Callie’s Last Dance

Dani laughs. “You’re pretty full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“No. But I’ve been there before.”

“Right. And of course, you couldn’t possibly be wrong. Because you’re so intuitive.”

“Don’t be bitchy.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not the type. Look, if I’m wrong, the worst thing that happens is you know you and Sophie are perfect together. But if I’m right, and you find yourself unable to give yourself to her completely-”

“What, I’m supposed to call you? See how a real woman does it?”

“Maybe you are the bitchy type after all,” Callie says. She sighs. “Look, I’m not claiming to be a better lover than Sophie. I’m just saying you and I would have an honest relationship.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Our lovemaking would be based on pure lust, not obligation.”

“You think I find you attractive?” Dani says.

“I know you do.”

“But you’re not full of yourself.”

“Not in the least.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve!”

“And you’ve got the biggest, deepest, bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Dani frowns. “I will never make that phone call.”

“Have you never thought about letting yourself go wild?”

“No.”

“For just one night?”

“No.”

“It’d be something we’ll always have together. Something we’ll never forget for the rest of our lives.”

“I will never make that phone call.”

“We can take it slow at first.”

“You’re insane.”

7.

Top Six Club, Las Vegas.

Carmine Porello.

THE MOB WARS of 2008 resulted in a three-way split for control of the continental United States. The winners were Vincent “Viggie” Matisse (east coast), Sal Bonadello (mid-west), and Carmine “The Chin” Porello, who currently holds the west coast by the thinnest of threads.

Carmine’s seen better days. He’s late seventies, barrel-chested, with thin arms and wispy gray hair he combs straight back and holds in place with some type of ancient hair tonic. He got his nickname because twenty years ago he could lift his chin and cause the death of any ten men. These days he spends his days negotiating blow jobs from the strippers at his dance club, the Top Six.

“New girl’s here, Mr. Porello,” Roy says.

“What’s she look like?”

“A headliner.”

Carmine looks up with sudden interest. “Top shelf?”

“Don’t get too excited. She’s no Gwen Peters.”

“Her and everyone else on the planet,” Carmine says.

He goes quiet a minute, lost in thoughts about little Gwennie, who put the Top Six on the map and kept it there till she ran off and married Lucky Peters, the famous gambler. Gwen wasn’t just beautiful, she was brilliant when it came to strip club entertainment. She invented drinking games and audience participation games that revolutionized the industry and increased business tenfold. Other clubs mimicked her style, stole her ideas, but none could compete. It was Gwen, with her looks, her personality, who brought magic to the place.

That was a year ago, and it’s been all downhill ever since.

For the Top Six and all the other clubs.

After Lucky died, Carmine and his competitors tried to hire Gwen to resurrect their businesses. But she found a Vegas billionaire who keeps her happy as a pampered, kept woman. With Gwen out of the picture the club owners have been falling all over themselves in an effort to hire a headliner who could turn out to be the next Gwen Peters. But it’s like catching lightning in a bottle. In Vegas pretty girls are a dime a dozen. But most of them don’t have to strip for a living. Those who hang around do so because they can’t score a better job elsewhere.

Carmine sighs. “They’re all less than Gwen.”

“True.”

“How much less is this one?”

Roy shrugs. “I give her body a high eight.”

“Maybe a nine?”

“Maybe.”

“You saw her tits?”

Roy nods.

“They real?” Carmine says.

“Real and nice,” he says. “Real nice.”

Carmine says, “P, N, or Q?” Referring to a stripper game Gwen invented where clients try to guess if a penny, nickel, or quarter is sufficient to cover the areola.

“Nickle.”

Carmine licks his lips. “Nickle’s my favorite.”

Roy, thinking, No shit. I’ve only heard that what, eight thousand times?

“How old is she?” Carmine says.

“Eighteen.”

“You check her driver’s license?”

“Yeah,” Roy says, thinking, After all this time you need to ask me that? I’d love to shove my fist up your dinosaur ass and grind your knuckle bones into dice, you disgusting old letch!

“How’s her face?” Carmine says.

“A nine.”

“A high nine?”

“No. But a solid nine.”

“Can she dance?”

“Who knows? She’ll only audition for you.”

“And you put up with that?”

Roy shrugs. “Like I say, she’s a headliner. An eight body, a nine face. A solid eighty-nine. With a ten smile. We need her. She knows it.”

Carmine Porello laughs. “Spunky. I like that. Send her in.”

Roy stands, walks to the door, opens it. Says, “Mr. Porello will see you now.”

The young, well-proportioned blonde who enters the office does so with an air of great confidence. She takes the seat directly across from Carmine’s desk and waits for him to speak.

“You’re not that cute,” Carmine says.

“Yes I am.”

“I’ve seen cuter.”

“Me too. But not in this club.”

“You got a mouth on you,” Carmine says.

“I’m just saying what I know, Mr. Porello. If you’ve got prettier girls than what I’ve seen, you should let this bunch go.”