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Curling plumes of cigarette smoke drift upward, reflecting in the wall of glass through which I stare down at the main floor, where women line a black, velvet catwalk. Tits and asses swaying in a trance-inducing seduction with the beat of the music. The patrons, men and women alike, line the stage at either side, tucking bills of cash into stringy thongs that disappear into the cracks of fit, rounded asses and ample hips. From the same pile of cash, they pay overly-attentive waitresses for the overpriced drinks that flow like an endless stream of liquid self-loathing.
Every swinging dick in the parish comes here on a Saturday night, because it’s clean and the girls are vetted by both looks and their ability to perform.
And they do perform.
The stakes are too high to employ cheap pussy.
Chevalier Isle might not be the ideal place for a strip club, seeing as it’s only about twenty-two miles from one end of the island to the other, but this has grown to be one of the up and coming hotspots of the south. And though it’s only been in the last few years this club has been anything worth the drive it takes to get here, they come from New Orleans and as far as New York to see the girls of Sinners and Saints. The neo-gothic church, whose bricks I had stained a deep charcoal, looks like something straight out of a Dracula flick, but it’s what goes down inside that packs the tables.
Like a sexual freak show, all paid courtesy of the dirty money that sifts through hands like a well-executed card trick.
My business partner, if I can even call him that, is the only person this side of the border that has a direct link with the Matamoros cartel out of Mexico, for whom I launder large sums of cash. If I don’t deliver? My body will be buried in a deep pit on some remote Mexican ranch, never to be seen again.
“Mais, you own da hottest club in Terrebonne parish wit’ all dat sweet chatte at your disposal, and you sittin’ up in dis office alone?”
At the interruption of my cousin Luc’s voice, I smile to myself, and turn to find him standing in the doorway to my office.
“Comment ça va?” Years I’ve spent distancing myself from the accent I was born into, not out of embarrassment, or shame, but because in my line of work, the fewer distinguishing features a man has, and the less anyone knows about me, the better. Valir is a language rooted in Cajun, but distinct enough in dialect that it’d be instantly recognizable. I’m one of the many who’ve contributed to the decline of my native tongue, but in my case, it’s a matter of keeping my identity concealed, or risking a bullet in my ass. Yet, somehow, Luc brings me back to my roots every time.
“Pas bon.” Not good. He falls into one of the chairs in front of my desk and groans. “She finally packed up an’ left. Di’n’ even say goodbye, her.”
He’s the quintessential bayou boy, with his ragged ball cap and muscle shirt, but the curveball is his hopeless yearning for romance, which has earned him the nickname Casanova. A trait I can’t much relate to, from where I reside on the opposite end of the spectrum in all my cynical distaste for love.
A passing discomfort sweeps over me when I glance back to find him bent forward and looking downtrodden, as he shakes his head. I’d sooner stab an icepick into my eyeballs than talk about relationships.
“I swore she was da one, me. Even picked out a ring.”
“Sorry things didn’t work out. How’s business?” A lame response, but I wouldn’t even begin to know what else to tell him. Women have never been more than a transaction of needs for me, and parting afterward is what I appreciate most of all.
“Business is good. Not like what you got goin’ on, but it’s good.” For the last couple of years, Luc has struggled to get his venture into Valir cuisine up and running. The guy is horrible with money, and in spite of the advice I’ve given him over the years, he continues to flounder a bit. Good, for him, is breaking even, which is better than the debt he was looking at before. Problem is, he’s too kind, always giving away something for free. Including his heart. “I jus’ don’ understand da women sometimes. Don’ know what dey want.”
Not this again. Thankfully, something draws my attention from the conversation, as Luc prattles on about a girl whose name, or face, I wouldn’t remember if my life depended on it.
On the main floor below, a man I recognize as one of Julio’s enforcers, with unruly black hair and the loudest button-down shirt in the place, paws at one of the dancers on stage. Not a second later, the sharp buzz at my hip is the anticipated call from Levi, and I signal to my cousin to stop lamenting about his ex’s panty drawer for a moment to take it.
Phone to my ear, I keep my eyes on the asshole who seems to have no concept of self-preservation--or anonymity, given his chosen profession. What the fuck kind of hitman dresses like a seventies pimp?
“Whatchu want me to do wit’ this one, Boss?” The uncertainty in Levi’s voice is justified, seeing as pissing off a member of the cartel can be tricky business. Particularly one as smug and arrogant as this prick seems to be.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, before clicking out of the call. “‘Excuse me, I got something to take care of.” Stuffing the phone back inside my pocket, I stamp out my cigarette in the ashtray on my desk, and give Luc a quick pat on the shoulder as I pass.
On his feet before I reach the door, he trails my steps. “Everything good?”
“Non, just some couillon don’t know to keep his hands to himself.” I pull my Glock from its holster at my hip and pop the mag for a quick check. As always, my preference is not to resort to violence because it makes a scene. Scenes draw cops and unnecessary inquiries. But when arrogant pricks with a god complex and no scruples enter my establishment, it’s all fair game.
No matter who he’s affiliated with.
“Ah. I’ll come wit’ you.” At nearly six-foot-seven, with muscles practically spilling out of his shirt, Luc could pass for an oak tree. Would make a decent bouncer, if he didn’t like fighting so much. And women, which is what I’m guessing got him into trouble with his own.
“That’s probably not a good idea.”
“I’m a new man, Cous’. Changed my ways, me.
Snorting a laugh, I shake my head and shove the gun back in its holster. No sense stirring any unnecessary drama off the bat. “I don’t believe that for a second. Just sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
I make my way down the winding staircase to the main floor, where I catch sight of Levi, who gives a nod from his spot off to the side. He monitors the crowd gathered around the guy, who’s clearly drunk, the way he sways and staggers on his feet, manhandling the dancer he’s got clutched to him in a headlock. The grand finale to a series of bad decisions that started whenever he decided to put on that ridiculous pink-striped shirt.
On my approach, the guy plops down in his chair, taking the girl to his lap with him, like he’s decided to behave all of a sudden.
