The Fat Cat

By Randy Attwood

Five years ago Ellie ran away from the city where she was a TV reporter because two things haoppened. Now, managing a strip club, one of those things is happening again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Attwood Consulting, LLC
• Release date: Nov 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386253105

Randy Attwood

I grew up on the grounds of a Kansas insane asylum where my father was a dentist. I attended the University of Kansas during the troubled 1960s getting a degree in art history. After stints writing and teaching in Italy and Japan I had a 16-year career in newspapers as reporter, editor and column writer winning major awards in all categories. I turned to health care public relations serving as director of University Relations at KU Medical Center. I finished my career as media relations officer of The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. Now retired, I am marketing the fiction I've written over all those years. And creating more.

Book preview

THE  FAT  CAT

By Randy Attwood

(c) 2016 Randy Attwood

––––––––

CHAPTER ONE

Mandy hit the button and heard the car doors lock. She looked to her left and saw Freddy walking back to the club through the violet-tinged, gravel-dust atmosphere cast by the parking lot's mercury-vapor light bulb. She put her key in the ignition and started to turn it, but saw Gibson jump up on the hood and look at her.

What do you want, Gibson?

She thought the cat didn't like her. The one time she tried to rub his head, he had scratched her. She turned on the car, thinking the noise would scare the orange monster into jumping off. She was in a hurry.

Thank you, Kelly, for scoring us a dynamite session, she said aloud to herself in the car, checking her face in the rearview mirror. We are going to make some jack tonight!

And it gets me out of the club, she thought. Those goombahs at that table were freaking me out the way they were looking at me. Something to do with Bobby and his fucking gambling debts? I am so tired of loaning money for sure bets that never are. Jesus, why don't I drop that loser? Eddie likes him, that's why.

Come on, Gibson. Get lost! I gotta go! she yelled through the windshield, but the cat just walked closer to look into her face.

Okay. That's it, she said and backed the car out of its slot and watched the cat jump off the hood as she turned to go.

How long will we have to make the session last, she wondered. Isn't Maria the best babysitter ever? Stay the night if I don't show up, and never gripes. Thank God I don't have to leave Eddie with his God-awful bitch grandmother. Wonder where the hell her son ran off to? And with who? Fucker. I'd love to nail his hide for child support.

She turned the car onto the road that would lead to Kelly's apartment and looked into the rearview mirror when the flashing red lights appeared.

Oh shit. Oh shit! Oh good God damn fucking shit! Is that a cop car? Oh fuck. I haven't had that much to drink, have I? Was I speeding? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Where's my license and insurance card? Have those ready. Oh double fuck...it's a female cop. They're the worst. Fucking dykes. OK, Mandy, grab some breath mints...get the driver's license out and the insurance card, roll down the window, have 'em ready to hand to the officer. Smile nicely, Mandy...

––––––––

I hadn’t seen that good-lookin' motherfucker for almost a year when he walked into The Fat Cat with his partner to ask me about the dead dancer found that morning in our dumpster.

May I help you gentlemen? I saw the relief on Richard’s face that I'd pretend I didn’t know him.

I’m John Albers and this is Richard Dick. We’re detectives with the police department, said the one who wasn't Richard and flipped open his badge. Dick-Dick, as I used to call him when he pissed me off, did, too. When we were dating, I’d place that badge between my thighs to give it a squeeze for good luck. Must have worked. Looked like he hadn't been shot yet. I think he was happy to see me. A few drops of sweat were popping out on his forehead. I also noticed our only two customers stood up, left their drinks, and headed for the door.

What's your name? the John guy asked.

Ellie McCrary. You here about the body this morning?

Mandy Linden. One of your dancers, he said.

Started about six months ago. The janitor who found her told me she had the word 'TRASH' scratched all over her body.

We'd prefer that not be told to other people, John said.

Too late for that. Leroy's the gabbiest janitor I ever met.

You work last night? Richard finally had found his voice.

In the year I hadn't seen Richard, he hadn't changed much. Boy, I still liked his look. I liked his look a lot. Large block of a forehead with the eyes set a little too wide apart. He looked kind of mean and smart. Too bad he wouldn't leave his bitch of a wife. You think a guy is strong. Then you find out they can't dump a loser, nagging woman.

Yeah. Night bartender couldn't make it. I manage the place. My responsibility to see there is a bartender on duty.

You hire the dancers? the John guy asked, making it sound more like an accusation than a question.

No I take care of the bar—order the liquor, hire and schedule bartenders. Owner hires the dancers.

That would be... He looked down at the notebook open in his hand, Salvatore Pesci?

Sal, right.

And Mandy worked last night?

Yeah. Looked like she was having a good night. Lot of lap dances in the VIP room. Mandy has... I stopped myself. I don't let myself get close to the dancers, but I still cared about some of them. ...had, a following.

