That night Amy called. It was great to hear her voice, particularly in light of the day I had just had. Though to be honest, the last thing I needed was to get any hornier. I was beginning to feel like a teenage boy in heat.
No wonder my pranks were getting so puerile. I was normally so mature.
Right.
“Whores and s’mores. Sticky outdoor fun. Adults only, please.”
“Aagh. That’s disgusting.” At least she was laughing at my jokes. I’ve got to say, she was a hell of a lot more patient than most women I’ve known. “Hey — we’ve got a file on him. Nikolay Kuzmenko. Immigrated to Canada in 1998, from Russia. Same neighborhood in Moscow as Maxim Legenko. Served 38 months in Joyceville for possession for the purpose of trafficking and assault. He’s been off the radar for five years now.”
“Wonderful. Why would a guy like Legenko hook up with this idiot?”
“Good question. My contact in the Taskforce tells me there have been rumors all along that Legenko is tied into the Russian mob. Kuzmenko fits the profile, and they’re from the same hometown. I know the Organized Crime guys investigated Legenko’s possible mob connection a few years back, but they couldn’t prove anything. Ironically, it was some of that work that opened up the door to the current trial.”
“Hm. Maybe Legenko’s still mobbed up.”
“Could be, but my sense is they see the fraud case as the only real chance they have to put him away. Either way, Donnie, you have to stay away from this Kuzmenko dude. He’s serious trouble.”
“I hear ya.”
“Do you? It sounds to me like the gears are turning in that head of yours.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
“Well don’t. Listen, I’ll be on nights for the next week or so, but call me if anything else comes up.”
“Sounds good.”
That should have been it. A simple ‘talk to you later’ and I would have been home free. But oh no, I couldn’t possibly be that intelligent. I had to stir up the wasp nest, then drop it down my own shorts.
It occurred to me, out of the blue, that I no longer had any chance with Kara in the foreseeable future. Not only were things incredibly awkward, but how could either of us tell whether it was just some strange after-effect of the love potion? Let alone the fact that she worked for me. So just yesterday, I had two intelligent, sexy women that acknowledged my existence. Now I only had one! For some reason, that led me to think that I should make my move on Amy.
I had forgotten my own cardinal rule of dating. The possibility that a girl might go out with you is far preferable to the certainty that she never wants to see you again.
Stupid, stupid me.
“Say, are you up for a drink at some point?”
“Why, Mr. Elder. Are you asking me out on a date?”
Well yes, I was. But I hated it when girls focused that much attention on it. Freaked me out. Not that I’m commitment-averse or anything.
“Depends. How do you define a date?”
“Hm. Let’s see. OK. One person asks the other out, with the hope that it might turn into something.”
“Turn into what?”
“A long-lasting relationship. True love. Marriage. Kids.”
“Aagh!” I admit it. I panicked. Or maybe it was an after-shock from my experience with Kara. Either way, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “What if one person asks the other out, with the hope that it might lead to meaningless sex?”
The line was quiet, and time seemed to barely move, like the flow of ketchup from a bottle when you’re desperate to cram down a plate of French fries. I stopped breathing, and imagined tearing out my own tongue by the root, then flogging myself with it as penance for my outright stupidity.
“Was that what you had in mind?”
Kill me. Kill me now. I was caught in a dilemma of my own making. Tell her no, and have her think I was not attracted to her. Tell her yes, and have her think I was only interested in her body. It was like I had littered a field with landmines, blindfolded myself, and gone for a walk. There was no good answer. I was gay or an asshole. Not that there’s anything wrong with either.
“Donnie?”
“Hi. Uh-.” Crack a joke, that’ll break the ice. “Uh-.” Say something! “Uh, I’d love to have sex with you! But that’s not why I’m asking you out for a drink. I mean, that’d be great, but I like you too, and we wouldn’t have to, you know, not for like a while. And if you just wanted to be friends that’s OK too. But I am attracted to you. I mean, you’re hot. Totally. But I’m a bit of an idiot, so I know I don’t have much of a chance. I, uh, shit.”
It would have been easier to get on a plane, fly to Tehran, and walk through town wearing an “I Love George Bush” t-shirt while drawing humorous caricatures of Mohammed. At least then I would know for sure I was a dead man. In fact, I was holding the phone away from my ear in order to press the Off button, when I heard her laughter build from a whisper to a roar. Putting the receiver back to my ear, I heard her laugh and laugh and laugh. And laugh. Only problem was, I didn’t know if she was laughing with me, or about me.
“Hello? Hellooooo? Amy? You having a good time?”
“Yes- Ha ha- Oh, Donnie. Yes, I am having a good time. Boy, for a good-looking guy, you are the most insecure thing. Don’t worry. I’d love to get together for a drink, date or not. See ya.”
She hung up, and I sat back in my sofa, feeling pretty damned good about myself for the first time that day.
CHAPTER 10
For the second time in just two weeks, I was visiting a customer on a mea culpa visit. Not the best for customer relations, if I was going to take over this business from Clay one day. There was no getting around it, though. Pain deferred is seldom pain avoided.
As it was, there were worse places to visit. Hidden Pleasures was a gentlemen’s club. Or, as some of Ted’s buds might have called it, a titty bar. Admittedly a higher class of joint than the type those guys frequented, but the basic concept was the same.
No one out front, so I strolled through two large oak doors into a lobby, reception at one end and coat check at the other. A young lady — clothed — welcomed me at reception.
“Welcome to Hidden Pleasures. Table for one?”
This was mortifying. I found these places embarrassing as it was, never mind being on my own in one. Not just that, it was my second visit in two weeks. I wasn’t here on “personal business”, but good luck explaining that if I ran into someone I knew. I would rather be found wearing woman’s underwear. Maybe not. But it would be a toss up.
“Uh, no. I’m here to see Melodi Roberts? I’m with Arcane Transport.” I tapped the company logo on my shirt.
“Sure, come with me.” She led me through another set of doors, these with clouded glass inserts.
The inner sanctum.
A stage dominated the room. Shaped like a “T”, the main stage ran across the back of the room, with a single runway platform extending out into the seating area. A few poles were scattered around the stage, with pot lights, a couple of mirrors and the ubiquitous mirror ball.
Chairs lined the front of the stage, paired in front of small tables. The rest of the main floor was taken up with large round dinner tables surrounded by chairs and a small stool at each. My recollection was that the stool was for the girls — easier to step up onto the table for a dance. It was three in the afternoon, late for a liquid lunch, but even so there were groups at five tables, and another six or seven loners interspersed between the bar and the stage-side seats. Two girls were dancing on stage to some Nickleback song, and a lady clad in a bikini was sitting with a group at one of the tables. A waitress was carting a tray lined with pints of beer toward the same table.