“It’s not a strip club. It’s a totally legit gentleman’s club. Dancing only. No stripping and no extracurriculars, if you catch my drift. He keeps it squeaky clean because he can’t risk getting it shut down.”
“Why would he get shut down?”
He cuts me a glance as he changes lanes. “Jaime works for him.”
“Oh.” Jaime is Jonathan’s connection—not that he’s into anything hard. Pot, mostly, and sometimes some coke.
He shrugs. “I know Ben would hire you on the spot.”
I slouch deeper into the seat. “I’ll think about it.”
A minute later he passes his Oakland exit without even slowing down.
“Where are we going?” I ask, sitting straighter and craning my neck back at the exit.
“Benny’s,” he says, shooting me a sideways glance. “If I’ve got to break it to Kevin that you’re crashing at our place, I’m gonna tell him you’re paying rent. But if I tell him that and you don’t, he’s going to expect me to make up the difference, which—sorry darlin’, as much as I love you—there ain’t no way I’m gonna do.”
“What do you think he’ll charge me?”
He negotiates the maze onto the Bay Bridge. “I pay nine, so . . .” He shrugs.
I feel my eyes widen. “Nine hundred?”
He huffs a laugh. “No. Nine dollars.”
“Would I make enough at Benny’s to cover that?” I ask, chewing my cuticle.
He laughs again. “If you work out, yeah. Those girls rake it in.”
Jonathan gets off at the first San Francisco exit over the bridge and winds us through the city streets. When we get to Benny’s, we circle the block a few times and luck into a spot less than a block from the club. He cuts the engine and we pile out.
As we get closer to the club, I can hear the pound of a heavy bass rhythm. It’s shaking my bones from the ground up before we ever reach the door. Jonathan saunters past the short line to an enormous bouncer with a bald head, sunglasses, a dark bushy beard, and behind it, a neck as thick as a tree trunk.
Jonathan holds his fist up for a knuckle bump. “Marcus, my man!”
“W’sup, J man?” Marcus says, bumping him.
“This is my friend, Red,” he says, urging me forward with a hand on my back. “She’s going to be dancing here, so you look after her, ’kay?”
Marcus gives me a quick once-over and doesn’t laugh out loud, which I take as a good sign. His eyes flick back to Jonathan. “Nora’s gonna kiss you for bringin’ her tonight.”
Jonathan pulls a face and starts tugging me toward the door. “Fuck, I hope not.”
The pulse of the music makes the place seem almost alive when we step inside. It caresses my body and makes me want to move. The entrance is at bar level, which is the same level as the three stages across the room. But between them and the bar, down three stairs in the center of the place, is the pit. The tables down there are mostly full of people, drinking and shouting over the music, and I’m surprised that there are as many women there as men. It doesn’t seem at all seedy either. It could be any other club in the Bay Area . . . if you ignore the writhing blonde on the stage up front.
My palms go clammy as I watch her. She shimmies down and lets some old guy tuck a bill into her cleavage, then smiles at him and gives him a grind of her hips as she stands. There are a few more bills hanging out of the low waistband of her white lace hot pants. Her loose white men’s button-down shirt isn’t actually buttoned, but rather tied in a knot around her rib cage just below her boobs, and it’s obvious she’s not wearing a bra. She looks freshly fucked, like she just crawled out of some guy’s bed, which I’m betting is her gig. But as I watch, I’m relieved to see that she doesn’t seem to be taking anything off as she waggles around the small stage.
We weave our way around the mezzanine to the DJ booth, and Jonathan gives Big Pete a bro hug: two sharp claps on the back, then break.
“Red!” Big Pete says. He holds up his fist to me and I bump it. “Good to see you.”
I hate that nickname. It’s so spectacularly unoriginal. But when I first started hanging out at Jonathan’s, one of the guys—I don’t even remember who—liked my auburn hair and started calling me Red. It stuck, so now that’s my name as far as any of them know. There’s another girl they call Thumper because of the sound she makes against Jonathan’s bedroom wall, so it could be worse.
Big Pete came by his nickname honestly too. He’s a mountain of a person. He also likes to live large, so that might be some of it.
“Why are the side stages dark?” Jonathan asks, gesturing to the blonde on stage.
Big Pete holds up his hands in an “I surrender” gesture. “Nora’s pitching a fit. She was already short one, and now she’s got girls calling in sick. It’s bad, bro.”
Jonathan shoots me a grin. “We might be able to help her out.”
“No fucking way!” Pete says, his eyes widening. He gives my shoulder a shove. “Red here wants to dance?”
Jonathan smiles and holds up his fist. “Fucking way, man.”
Big Pete bumps it with a grin at me.
“We gotta go find Ben,” Jonathan says. “He in his office?”
“Last I knew.”
“Later.”
We head to the back, and when we get to the bar, Jonathan flags down the bartender. “Two doubles. Jack Green,” he shouts over the music, holding up two fingers like a peace sign, then turns to me. “Ben is pretty cool. When he asks you if you have any experience, tell him the truth. Honesty and loyalty are his big things. As long as you’re straight up with him, you’ll get along fine.” He shakes his head. “Never try to fuck with him, though, ’cause I swear that guy has a built-in bullshit detector.”
The bartender’s back with our drinks. “On your tab, J,” she tells him, setting them on the bar.
He lifts his shot glass to her in a salute and winks. “You’re the best, Gina.”
“To making the rent,” I say, holding up my shot in a toast.
“Damn straight,” Jonathan answers with his signature boyish grin.
We knock back our shots, and Jonathan slams his glass on the bar a microsecond before me.
He grins. “You’re slacking, Red.”
I pull my hair behind me and twist it into a knot behind my neck. “My mind’s not really in the game, if you know what I mean.”
He reaches up and brushes a strand out of my face. “Nervous?”
I glance up at the blonde on stage as she swings around her brass pole. “Yeah.”
“C’mon,” he says, slinging his arm over my shoulders, then shepherding me through a door next to the bar.
I’ve only been to Benny’s once before, when I came with Jonathan to pick up his check. The club was closed and I waited up front, so I’ve never met Ben. All I really know about him is that he owns this club. I guess I’m expecting some gangsta guy, with jeans around his knees, dripping with gold chains. But when Jonathan knocks and opens the door to his office, I see he’s not that at all. He’s behind a big wooden desk, leaning back in a black leather office chair. There’s a glass wall looking out over the club, which I realize, from the other side, is that big mirror behind the bar. He looks up at us with a phone pressed to his ear and waves us in.
He’s probably fortyish and reasonably hot for an old guy. His white button-down is open at the collar and rolled up at the cuffs. The tails are loose over dark jeans. His black hair is slicked back and he’s got three deep creases across his forehead over thick eyebrows and intense brown eyes.
“Yeah . . .” he says into the phone. “I’ll take care of it. And let me know about those Giants’ tickets.” After a pause, he grins. “I know. Who woulda thunk. Thanks, Ron.” He disconnects and stands. “Jonathan.”