar and refilled their glasses. Brad made short work of their orders. He leaned back against the cash register, listening to snatches of their conversation as his eyes moved from man to man at the bar.
They were farmers and factory workers, roughnecks who delighted in the way the redhead teased them. Later on the men at the stage would demand a lot more for a lot less. Crazy, he mused. It's all so crazy!
He pressed the button near the register, notifying the girls back in the dressing room that it was time for another of their group to get up onto the stage.
A tall, slender blonde in sheer bikini briefs and matching bra stepped through the curtain at the rear of the stage and smiled at the crowd. "Hi ya, fellows," she said. She called herself "Ula" and claimed to be "direct from Denmark!" She was twenty or so, with huge, dark eyes that were heavily made up.
"Who's got a quarter for the juke?" she cooed.
A tall, towheaded youth with a face full of freckles scampered over to the bar and asked Brad to change a dollar into change for him. "That Ula," he said. "Is she really from Denmark? Really?"
Brad shrugged his massive shoulders as he handed the youth four quarters. "That's what she says, buddy," he said, and then shrugged again. The youth grinned, walked over to the machine and fed it a coin. The crowd collected around the front of the stage, looked up at the girl.
"Who's this?" demanded one of the men.
"My name is Ula," the girl cooed.
"It ought to be Teena," the man cooed back. "Yes sir-Teena Tiny Tits!"
The girl gave the man the finger and the crowd broke into laughter, even the man who had called out. The music started and the girl raised her arms above her head, began to sway to the wild, pulsing rhythm of an amplified guitar.
Mike Morrison managed the Clown Lounge for Jimmy Edwards. He was a thin, ferret-faced man with hard, beady eyes. He had been a fighter in his youth-had had nineteen fights as a pro in the light-weight division before he decided he didn't have what it takes to make it big in the ring. He walked up behind Brad and tapped him on the shoulder. "I'll take over here for a while," he said. "Seems that you're needed out back at the moment!"
"Who?" Brad said. "Why?"
"The boss-he want you!"
"You mean Jimmy Edwards?"
"Yeah-Jimmy Edwards," the ferret-faced man snarled. "I got a feeling I'm going to be in the market for a new combination bar-keep and bouncer!"
A look of absolute bewilderment filled Brad's handsome face. "Why?" he demanded. "I mean, what the hell did I do to deserve the axe?"
"See the man," Mike sputtered. "And hurry it up!"
Brad shrugged, pushed his way through the swinging doors that led from the bar into the kitchen. He saw Jimmy Edwards seated at the small table near the door. A shudder of apprehension ripped at his spine as he made his way across the room and then sat down. He and Jimmy had been friends for years and years, going back to the days that they had been in elementary and school together. "Ferret-face says that I'm getting the axe, Jimmy," he said. "What the hell is that about? What did I do?"
"Hey; be cool, brother," Jimmy said.
"Cool-listen, bro, I need this gig!"
"And it's yours for as long as you want it," the beefy blonde said. "Relax, huh! The reason you may be leaving here is that I thought you might be in the mood to make a change-a big change!"
A smile began to play at the corners of Brad's lips. He sighed with relief, punched Jimmy playfully on the arm. "It's just that I had this vision of me pushing a broom or something for old man Zarta," he said. "And-believe me, brother, it was not a good feeling doing that!"
Jimmy grinned, nodded. "I can dig it," he said. "Okay, so tell me-what the fuck is this all about?"
"Oh, about four big ones a week," Jimmy said.
"SAY WHAT?" Brad said, his eyes suddenly big and round. "I wish you'd tell me what the hell is coming down, Jimmy. I don't dig being put into a squeeze like this!"
"Excuse me, gentlemen," Bubbles said as she entered the kitchen wearing a ragged yellow bathrobe. She smiled politely at the two men as she poured herself a cup of coffee from the urn at the back counter.
"How'd you make out, Busty?" Brad said with a grin.
"About eighteen dollars," the redhead said, and shrugged. "Not bad-considering the fact that it's only Thursday afternoon and all!"
"You're a real pro, Molly," Jimmy said. "I was watching you from back here. It's nothing short of amazing the way you handle a crowd!"
"Well, I've had a lot of practice," the woman said. She walked over to the table, looked down at the twin giants sitting there. Her eyes were bright, sparkling with some secret sort of delight. "Hey; did I tell you that I'm about to be a grandmother again?"
"No," Brad said. "Which one this time?"
"Helen-the one married to the school teacher," the redhead said. "You know-Alan Diamond!"
"Well, congratulations," Brad said.
"How many does that make, Molly?" Jimmy said.
"Would you believe-nine?"
"Nine grandchildren," Brad said with a huge smile. "And at your too!"
"My age-my age," the redhead said, and then reached out and tossled Brad's sandy-colored hair. "Sweetheart, I've got kids older than you. Really!"
"Jesus, Molly, you must have got started when you were ten or something," Brad said.
"Thanks, boss," the redhead said, and walked away from the table. Both men watched in fascination as she seemed to glide across the floor. The room seemed to be alive with her presence. She seemed to walk on a magic carpet of air-a foot or so above the floor, and both men continued to watch the path she had taken long after she had disappeared from their view.
