MEET UP – GAS STATION – NORTHWEST HIGHWAY – 3:42 p.m.
I’d met with Dan, a regular who I was introduced to by a bartender at The Gentleman’s Club for a hundo.
Dan is a tall, middle-aged blue-blood from Boston. His being raised in wealth has him so out of touch that he’s totally unaware of his surroundings.
Several times, I’ve seen him walk into a convenience store, hit the ATM, and return to his running Ferrari that he’d left with his house keys and wallet resting in plain view on the passenger seat.
His timing is always off, too. If he says he’ll be at a meet-up in fifteen minutes, it’ll probably be more like twenty or twenty-five, leaving me sitting and waiting with a pocket full of sizzle.
If that isn’t bad enough, once he arrives, he’ll usually pull up right next to me with cash in hand, his top down, music blasting, and revving his engine.
For Dan, I only carry exactly what I have for him and no more.
I keep a stack of free door passes from Gold Town in my center console. That’s my line in case we’re ever questioned by the laws.
GOLD TOWN CABARET – 4:27 p.m.
As soon as I’d walked in, I got the news that Robbie, a past-her-prime stripper whom I’d met through the DJ, Romero, had been fired.
Robbie was unkempt, toned but not shapely, and never wore makeup. Her red hair was wild and big, and when fucked up, she would continually whip it from one side to the other.
She had a nice little side hustle going where she’d score from me and peddle to the girls and customers, taxing them for personal profit. I really didn’t care because it kept the heat off.
Robbie’s also a professional couch surfer and was staying with a club member named James. James is older, about sixty, and very polite; a real gentleman. I’d shot pool with him a couple of times prior to my introduction to Robbie.
She’d exposed him, telling me how he owned a business where he’d collect quarterly payments of five million dollars, how he liked to entertain young girls at his downtown apartment, and that he loved my coke.
However, James must have had enough of Robbie because he’d kicked her out of his place, and she was now living in the Design District with an associate of his.
This guy was also a partier. I’d get calls from Robbie around the clock for no less than two hundred a trip, plus tip.
I moved a few pieces, a couple hundred bags, and four forty sacks before calling it.
No part of this chronicle may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system – except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper – without permission in writing from the publisher, Creole Gaudet.
He felt those wondrous feelings again. He knew what they were.
He lowered his cupped hand to the nape of her neck, encouragingly prodding her action with the tips of his fingers.
But something was odd. Her touch was gentler. Her motions were different. Her hair was straighter, longer. His mind searched in a million directions for an answer, but the grip of confusion was too strong.
What he was sure of was that it was not a dream. He was awake. It was real.
Squinting against the mid-evening sun spilling through the bedroom windows, he peered at the figure, watching as it slowly bobbed on his erection. He could now see that it wasn’t Tawny. It was Blake.
He was paralyzed with panic, but quickly shook it off. “Blake, stop that,” he scolded in a hushed whisper. “What are you doing? Tawny’s going to kill us.”
She looked up at him with a half grin, tonging and toying the thick strand of pre-ejaculate she’d milked to the top. “You’re sure?”
“Fuck yeah, I’m sure.” Blake took him deep within, holding him firmly. He countered with a straight-arm to the brow but rapidly weakened, giving way to libidinous gratification. “Come on, Blake, you’ve got to stop. Please… We can’t do this. Tawny’s going to come in here any minute.”
A voice sounded from across the room. “She’s already here.”
He turned to her. She was seated deep within the sumptuous recliner. Her steely blue eyes were laser-focused.
A flood of guilt overcame him. His heart pounded. Sweat rushed from every pore. As he wiped the rheum away with the edges of his hands, he tried to make sense of it all. “Tawny, do you see what’s going on here?”
“Of course I do… I sent her, Paco. You can’t expect a hot young girl like Blake not to have needs. She’s yours. She belongs to you. We both belong to you.”
