Tea Leafing: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

That’s why places like the
Pussycat make the money they do — strip clubs are one of the last
holdouts where customer service is king. In fact, customer service is the
primary commodity, the tits and ass just happen to be
an appealing delivery system. Anyone who tells you differently doesn’t
understand the game.
    Pietra posed a threat
to the controlled social terrarium and everybody knew it except for her
otherwise savvy son, Gio. Bouncers, waitresses and “Pink Pay” girls all
scampered to get away when she came through the doors. One of a brave few might
make a beeline for her, like a soldier throwing himself on a grenade for his
platoon. It was a slow-motion symphony, with the customers oblivious that they
were in the presence of the most arrogant and ignorant woman south of the
Mason-Dixon.
    Sam knew about the
communication networks that exist in all clubs like the Pussycat, some subtler
than others. The key to making men spend is to perfect the illusion of careless
freedom and easy relaxation. When Gio’s mom showed up, a call went out from the
front door to the bars and the DJ booth —   “Pietra Alert” — which was nothing more than a futile
attempt at damage control and a warning to take cover. Using closed-frequency
headsets, the valets would radio the door girls, who radioed the bouncers and
the bartenders, who radioed the housemom, who radioed the DJ. From there, the
bartenders would tell the waitresses, who in turn told the Pink Pay girls, who
would pass it along to the dancers. News spread like a virus through the club,
and within minutes everyone was aware of her presence. The idea that these
places are low-tech sleazy dumps is perhaps true of some. But the best clubs in
the country are more wired than the F.B.I.
    As the song ended, Sam
needed to give her aching muscles a rest. Instead of asking Boise if she should
continue dancing, she reached for the soft, red, strapless dress she’d draped
across his knee and stepped into it. Having learned long ago that every
movement was watched, she threaded her legs slowly into her garment and slid it
up the length of her body in one fluid motion. Throwing the dress over her head
and working it down would have been infinitely easier, but sexy? No. It was an
unwritten rule that every stitch of clothing went back on from the bottom up.
Having learned from experience that pulling things over your head would quickly
wreck hair and smear make-up into an unpleasant mess. It was a rookie move only
new girls tried before the more seasoned dancers trained them as to the ways of
seduction. Settling herself back into the seat next to Boise, she reached for
her champagne flute filled with ginger ale.
    Fixing her customer
with an inconspicuous look, she said, “So, where were we?”
    “Sam! Dawling, have you
gained weight or a’you just bloated?” Pietra’s voice cut the mood like a chain
saw. She had wandered down from the steps and positioned herself a few feet in
front of Sam.   Her thick Jersey
drawl pierced the air above the thrumming music. Pietra leered through eyes
squinted into slits, a result of her refusal to wear glasses. Her face twisted
into a scowl that could only be prompted by strong liquor or lemon juice. Or
both.
    Sam patted Boise’s leg
and gave him a wink. “Sorry sweetheart, let me take care of this. I’ll be right
back.” Her face flushed with anger.
    “Pietra, how are you,
dear?” It pained Sam to not let loose on Pietra, but social and professional
survival at the club involved tolerating her sardonic demeanor without
retaliation. She took Pietra’s elbow and steered her away from Boise. “You look
incredible, is that a new necklace I see? You’re so lucky to have a man like
Giovanni Sr.” Sam referred to Pietra’s rarely seen, hen-pecked husband.
    Flattery, no matter how
insincere, was the only way to soothe Pietra’s bitter temperament.
    “Oh, well yeah in fact,
Giovanni Sr. gave it to me just b'cause. I’ll never forget how