"Damn sexy broad," Jimmy said.
"Yeah; she sure is that," Brad replied. "Strange, too-a chunky hunk like that. But look, man, you didn't call me back here to discuss Molly Lubinski or any of the girls, as far as that goes. C'mon, Jimmy, give...."
The blonde giant gazed down at his cup of coffee, seemingly trying to arrange his thoughts. "Tell me, Brad," he said after a while, "how much do I pay you?"
"Not nearly enough," the sandy-haired man said, and then paused, cocking his head to one side. "You mean you really don't know, man? Hey, c'mon; this is your joint! I mean, you own it and everything!"
"Mike handles all that."
"Two and a half a week," Brad said. "But that's six days a week and ten or more hours each day!"
"Hey; you are really defensive, Brad," Jimmy said. "Cool it, will you? I mean-there's no reason for all this uptight bullshit!"
Brad sighed, shrugging his massive shoulders. "I-ah, I feel uncomfortable as hell for some reason," he said. "So why don't you do us both a favor and spill whatever it is you've got on your mind, brother?"
"How'd you like to make four C's a week?"
"Four C's?" Brad said, and swallowed hard.
The sandy-haired man shook his head, blinked a time or two and then began to pound the heel of his hand against his ear-as if to say that he was unable to believe what he had just heard. "Four C's...."
"Yeah; four C's-four times one hundred!"
"You serious, man?"
"Serious as a heart attack, brother!"
"And just what do I have to do to earn it?"
"Manage the Velvet Hand for me?"
Once again Brad swallowed hard. "What's happening? You retiring or something?"
"No; I'm opening up a new place-across the river, up in the `Land of Lincoln' " he said. "Remember-you interviewed a couple of applicants for me the other day!"
"Yeah-slightly," Brad said with a huge grin. "There was Mitchie-a chick who works here. Mitchie and...well, this absolutely fantastic Oriental chick. Tiny little thing that was really something else!"
"Tamiko Thompson!"
"Yeah-that's her," Brad said, and grinned as the memory of the interview with her filled his mind. "That chick had lips like a Hoover and tongue-oh, God, Jimmy-she had a tongue like a Roto-Rooter...."
Jimmy stood up, carried his cup over to the urn and filled it with coffee. "You want a cup?" he said. Brad shook his head. "So, tell me-are you interested in my proposition or not, Bradley, ole buddy?"
"Are you kidding, man? Four hundred a week?
"That's just for openers, you understand?"
"Plenty of up, huh?"
"It all depends on what kind of profit margin you show," Jimmy said. "You know-one hand washing the other. You take care of me and I'll take care of you. Look, I'll make it four and a quarter, if that's what it'll take to get you to say the right words!"
"You've got my head spinning, man!"
"I need an answer now, man!"
"Right this minute-just like that?"
"You've got it, brother!"
"Jesus, man; I-that is, I...."
The sound of hot, angry voices out in the front of the bar cut Brad's words short. He leaped to his feet, raced out to the Lounge. Jimmy was only a half step behind him. The freckled-face blonde-haired kid and an older man stood in the middle of the floor, glaring hotly at one another.
"You keep your hands to yourself," the younger man said.
"You've got a lot of mouth, punk," the bigger man snarled. He was trembling with anger-and fighting hard to control it. He was twice the size of the youth-a good two-fifty, with a huge, barrel chest and massive shoulders.
"Get 'em, Boomer," cried a voice from the crowd. "Fuck up the punk!"
"Freddie Miller," the girl called Ula screamed from the stage. "You stop this right now, you hear?"
"Apologize to the lady," the freckled face boy said to the bigger man, fire flashing in his eyes. "She's a performer-an artist. Not some street-walking hooker. You've got no right to . . .
The big man reached out and grabbed the youth by the front of his shirt. He roared with anger and then jerked the younger man off his feet. He held him out at arm's length, thrashing about like a fish out of water.
"It'll be alright," Brad whispered to Jimmy. "The big guy-Boomer Carson, he's a rough dude, but he's not mean! Still, I'd better break it up!"
"The kid must be crazy," Jimmy said. "Taking on a guy that big. What's with him, anyway?"
"Aw; he thinks-you know, that he's in love with the tit-less blonde up on the stage," Brad said. "Our little phony import from Denmark. She's been stringing him along for a week or two now!"
"Dumb fuck," Jimmy said with a grin.
"Yeah; well-we've all gone through that cunt-struck stage, I guess," Brad said. "I'd really better do something to cool this before something happens!"
Brad walked out into the middle of the floor, patted the man called Boomer on the fanny. 'Would you believe it, gentlemen," he cried like a barker in a circus sideshow, "this ox of a man was once a ninety-seven pound weakling?" An embarrassed sort of laughter filled the room. "Yes sir-yes sir, but after only six months of drinking here at the fantastic Clown Lounge, ha-well, I think you'll all admit that he's filled out right nicely. Yes sir, yes sir...."