Tawny rose from the plush easy chair. He watched with unknowing expectancy as she sashayed towards him. She climbed lithely atop, pressing her bare body to his muscular torso. She rasped into his ear. “It’s okay, baby, just relax.” Tawny performed a sensual downward glissade, placing gentle kisses to his neck, chest, and stomach.
She positioned herself next to Blake, gripping the base of his shaft. She began a slow, tight stroke. Blake looked on intently.
Tawny studied his expressions as she increased her pace. His legs began to tremble. His hips shook spasmodically to her steady rhythm.
Tawny instructed. “Let it hit you.” Blake leaned in closer, squeezing her lids tightly in anticipation.
Paco rocked back and forward, pounding the mattress with clenched fists. “Now, Blake! He’s about to come… You’re ready?!”
“I’m ready.”
Paco’s body stiffened. He convulsed uncontrollably, instinctively humping Tawny’s taut grip. He grunted, bellowed, and moaned as blasts of semen exploded from his rod, painting Blake’s tender grin.
Through her fluid-soaked lashes, she looked to Tawny. “It’s so hot. I didn’t know it would be so hot.” Tawny gently swiped a wad from Blake’s cheek, placing it to her parted lips, drawing it in, and swallowing. “It’s yummy too.” She handed Paco’s spent member to Blake. “Here, take it. There’s some more in there. Get the rest of it.”
Blake placed the supple phallus into her mouth, suckling, drinking him dry.
Lightheadedness descended upon him. Paco began to fade.
He watched from the corners of his eyes as the frolicking girls removed themselves from the scene. Their joyous sounds became increasingly distant. Their naked bodies softened to a blur.
No part of this prologue may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system – except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper – without permission in writing from the publisher, Creole Gaudet.
Just across the levee, the calliope of the Steamboat Natchez is playing against the warning horn as it paddles away into the sunset.
A small group enjoying a horse and buggy ride down Decatur Street has steered their attention towards a merry bunch of tourists gathered around a troupe of teenage tap dancers and jazz musicians, playing for tips.
A young guy, mid-twenties, takes a pause at the bright green sports coupe parked just outside the Stinky Cheek Bar and Grill. He enters to the sounds of The Meters, “Cissy Strut”, blasting from the jukebox. The wooden floors groan under his boot heels as he strides towards his favorite spot, a stool near the open doorway.
“Are you eating, Dillon, or just drinking?”
“Eating.”
“Your usual?”
“With fries, please?”
“Fries too?” She grinned, raking her blonde locks away from her bright blue eyes. “You must have worked up an appetite. Band practice?”
“I’m worn out.”
“You’re going to get there. Keep working. You’ll be a star.”
“Thanks, Crystal.”
He was halfway through his catfish po’ boy when he noticed her.
Strands of her full chestnut mane blew ever so slightly under the slow-spinning ceiling fans. Her thin, shapely figure was hugged by a red, rose colored dress.
She stood at the bar, anxiously waiting as Crystal tended to a customer at the far end. “I need change, please!”
Crystal’s head spun around. “I’ll be with you in a moment!”
Dillon watched as she turned towards the video poker machines near the rear. A chair was leaned against one; the other two had players, and at a side table were a middle-aged couple waiting to get on.
She dug into her purse and removed a bill. She held it high. “I need change, please. I’m playing.”
Crystal’s long, skinny legs hurried towards her. “I can only wait on one person at a time.” She glanced at the hundred. “I don’t have it right now.”
“What do you mean you don’t have it right now?”
“I need my change for later on. It’s Sunday, and in about an hour, lots of people will be coming in. It’s going to get hectic.”
“It’s about to get hectic right now. I’m playing that machine…” She looked back, stealing a peek. “People are waiting on it, and I’ve already lost a lot of money that I’m trying to win back.”
“Sorry, I need my change.”
“Okay, what if I ordered another drink?”
“Nope.” There was a slight moan across the room. “I still don’t have it.”
“What kind of bullshit is this?! Where is your manager?!”
“He’s not here right now.”
“When will he be back?”
“In about a half hour or so.”
“That’ll be too late!”
