This past December, Jenny was found dead in their apartment with slit wrists in the bathtub. Debbie found herself in agony… the person she loved, and one of the few that she never used a ticket on, was dead! There was a suicide note that said that she and Debbie’s bartender were in cahoots, stealing money from the club. The bartender’s body was discovered in the East River soon afterward.
Debbie knew that the suicide note was a fake. It was typed but not signed, and the wording was perfect. Debbie knew that Jenny was notorious in her inability to spell. The police stated that the note was indeed written on the typewriter found in their closet. There was no sign of foul play, but it seemed as if the police were all too eager to call it a suicide and drop the case. Debbie knew in her heart that Vinnie had something to do with Jenny’s death, but she didn’t have any proof.
After Jenny’s funeral, Vinnie confronted Debbie with a notarized transaction that showed that Jenny “sold” her shares in the club to Vinnie. Debbie hired an investigator and found that there was indeed a deposit from Vinnie in Jenny’s checking account. There was also another transaction a week later for a check of a similar amount made out to “cash” and that money was never found.
Debbie realized that Vinnie now owned sixty percent of the club… his original twenty plus Jenny’s forty. As majority owner, he changed a lot of things, including suppliers and employees.
By contract, Debbie must continue to work there for another three years as a “Hostess,” but now that Vinnie controlled the club, he now redefined the job description to be the equivalent of “Stripper.” He also changed the clientele from all women to mostly male.
Now, the club is now just another “wiggler bar,” which is what Debbie and Jenny wanted to prevent from the start. In addition, Vinnie has his own accountants doing the books, burying the profits from the operations with a whole bunch of “losses” and expenditures. There are drugs, and Debbie thinks that a few of the girls might be underage. There’s little that she can do, since she’s part owner of the club, she could be held legally liable, despite the fact that she has no say in the running of the club any more.
Debbie was now getting nothing from the club, as the profits are mostly negligible, and due to the shrinking profits, Debbie’s paycheck is next to nothing. Nobody is interested in her shares of the place—nobody would be stupid enough to own a minority share in a place controlled by Vinnie. Vinnie has offered her a ridiculously low price himself, but Debbie realized that without her tickets or her job, she can’t even afford this place here in Queens where she moved from Greenwich Village.
Debbie found herself in a terrible situation where she’s forced to strip for Vinnie’s club, and she’s sometimes even forced to sleep with customers just to earn living expenses! She’s now not just a stripper but also a hooker!
The police have raided the place once, and as “chief operating officer,” Debbie was fined for various violations, and a number of the girls working there were busted for prostitution. Vinnie has “loaned” money to Debbie to pay the fines for herself and some of the girls in return for an extension of her “Hostess” contract. She’s now in debt to Vinnie for over forty thousand dollars.
I was appalled by Debbie’s story, and felt sorry for her, despite what she did to her own sister. I could see why Debbie didn’t want to talk with Camille.
For some reason, Debbie’s story was hazy on the aspect of the tickets. I kept asking her questions about them, especially as I saw her drinking continuously and refilling her glass, hoping the alcohol would lower her inhibitions about telling me what I wanted to know.
Debbie did give me some important information, though. “You need to be careful who you use the tickets on,” Debbie warned. “Most people don’t know that they’ve been handed tickets, but not all of them! Some people will do whatever you tell them to do, but afterward will be very suspicious of you.”
My ears pricked up at that bit of information. Patrice Williams, one of the first people that I abused with the tickets, seemed quite leery of me after I told her about what I had done, although this wasn’t exactly what Debbie was telling me. “What do you mean by suspicious?” I asked.
“This didn’t happen often,” Debbie said, a faraway look in her eyes. “I remembered giving one to a teacher so I could get a B in her class. From that day forward, she always had it in for me, even though I still managed to get a B. I finally resolved the situation by not even bothering to show up for her class. I still got a B. Even a year or so later, before I left town, it was like she’d go out of her way to get me in trouble.”
Something about that revelation clicked in my mind. “What subject?” I asked.
“English.”
“Let me guess. Mrs. Taylor.”
“You gave her a ticket, too?” Debbie asked.
I shook my head. “No, not at all. I had mostly stopped using the tickets, and she suddenly started picking on me.”
“Detention?” Debbie asked.
“Yeah.”
Debbie shrugged. “My suggestion is to just give her a ticket, tell her to give you an A or a B, and stop showing up for class. The less she sees you, the better off you will be. Mrs. Taylor has friends that will try to make your life miserable just the same.”
“I’ve taken care of Mrs. Taylor, and without using the tickets.”
“How?”
I gave Debbie an abbreviated version of the confrontation between Mrs. Taylor, Mr. Yank, and myself. Debbie seemed in awe that I wouldn’t just use the tickets to fix the situation.
“I didn’t use the tickets because I didn’t see that I had to use them,” I explained. “I’m not sure if she’ll find some other way to hassle me, but I got the feeling that Mr. Yank already has a bad impression of her.”
“Yeah, well, that was back in high school. I’m living a real life now.”
I thought about Debbie’s “real life” and decided not to make a wise remark. Instead, I asked, “Can you tell me anything else about the tickets?” I hoped that Debbie would open up more.
Debbie took a big sip from her glass, emptying it. “Don’t make wishes that you’ll live to regret.”
“I’ve learned that one,” I said.
“No, you haven’t!” Debbie yelled. “You don’t know shit! Donna is…”
Debbie suddenly stopped, and stared at me, refusing to go any further.
“Who’s Donna?” I asked.
Debbie refused to answer.
Debbie was staring at her now empty glass, and it seemed as if she was once again considering a refill. I saw that expression before.
I decided to get off the particular subject. “How did you get rid of the tickets?” I asked Debbie once again.
“I… I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Both. I truly cannot, and therefore I will not.”
I sighed. I made this trip to find out how to get rid of Tim’s tickets. Debbie gave me some information which I could use, but my main objective seemed to have failed. “Debbie, Camille seems to think that I now own your tickets. However, somebody else seems to have found a similar roll.”
“Two rolls?” Debbie asked, genuinely surprised.
Shit. I hoped that I would find out where Tim Hawking’s tickets may have come from.
“You never knew anybody else to have possession of the tickets?” I asked.