Boomer released his grip on the freckled-faced youth and sighed sheepishly. "I-I wasn't going to hurt the punk, Brad-honest," he said. "I-I...."
The youth still had fire in his eyes. He was about to throw a haymaker at the bigger man when Brad slipped a beefy arm around his shoulders and pinned his arms to his side. "You all look all overheated," he said, and guided the struggling boy toward the bar. "Hey, Mike-a beer for my young friend here. Make it a scooner!"
"Let go of me," the youth demanded.
"Whatever you say, sweetheart," Brad said with a grin. "But let me lay a word of advise on you, Freddie, me-boy. You start anymore trouble in here and I'll 86 you so fast that towhead of yours will spin like a top."
"You don't understand, Brad," the boy said miserably. "That big clown-he was saying all sorts of dirty things to Ula. He's got no right to talk to her like that!"
"Hey; Freddie-that's why he comes here to drink," Brad said. "It doesn't mean anything-not really. I mean-ask Ula. Shell tell you-having guys call up to her when she's on stage is all part of the go-go business!"
"That doesn't make it right!"
"It's what she gets paid for, Freddie!"
"I know, I know," the youth said miserably, and then took a long pull on the huge glass of beer in front of him. "It's just that I love her, you know. She-ah, she...." Tears welled up in his eyes and he had to fight with all the strength at his command to keep them from spilling down his face. "Man, it gets to me. It really does!"
"Then maybe you ought to give some thought to getting her out of here, Freddie," Brad said. "Out of the whole, stinking business. As long as she works the go-go circuit, that's the sort of thing you'll have to put up with!"
"Jesus . . .
"Tell her to quit!"
"She won't do it," the boy said miserably. "I mean-ah, fuck it! She won't, that's all. I only make eight-five bucks a week pumping gas at Johnny Ore's Service Station, and she-well, she claims she makes three times that much, wiggling her ass around for these characters!"
"Yeah-it's true," Brad said.
"SHEE-IT," the youth moaned.
"I hear there's a go-go joint up in Carbon City that's looking for go-go boys," Brad said. "I hear some of those guys are making out like crazy. Good bread, lots of pussy ...."
"Nam; I can't dance, man!"
"Well, it was just a thought," Brad said, and patted the youth on the shoulders. "You remember what I said, Freddie-ole buddy. One more incident because of Ula and you're out on your ear-for good!"
"I'm cool, Brad!"
"Yeah-right!"
"Poor bastard," Brad said as he rejoined Jimmy and they returned to the kitchen. "He's got a crush on that pig like you wouldn't believe. Poor dumb fucker...."
"And titless Tilly is stringing him along, huh?"
"Him and about four others," Brad said. "She has all of them believing her pussy belongs to them exclusively. She has the soul of a first-class hooker...."
Jimmy returned to his chair, sipped at his coffee and made a face. "It's cold," he said. "Okay-look; I'll make it four and a half a week but that's it, brother. Four-fifty is my best offer. What do you say?"
"I say I would have taken it at four," Brad said. "When do I start?"
"As soon as Mike can find a replacement for you here," the blonde giant said. "And by the way, Bradley-I would have gone as high as five bills to get you!"
"You really know how to cut off a guy's balls, don't you?"
"Shit, brother-in six months or less you'll be making a grand a week," Jimmy said.
"You're kidding?"
"Depends on the sort of business you do, man!"
"Have you talked with Mike Morrison?"
"Yeah; he-well, he isn't too happy about the situation, I guess," Jimmy said, and then shrugged. "I guess he had some sort of idea that I was going to offer the gig to him!"
"Why didn't you?"
"I don't think he can handle it!"
"But I can, huh?"
"Sure-why not?'
"Four and a half a week," Brad said. "Wait until I tell Kay about this. Four and a half a week. I mean-sweet Jesus IL Christ! Four-fifty a week!"
"Kay?" Jimmy said. "You tied up, man?"
"Sort of," the sandy-haired giant said. "It's building, you know. Going along fine, too!"
"Do I know the chick?"
"Kay Fleming," Brad said. "Red hair, green eyes-absolutely fabulous body!"
"You mean Dutch Fleming's wife?"
"Yeah; that's her!"
Jimmy drained his cup of cold coffee. "You've got taste, man-I'll give you that," Jimmy said. "But I sure can't say too much about your head, however. The Dutchman-hey, that is one super-bad mother-fucker, laddie-buck. I mean, I sure would hate to be in you shoes when old Perry gets out of the big slammer. Jesus...."
Brad shrugged. "Ole Perry won't be eligible for parole for another five or six years," he said. "And it ain't no fly-by-night thing, Jimmy! Really I'd marry the bitch if I could get her to divorce the Dutchman!"
"You're crazy, laddie-buck. Absolutely insane!"
"Yeah; maybe!"
Jimmy stood up, sauntered over to the back door. "Look, why don't you fall in at the Hand after work?" he said. "I've got some things I'd like to lay on you!" He opened the door, paused for a moment with his hand on the handle. "Perry Flemmin's woman-that's balls, brother!"