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“I get five bucks off the cover charge if I bring a date!”
“She ain’t no fucking date, bro!” Reynolds puts his hand on the guy’s shoulder to keep him from moving forward. “The cover is ten each! Ya only get five off a date on Saturdays when a band is playing!”
“This is Monica! She’s my homegirl! I can’t leave my homegirl in the car, dammit! I got thirty-five right here!”
“I already told ya it’s ten each! And you are not bringing her in here!”
“I have to!” The desperation in his voice actually manages to reach an even higher level. I mean, how hard up does a guy have to be to bring a plastic date?
Reynolds folds his arms across his broad chest and narrows his eyes.
“You let the air out, and you can come in.”
“What? I can’t do that! She’s my homegirl!”
“Homegirl gotta go flat if you want in.”
Threes chokes on his own laughter, and I have to bite my lip to keep my own burst inside.
“No!” the guy cries out. He looks longingly at Monica the sex doll. “She spent hours getting ready. She’ll be sad.”
“Homegirl gotta go flat,” Reynolds repeats.
I have no idea how he’s doing this with a straight face. Threes grabs me by the elbow and leads me toward the back entrance as Reynolds continues to argue with the “couple.”
“What a whack job.” Threes lets out a low whistle and then laughs heartily.
“Yeah, that can’t be good for business.”
“His money is still good,” Threes says with a shrug. “He’ll probably pay the whole thirty-five and then be thrown out within the first twenty minutes anyway.”
“I don’t need that kind of commotion tonight.”
“You never know
, boss.” Threes grins. “People videotape that shit, post it on the web, and suddenly the club is a hotspot.”
“Are you saying it’s not a hotspot now? Where else are people going to go, the lodge?” I shake my head and hold up a hand when Threes starts to respond. I don’t want to get into it with him. I want to get a drink and relax a little. It’s been a long-ass day.
Inside the club, the DJ has the music up loud enough that conversation is nearly impossible without shouting, but no one seems to care. People writhe on the dance floor to the heavy electronic beat and the bartenders rush around to get everyone their drinks. The dance floor is only about half full of people, but the bar is busy with a crowd of barely twenty-one-year-old college students.
It's not the kind of crowd I’d prefer. I’d rather have patrons that buy expensive drinks and don’t cause a ruckus. College kids buy beer and shots, then puke all over the dance floor. When the club first opened, I’d hoped for a slightly more upscale vibe, but sometimes a venue takes on its own life, and I’ve gotten used to it. I haven’t spent enough time here lately, and I should probably make some rounds and mingle.
Later.
I settle into the luxurious, semicirclular VIP couch overlooking the bar and the dance area. I lean back and signal the bartender, Jude. He’s my third or fourth cousin or nephew or something like that—I’m not sure. The family resemblance is certainly there, but I could never figure out exactly how his mother was related to my father.
Jude gives me a quick nod, and a bottle of bourbon is brought to the table. I scan the club, not really paying attention to anyone in particular. I recognize a lot of regulars, most of whom give me some kind of wave or other greeting from afar. I return the meaningless gestures one by one, flashing each of them a proper smile. At least they’re still here, taking up most of the bar seats.
Two young women slide up to me, taking the spots on either side of me. I smile at them as I try to remember their names, but nothing comes to me. Oh well. They don’t seem to mind and immediately begin talking to each other. They’re just excited to be sitting in the VIP area, and I don’t mind pretty company that doesn’t actually want any kind of conversation.
The women are perfect examples of exactly what I don’t want in a wife—thin, beautiful, overly made up, and completely shallow. They sit next to me to be seen with me and have no idea who or what I am past the name.
How can I possibly find a marriage prospect in this town? There isn’t a person here who doesn’t know exactly who my family is, and most of them will have figured out that I’m the head of that family now. Though the local authorities will make sure Jack’s death is ruled an accident, speculation about it will run rampant. What woman with any kind of depth would choose this life?
This is why crime families marry each other. Maybe I should make a trip to Chicago or New York to look up some old friends. It’s not like I’d consider someone from the Ramsay family.
I glance around the club, nodding and smiling to patrons who wave in my direction. I look over at the bar where Jude is hustling around, taking care of the regulars that perch there most of the weekend.
