Brett Battles
Perfect Gentleman
You won’t like me.
Whatever. I’ve stopped caring.
I’m not a bad guy, but you’re not going to believe that. People like you never do. You hear about what I do. You see how I live. You think, sleaze or deviant or something like that. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m all those things. I certainly don’t think God’s waiting for me to show up at his front gate.
Again, it doesn’t matter. This isn’t really about me, is it? It’s about Joseph Perdue.
Now there was a guy you should really hate. A real asshole. But you people only choose to see one side of him. You made him out the hero. Someday you’ll probably call him a martyr for the cause. For the American way. That’s what happens to the dead, isn’t it? No one cares about the truth.
I remember the first time he came into the bar.
That’s not really surprising. I remember every time someone new comes in. It’s part of my job. First I need to make sure the guy (they’re always guys) doesn’t look like an obvious problem. If he’s too drunk or too belligerent or has got a bad rep, I point him to another bar and say they got a special show that night and he shouldn’t miss it. Works every time. If he doesn’t seem like he’ll be a problem then I size him up, figure out how much we can expect to get out of him and what he might be looking for.
On the evening Perdue came in, the usual pop crap was blaring out of our far too expensive sound system. Occasionally, I’ve been known to sneak in an old Skynyrd album or
Perhaps I should have taken that as a sign.
It was a slow night, a Tuesday. Our big nights are Thursdays, Fridays and Mondays-the first two because around here everyone is ready to start the weekend a little early, and Mondays because that’s when we hold our weekly body-painting contest. Nothing like some fluorescent paint, some beautiful young women, and a few black- light tubes to fill up the place and bring in the cash.
Event evening or not, we still had a full complement of girls, somewhere between twenty and thirty at the beginning of the shift. That number would depend on how many girls were sick, how many had found someone for an extended absence, and how many just didn’t show up.
No idea what our exact total was that night. I do know that Ellie was there. She was up on the stage with five or six others grinding away. But I’ve gotta say, whenever Ellie was on stage, it was as if she were dancing alone. That was her power. She was a superstar. The killer body and the killer personality and that killer something that wouldn’t allow you to take your eyes off of her.
You don’t see a lot of superstars. Maybe one or two per bar. Ellie was our one.
In strip bars in the States, the girls had routines, elaborate moves choreographed to the latest hip-hop favorite. But not here.
Of course, my place really isn’t a strip bar. And it’s nowhere near the States. It’s in Angeles City in the Philippines. Perhaps you remember Clark Air Base? Used to be the biggest U.S. base outside of the States. The old main gate is only a couple miles from the door of my bar. But then there was Mt. Pinatubo erupting ash over everything, and the Filipino people threatening to erupt in anger if the U.S. didn’t withdraw.
We withdrew.
Well, the government did. Us ex-pats, we stayed. And over the years we’ve been joined by more.
This is the part where you realize you hate me. Yeah, my bar is one of
And this is the part where I tell you I take care of my girls. I try not to let them go out with jerks. It happens, but not as much as it does at other bars. I do what I can to protect them. I try to keep them out of too much trouble. I know it won’t matter, but there are a hell of a lot worse
So go ahead and hate me, but the business will still be here. The guys will still come. And so will the girls. Because for them the money’s better here, and there’s always a chance they might get taken out of the life to live in Australia or the UK or the States.
Perdue, if I remember correctly, glanced at the narrow stage-more like a runway down the center of the room back before I remodeled-then took a seat in an empty booth on the far side.
He wasn’t alone for long. That’s not why people come to the bars in Angeles City. They come for the laughs, for the cold bottles of San Miguel beer, but most of all they come for the brown-skinned girls so willing and available.
A couple of my waitresses in their uniforms of tight pink hot pants and white bikini tops approached him together. Only half interested, I watched the encounter, still unsure if the guy was one of those who was only gauging the talent and would soon be leaving, or was someone we could milk a few pesos out of, maybe even hook him up for the night.
One of the waitresses, Anna, giggled while the other one, Margaret, I think, looked over in my direction and said something to our new guest. Perdue looked at me, then removed a wad of bills from his pocket and handed a couple of notes to each of the girls.
Now I was intrigued. Guys usually didn’t pay for anything the moment they arrived. What happened next surprised me even more. Perdue got up from his booth and walked around the stage to where I sat at the bar.
He nodded at the stool next to the one I was sitting on. “May I?”
“Please,” I said.
“Thanks. I think the view’s better from over here.”
Indeed it was. Superstar Ellie with the do-me-now looks was swaying back and forth less than ten feet away.
“Joseph Perdue.” He held out a thin, rough hand.
“Wade Norris,” I said.
His grip was stronger than I expected. Whoever Perdue was, he was more powerful than he let on.
“You American, too?” he asked.
I nodded. “Ohio. Columbus.”
“Never been there. I’m from Wyoming, myself.”
“Yellowstone?” I asked. It was the only place I knew in Wyoming.
He smiled at me. “Nah. Laramie. Cowboy country.”
Anna walked over and handed Perdue a San Miguel, then set a cup on the bar behind him with a slip of paper inside noting the beer.
He held his bottle out toward me. “Cheers, Wade.”
I obliged by clinking the bottom of my bottle against the bottom of his. We both took drinks, his deeper than mine.
“I hear you’re the
Run would be a good word for it, I thought. I wasn’t the owner; he was thousands of miles away in the Netherlands. But I was the decision-maker. And gatekeeper.
I shrugged, then said, “You enjoying Angeles?”
“It’s not bad. But, you know, all these bars around here seem pretty much the same. You all got the neon, the mirrors with all the names painted on them, the big bells. The only difference I can see is the girls. Some places have a better group than others.”
I couldn’t argue with his assessment. There are over a hundred go-go bars in Angeles City, all offering
