“Go home,” George told him. “Go on!”
Then the fellow cleared his throat and spat right on the blue-and-white-lit sign that George had ordered when he hired the dancers. George made a bolt to charge the guy, his fist cocked, and Ray grabbed him and held him back. “Forget it, George,” Ray told him, and then they watched the man get in his car and speed away.
The fellow never returned. But long after this incident, George and Ray would wonder about him, who he was and whom he knew, because a few days after they kicked him out, his departing words came true when two men in suits from the city showed up to inquire about the dancers. They came at noon when the restaurant was closed; Ray was helping George unload the new tables and chairs his cousin had delivered in a big truck.
“Where beautiful ladies dance for you?” the first suited man asked. “You have strippers here?”
“Strippers? No, no,” George explained, laughing as if this was a huge misunderstanding that would get cleared up as soon as he said, “Dancers. We have belly dancers every night. You know, for the men to see.”
“Strippers,” the second man said. “According to the zoning agreement, and as far as the city’s concerned, you have strippers.”
“But they don’t strip,” George said. “They keep their clothes on.”
“So men come here to watch fully clothed women dance?”
“Well, the dancers have outfits, you know? Like bathing suits, I suppose.”
“Look,” the first man said. “I don’t care if they’re wearing bathing suits or holy black habits. You can’t have dancing girls in Tinley Park, and that’s that.”
The second man handed George a fine for five hundred dollars. “Next time it’s a grand,” he told George.
“Then two grand,” the first man said. “And then you’ll lose your business license. You hear me? You’re going to get shut down if this keeps up.”
Before they left, they made George and Ray take down the big sign; and when the city men did leave. George and Ray put it right back up.
“Are you sure we should do this, George?”
“Fuck them!” he barked. “Fucking animals. This is my business,” he said. “And if I want to have dancers in my business, I’ll goddamn well have them!”
Any way he looked at it. Ray Dwyer was in danger of losing his job. He knew the city meant business when the suited men had warned George about closing him down, and even if George had listened and fired the dancers, there’d be no reason to have a bouncer, and no more packed, busy nights to bring in the kind of money George needed to stay on top; he’d have to get rid of the busboys, he’d have to get rid of the cooks, and even if George kept Ray Dwyer on to clean the parking lot, he’d have to get rid of him, too.
But George hadn’t listened to the suited city men: he kept the dancers and refused to pay the fines that had increased to the two-grand maximum within a few weeks. “Fuck them!” he’d say, then rip the fines into shreds and toss them in the trash.
There was no reasoning with George; Ray had tried to offer suggestions, possible solutions: “Why don’t you write a letter to the alderman? Or go to the city council and try to make some kind of deal. You’re smart, George. I’m sure you can come up with something.”
“No, no, no,” George said. “Why should I crawl to them like a goddamn beggar?”
“Then how about if you get all the customers to sign a petition?”
“No,” George said. “I won’t do it. The city’s just a bunch of fucking criminal animals. They won’t listen.”
So Ray made a petition himself on a yellow legal pad he’d found in George’s office, and that night he went around the restaurant and explained the situation to the patrons, all of whom were eager to sign. He’d gotten thirty names when George marched up and snatched the pad from his hands. “What the hell is this?” he asked.
“A petition!” Ray announced. He was smiling, and sure George would be at least thankful that he cared. “Look at all the names.”
“Who the hell put you in charge?” George said. “I said no petitions, and I mean no petitions. This is my goddamn place! Now quit this nonsense and do your job,” George said, then threw the pad in the trash and locked himself in his office. He didn’t speak to Ray for three days.
There were no more late nights at the house with George’s wine and stories, since George never wanted to leave the restaurant, even after closing. He’d stay up most nights pacing the empty floor, staring out the windows, blaring the Rembetica albums while he drank heavily and made mumbled proclamations to Ray or to himself or to some invisible jury he might have imagined sitting at the empty tables, slurring his words in both English and Greek. Ray could hardly stand to listen to him anymore.
One night after closing, Karima asked George if he could give her a ride home, since her car was in the shop. George, who was already drunk and angry, told Ray to borrow his car and take her home.
“I can’t leave,” George told him. “Who knows when the bastards will come to burn me down.”
Karima lived in Midlothian, twenty minutes away. She didn’t seem to like the fact that Ray was driving, because for most of the trip she kept her arms crossed and didn’t say anything beyond ordered directions. “Turn here,” she said. “Go left on the next street,” she said.
Sometimes, because of her accent, Ray couldn’t understand what she said. “Pardon me?” he asked, and each time he did. Karima was visibly annoyed with both sound and movement:
“I said two more blocks!”
“I’m sorry,” Ray said. “Sorry.”
Karima didn’t even look at Ray until he pulled up to her apartment and parked the car. “Here you go,” Ray said, but Karima didn’t get out of the car.
“Have you always been the bouncer?” she asked.
“No,” Ray told her; he was suddenly uncomfortable with himself, as if probed by a board of strange enemies, since this was the first time he’d been completely alone with a woman in well over thirty years. “I used to drive trucks,” he said.
“Trucks,” Karima repeated. Then she was staring at him, silent.
“Turn off the car,” she finally said, and with his moist, trembling fingers, Ray reached for the key and cut the engine. Something warm and numb had taken over his body, controlled his breath, his movement, his speech.
“And then what?” Karima asked, and Ray answered, “Prison. I was in prison for a long time.”
“Prison! Oh, my, what for?” Karima asked. “What did you do to get sent to prison?”
“I got sent to prison because I killed a man.”
Karima gasped, covered her mouth, then let out a sickeningly childish laugh that bothered Ray, since he didn’t find anything funny about prison or murder. “A killer,” she said. “A killer drove me home tonight.”
Ray should have despised being called a killer, and part of him did, but for some reason he only smiled and said, “Yeah. I guess so,” and waited for Karima to leave.
But Karima stayed right where she was, then reached up and ran her fingernails along the back of Ray’s neck. Ray involuntarily closed his eyes and sighed, because he’d never truly forgotten what it was like to be touched by a beautiful girl, and though not a single day had passed without his thinking about her at least once, Ray Dwyer was strongly and sadly reminded of Samantha Baskin, the only beautiful girl he’d ever loved. And, as if reading his mind, Karima asked, “Do you love a special girl?”
Ray, his eyes still closed, said, “Yes. Samantha Baskin.” He hadn’t wanted to say this or anything else, since he knew in his heart that Karima, this dancer who usually ignored him, didn’t really deserve to know whom he loved; she was toying with him, but the words had still fallen from his lips, and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Samantha Baskin,” Karima said. “And if I let you make love to me, Mister Killer, would you call me Samantha Baskin?”
With this, Ray opened his eyes, closed his lips, and glared across the seat at Karima, who was not, he realized, a beautiful, pretty, or even nice girl; she was none of these things, and Ray regretted telling her so much. “No,” he said; her game had made him almost furious, and empty of little else hut sadness. “I wouldn’t call you anything,” he said. “Now please get out.”