“Not my problem.” Crystal was filled with spite as she traipsed away. She faced a few bottles before picking up the feather duster.
“I hope he’s getting change for your…lots of people.”
Crystal lowered her pitch. “Poker machines take hundreds.”
“If I’d wanted to play a hundred, I would have played a hundred!”
“You’re going to end up putting it all in there anyway.”
Fire shot from the girl’s eyes. “Bitch!”
Dillon stood, cutting in. “I have it. Hold on.” This drew ire from Crystal. He peeled five twenties off a folded wad he’d retrieved from his front left pocket and handed them to her.
“Thank you so much!” She turned to Crystal as she sexily sashayed away. Her voice trailed behind her. “And you’re a terrible bartender!”
Dillon laughed. “Why are you being so mean, Crystal?”
“I was not being mean. She was rude. I have my regulars to take care of. She’s impatient. Thinks she can get whatever she wants when she wants it.”
“She was about to lose her machine.”
“So… Captain save a ho.”
“You did not just call me… Wow! Here’s one for my tab, and the other is for you.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Twenty dollars better.”
“Ha! Look at you, desperado. You didn’t even finish your sandwich. Go save your ho.”
Dillon approached slowly, taking a lean against the side of the one armed bandit, he watched as the girl dropped her second Andrew into the slot. “How’s it going?”
“I’m about to win.”
“Okay.”
“I am, man! Don’t jinx me!”
“Alright, I’m just asking how it’s going?” He paused, taking a beat. “I’m Dillon. What’s your name?”
“Camilla. Please tell me that you did not come over here to shoot your shot…”
“Whoa! Hold on… Don’t come at me like that.”
She stopped playing. “What do you want, dude?”
“You think I can get that hundred?”
“The hundred?”
“I gave you five twenties…”
“Yeah… What kind of shit are you trying to run?”
“What kind of shit are you trying to run?”
She studied him. “You’re too cute to be a hustler?”
“And you’re about the prettiest hustler I’ve ever seen.”
“Me?” She broke into laughter. “I don’t have to hustle anyone. I can promise you that.”
“I can’t tell. I’ll just say that you were so pissed off at Crystal that you actually forgot.”
No part of this episode may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system – except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper – without permission in writing from the publisher, Creole Gaudet.
JANUARY 22, 2020 – Business is still slow. Weather is cold; low 40s.
GOLD TOWN CABARET – 2:28 p.m.
Natalia is a mature Hispanic stripper from New York with a tough girl attitude. She has a pretty, doll-like face, long black hair, huge titties, thick, wide hips and thighs, and a fat, juicy ass.
She likes me and wants to hang out outside of the club, but I’ve only known her now for about two months, and I’m not ready to let her into my comfort zone just yet.
She’d left a bad text in my phone the day before, telling me that she needed me to come out for a couple of tricks that wanted an eight ball. I saw red flags and blew off the deal.
I’d walked in, and after my eyes adjusted, I could see her and Sarah, a frail, late forties drug-addled blonde, sitting with and talking to a customer at a table on the main floor. Natalia noticed me. She smiled. I walked over and stood, searching my phone messages.
Sarah spoke first. “Hey, Andre.”
“Give me a second. I’ve got to discuss something with this one.”
I leaned. “This right here, that’s no good for me. Don’t ever put something like that in my phone again.”
“What?”
“Never type in an amount. Just ask me if I can come by. I’m always ready for anything.”
“I’m sorry, doll. That ain’t me. You know I’m better than that.”
“I don’t know shit. I’m looking right here at what you…”
“You don’t have an encrypted app? Let me show you…”
“I don’t need an encrypted app. Everybody I fuck with knows better than to ever do some shit like that.”
“You’re right. It’ll never happen again. Trust me.”
“So, what was up with those customers yesterday?”
“It was two dudes, one white and one black. Me and Miley were sitting with them and drinking, and everything was cool. Miley offered them some coke to get them to go into the VIP, and then couldn’t get the shit. Her fucking plug didn’t come through.