What do dancers get paid? Minimum wage? the John guy asked.

I couldn't believe the dope.

No. Owner doesn't pay them. They're contract employees. They keep all the tips they make.

Richard would know that was a lie. I'd told him all about Sal and the cut he required from each girl. If they didn't like it, they could go work at another place. Oh gosh, that was owned by an Italian, too, who operated the same way.

When will the girls who worked last night with Mandy come in today? John the Dope asked.

Six-thirty.

We'll want to interview each one separately.

Oh, that'll be great for business. You already scared off my only two customers when you flashed your badges.

How many dancers we talking about? Richard asked.

Nine. Names are on the board over there.

He walked over to look at the dance order board and write down names. They would be in the order in which they danced: Electra, Brenda, Crystal, Roxy, Star, Mandy, Pat, Zoe, and Jezebel.

We need to talk to Mr. Pesci. When's he get in? the Dope asked.

When he wants. I'll write down a number where you can reach him.

That number would be the office of Sal's attorney.

I was surprised you opened today. One of your own dancers found dead out back. Seems a little cold.

I was really starting to not like this guy. Ladies have kids' mouths to feed.

You, too?

None of your business.

Richard returned to save me from the jerk.

See you got a surveillance camera. We'd like the tape.

Yeah, but it ain't hooked up to any taping system. It's just for looks.

Richard wouldn't know that was a lie. In fact, Sal had called me up earlier and told me to take the tape out and store it somewhere for him.

Richard had a smarter observation.

Mandy's name is crossed out.

I didn't know that. I don't know who would have done that.

The gabby janitor?

Nay, Leroy's a nice guy. He wouldn't do that.

You know any customers lately could be obvious suspects? the Dope asked.

You want them in order of hair color, size, or by alphabetized phony name they use when they come in here, including a couple of council members?

A customer entered, sat down, and Crystal got back up on the stage. I could see the dope, trying not to look at her, and then steal a glance. Gibson chose just that moment to jump up on the bar and startle the detectives, walking his thirty pounds right over to Richard like they were old friends, which they were. Richard scratched his head.

What's a cat doing in here? the Dope asked.

You got a joint named The Fat Cat, it's got to have a fat cat. Meet Gibson.

Animals in an establishment that serves food and drinks ain't allowed. It's a violation.

Gibson's been to food-handling school. Well, in this case it's just lemon and lime handling school. There's his certificate, I said and pointed to it on the wall. It was a real certificate with Gibson's name on it because a real health department inspector liked to frequent the place and filled out a certificate for the cat. That got the guy free lap dances from all the girls in the place at the time.

We'll be back at six-thirty, said John, who was not impressed, and turned on his heel, giving Crystal a good ogle as he walked out.

Richard gave his ole buddy Gibson a parting scratch. I noticed he left his keys on the bar. I didn't call after him.

In a short time, he was back in the bar to retrieve his keys.

I don't much care for that partner of yours.

Not many people do. El, I've filed divorce papers.

I put my hand on my hip, gave my head a little tilt that made my dangly earrings flutter, and gave my best Mae West. Well, why don't get on your phone and call me some time?

That got me that smile from him he knew melted that area where I used to squeeze his badge so hard it would leave the imprint of the shield on my inner thigh.

Soon as this shit calms down.

Richard, Mandy was a nice girl. She had a kid and took good care of him, always showing pictures of him.

He nodded and left.

I went and got the customer's drink order, made it, delivered it, got his money, and then called Sal and told him they were gone.

Some motherfucker offs one of my dancers and dumps her in my own dumpster. That means serious paybacks. Anybody there just now?

Two customers walked out when those badges got shown. But one customer walked in.

Tell him you've got to close. Tell him you'll remember him when he comes again and give him a couple of free drinks. Give the girl a hundred. Put the tape in that machine so we can see it on the big screen. You know how to work that fuckin' thing?

Yeah.

Good, 'cause I don't.

The one customer gulped his gin and tonic down and left. I gave Crystal five twenties, locked the door, and put up the closed sign. I looked around the place. It was spotless. That's one thing Sal insisted on. He wanted his gentleman's club as clean as or cleaner than the fancy downtown nightclubs. But, even empty and just vacuumed and scrubbed, it had its own smell. Something about all those pheromones that get exuded and mixed with the various perfumes the dancers wear and the sweat the dancing elicits in the men who watch. It's a smell that never fully leaves even after the air has been through the filters of the purifiers Sal installed to handle the cigarette smoke. I take a shower first thing when I get home.

Gibson watched me from on top of the bar that is a half rectangle. The big orange tabby could have been right tackle on any cat football team. He was giving me that look he gives everyone: Fuck you, I've seen everything and you ain't seen shit. I scratched his head. He tolerated it.

I retrieved the tape and took it to the machine that projects on the big screen at one end of the seating area. I made a fresh pot of