Callie’s Last Dance

He looks at Roy, says, “You believe this shit?”

Roy says, “Show some respect.”

To Carmine, she says, “What happened to his hand?”

Carmine looks at Roy, then back at her. “He broke it.”

“That’s too much cast for a broken hand.”

“Let’s move along with the interview,” Carmine says, softening his tone. “What’s your name, sugar?”

“My driver’s license says Willow.”

He laughs. “Willow what?”

“Breeland.”

“You’re young.”

She says nothing.

“Ever dance before?”

She nods.

“Where?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“If you’re gonna work for me, there won’t be any secrets between us.”

“Does that mean you’ll tell me everything I want to know about your business?”

Carmine and Roy do a double-take.

Carmine says, “You believe this shit?”

Roy says, “Show some respect. I won’t tell you again.”

Willow says, “Where I come from, respect is a two-way street.”

Carmine says, “Where do you come from?”

“Midwest.”

“Fresh off the bus?”

“Airline. I’ve got a bank account.”

“Oh, a bank account!” Roy says. “Wow!”

Willow frowns.

Carmine says, “You got references?”

“All the references I need are under my clothes.”

Carmine swallows his urge to slap her face. This fuckin’ eighteen-year-old comes waltzing in here like she owns the place. Cocky, arrogant, showing no respect. She sure as shit ain’t no Gwen Peters. Gwen may have been confident, but she wasn’t cocky. She knew her place in the hierarchy. That said, Carmine finds himself drawn to this mouthy little Willow. He wants to see her dance. Wants to see what’s under her clothes. It’s just that she needs to be brought down a peg.

“Let’s see what you got,” he says.

Willow lifts her tank top.

Carmine forces himself not to lick his lips or drool. But the fact is Willow’s tits are perfect. He strains to contain his enthusiasm. Forces himself to say, “Not bad.”

Then he adds, “Roy says you’ve got a great smile.”

“Roy’s right.”

“Show me.”

Willow flashes her money smile.

“I’d like to see that smile wrapped around my dick,” Carmine says, attempting to put her in her place.

Roy laughs.

Without batting an eye, Willow says, “If we’re negotiating, let’s leave Roy out of it from here on.”

Roy moves toward her with his fist cocked. But Carmine waves him off.

Roy says, “Say the word, I’ll beat that attitude out of her.”

Carmine says, “Leave us be, Roy. Can’t you see we’re negotiating?”

Willow smiles.

Roy glares at her. Says, “This ain’t over, bitch.”

Willow says, “Run along, Roy.”

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

He gets right up in her face. His eyes are slits. His face, a mask of fury. Through clenched teeth he says, “Get ready, Miss. Because I’ve got plans for you!”

“Cancel them,” she says.

“Outside this club, you’re on my turf,” he snarls. “Bad things happen on my turf. You been warned.”

Willow gives him a look of her own. Then says, “Roy, you’re a bug on my windshield. Nothing more.”

When he leaves, Carmine says, “You got balls, I’ll give you that. But you better re-think this thing with Roy.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s a mean son of a bitch.”

Willow shrugs.

“I won’t lie to you. He beats the shit out of the girls sometimes.”

Willow yawns.

“I’m serious. He broke a girl’s jaw once, for talking back. Crushed another one’s cheekbones.”

Willow says, “I’m not afraid.”

“Why not?”

She bats her goldenrod eyes at him and says, “You’ll take care of me.”

Carmine gives her a long look, then says, “The other girls think Roy’s the power around here.”

“Why should you and I care what they think?”

Carmine scrunches up his face in thought and says, “Roy thinks I’m ripe for the plucking.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He’s one step away from making a run at me.”

“Then maybe we should put him in his place.”

Carmine gives her a long, wistful look.

His voice softens. “You remind me of things from long ago.”

“What sorts of things?”

“Honey-suckle. Swimming at Blue Lake. Stick ball. Kick the can. You know, kid things.”

He smiles.

Willow says, “Who’s the first girl you ever felt up?”

“Excuse me? Did you just say ‘felt up’?”

She nods.

“You mean kissed?”

“Nope. Felt up.”

He laughs. “Seriously?”

“I’m told you never forget your first feel.”

“Mary Jane Milligan.”

She smiles. “How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

“And she was?”

“The same. During lunch she’d stand by the oak tree in the school yard, let you feel her up for a quarter.”

Willow laughs. “A quarter?”

“Don’t laugh. That was a big number in those days.”

“Did she lift up her shirt, or what?”

“In the early days she’d flash you for a quarter. But the boys grew wise to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’d keep an eye on her. When she got a customer they’d run over and surround her and try to catch a free peek.”