“That’s when I was trying to get with you. But then shit got all fucked up. The bitch kept the money and went home, leaving me holding the charge.
“I had to let them motherfuckers know… I had nothing to do with that. That deal was between them. Leave me out of it.”
“Yeah, don’t call me for bullshit. You don’t even know them. Don’t do any favors for some fucking random off the street. That’ll get us all fucked up.”
I didn’t press the issue any further. My point was made.
HOME – 5:40 p.m.
A friend and confidant of mine, Demi, stopped by on her way to work for her usual forty sack. She’s a waitress at Big John’s Gentleman’s Club out in Fort Worth. That was the first money I’d made all day.
HOME – 10:02 p.m.
I’d given up and was going to ride out to Cinepolis to check out the new “Bad Boys” movie when I got a text from Holly.
She too works at Big John’s. From her coded message, I knew it was three hundred for me. That ended the movie idea.
BIG JOHN’S GENTLEMAN’S CLUB – 10:46 p.m.
Holly is low-key and very professional. She has all the high-end clients and makes big money for herself and the club. The transaction went smoothly.
A little backstory. It was Demi who’d introduced and put me on with Holly. Demi later told me that Holly thought I was cute and had talked me up.
I was also attracted to Holly. She’s ultra thin with an okay face and long blonde hair to her lower back. She has a subtle charisma, a certain way about her.
I’d kept it all business, though. I didn’t want to cross a line, especially when I had a new, consistent source of income.
Holly sat me at a table opposite the stage.
I was sipping my beer when a petite Hispanic dancer named Jeanice stopped by. She took a seat in front of me and smiled. “Hey, handsome.”
“Hey.”
“Where’s your friend?”
“What friend?”
“You were with him and the other guy last week.”
“For the Conor McGregor fight?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know them. We’d just started talking. Wait… That was you entertaining the other guy. I remember.”
“Yeah… So, what’s up?”
“I’m just hanging out. I was going to go to the movies, but at the last minute I decided to come by here.”
“I’m glad you did… Maybe we can go to the movies together.”
“That sounds good.”
“Call me.” I opened my contacts and handed her my phone. “You put it in. If the managers see that, they’ll think I’m trying to take you out of here.”
I entered her number and locked it in. “I just messaged you with my name.”
“Okay, I’m up next on stage, and I’m going to go and make some rounds after that. Will you be here for a while?”
“I don’t know yet. I won’t be too much longer, though.”
I watched as she walked away, noticing her body for the first time. Her small breasts were made up for by her perfectly round and plump bottom. I could only imagine how soft it must have been.
I went to the bar for twenty singles, then to the stage and tossed them in front of her. She smiled, winked, and blew me a kiss.
It was a little later when Holly checked in on me. “Are you okay, Andre? Can I get you anything else?”
“I’m good… Let me ask you something. What do you know of Jeanice? I think she’s hot. She’s wanting to go to the movies with me.”
“Oh… I don’t keep up with the dancers that much.”
I sensed a sourness in her voice, but I wasn’t sure.
After about an hour, I was ready to call it a night. On my way out, I stopped Holly to thank her. “You know, if you were available, I wouldn’t even be looking at any of these other girls in here or anywhere else. It could be me and you against the world.”
“Yeah, because I was getting all jealous when you asked me about her.”
“Really?”
“You know, you can come by anytime you like. It doesn’t have to be about business.”
“Okay… I’ll do that.”
I walked to my car, started it, and sat for a moment. I thought of how I would probably have to make a decision. Hang out with the hot fun-girl Jeanice, or see if there’s something there with Holly, my new hook-up with the big-time clients.
No part of this chronicle may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system – except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper – without permission in writing from the publisher, Creole Gaudet.
She moved instinctively and efficiently as she dragged the items one by one from the humming conveyor, slowing only for the audible confirmation of the laser scanner before sliding them onto the holding shelf for bagging.
In her slim-fit blue denims and black running shoes, she stood nearly five feet five.
Her curvy hips and bulging breasts beneath her smock gave only a slight intimation as to her shapely figure.
Her cherry red lips, puffed and pillowed, were a Palicourea elata in bloom. Below her thick, naturally arched eyebrows were a pair of penetrating but soft and inviting green eyes that contrasted beautifully with her light brown skin.
Reflecting brightly off the rows of neon tubes filling the ceiling was the glossy white acrylic name tag pinned to her left lapel. Etched in black below the company’s pale green scripted logo was the name Darlene.
Shuleman’s Community Food Market was established in the early twentieth century by Ansel Shulman and his wife, Claudia, who were the children of German immigrants who had come to New Orleans.
It was built as a box-type construction at the corner of St. Claude and Elysian Fields Avenues, just on the edge between the city’s seventh and eighth wards.
Started as a mom and pop grocery store, it’d grown into a small supermarket, unfailingly stocked with fresh meats, rows of can goods, rice, beans, fresh fruits, vegetables, and baked breads of all sorts.
In the late sixties, the addition of air conditioning was a pleasant change, as were the sliding glass doors to the front and rear entrances, along with the paved parking lot out back.
They’d even installed a deli with seating. Over the years, this had become a lunch-time custom of the laborers who worked in the area.
With the coming of the civil rights movement and the integration of public schools on the horizon, the Shulmans, like so many other families of means, had moved into a two-story brick home in an all-white suburb west of the city called Metairie.
In an effort to save face, they’d hired and maintained black managers, but only of Creole descent. Because of their complexion, some were often mistaken for white; they were a perfect homogeneity for the mixed race community.
Non-Creole blacks were just as educated, ambitious, and well-spoken, but could not make as easy a transition into the mainstream.
The store was now run by fifth generation, Randy Shulman Jr. His father had retired in 2005, just after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. He was too far in age to try and rebuild the family business, so he’d left it up to his son to continue.
However, Randy was different. He didn’t have the same work ethic of the Shulmans before him or an interest in the day-to-day commitment required of a business owner. He’d hired Ronald Stevens, Mr. Ron as he was called by the employees, as the manager.
Mr. Ron was a very short, pear-shaped man who’d developed strabismus at the age of three. He also suffered from chronic halitosis and seborrhoeic dermatitis of the scalp that blanketed his shoulders with large flaky deposits from his graying, wavy hair.
He maintained a body odor that was reined in only by the heavy scent of deodorant on the verge of breach. His teeth were a cheesy yellow with a dense calculus accumulation and inflamed gingiva. His face was peppered with blackheads; the majority embedded in the tip of his nose and along the rim of his lips.
Being found guilty of professional malpractice along with ethics violations, Ronald Stevens had lost his CPA license.
It was a perfect partnership for him and Randy. With Ronald cooking the books, Randy was able to shave profits from his parents and avoid paying actual taxes due.
In exchange, Mr. Ron was given total control of the store, which he took full advantage of.
Darlene was born Darlene Oubre and had grown up in the neighborhood. She’d been employed at Shulman’s for three years since graduating from high school.
She was extra jubilant. It was her twenty-first birthday and she was anxious to see what her husband Warren had for her at home.
The year before, Warren had unexpectedly surprised her with a bouquet of flowers. She was at the register when he’d arrived with them, causing quite a stir.
Warren Goins stood six feet two with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He was medium brown, handsome and sported a neat Ivy League.
The ladies had circled around the couple, congratulating Darlene and giving Warren flirtatious looks.
There was plenty of witty commentary and slight sexual overtures along with light fingertip touches to Warren’s forearms and biceps.
Darlene was terribly embarrassed but loved the attention.
This did not sit well with Mr. Ron. It was his first time seeing Warren, and it had stopped him in his tracks.
He’d watched the scene, leering with a resentful discontent. He turned away, made a half step, stopped, looked again, then stormed off into his office, slamming the door behind him.
No part of this episode may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system – except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper – without permission in writing from the publisher, Creole Gaudet.
