Ladies Night (9 page)

Amp tried to keep his head up later on that evening while he put in his work at Club Eden, but the setback of losing his job taunted his thoughts. He was thinking about it as he checked the perimeter of the parking lot. As he rounded the corner of the building to check the back, he saw a car speeding away. There was no one going in to the dancers' entrance, so whoever was driving the car hadn't been dropping off someone. Distracted by his own messed-up situation, Amp did a quick check of the back, saw that nothing looked suspicious, and headed back to his post at the front door without another thought about the car.

Standing by the front door, he pulled out his wallet and removed the paper with Jesse's number on it. Deep in thought, he considered calling Jesse to put in some work. Why not? Being legit was proving not to pay off, at least not as fast as Amp would have liked it to. On second thought, however, sitting back in prison wouldn't be any better. He'd met more of his share of cats in prison who were there because they, too, felt they could make a quick buck by slinging dope. Some of them were serving more time than dudes who had committed murder. That was not the life for Amp. He placed the piece of paper back in his wallet and tucked his wallet away. For the time being, he would have to be satisfied with the money he was making at the club—and thanks to the generous women who tipped him as they made their way inside, the money wasn't too bad, he decided.

After checking a few IDs, getting flirted with by a couple chicks, and having that lovely US currency slipped into his pocket, Amp stepped away from the door to make sure things were kosher on the inside of Club Eden. Everything appeared to be in order, so he went outside, toward the dancers' entrance in back, to check on things. He saw a red sports car, which he recognized as Babyface's, come barreling into the parking lot.

“I'm late again,” Babyface said as he hopped out of the car. “She's about to cuss me out.” He rushed by Amp with his duffle bag in tow. “Don't ever be late, new guy.”

“I won't. And it's Amp.”

Babyface stopped and gave Amp the proper greeting. “My bad. I'm just a little tense. Running late when you're employed by Madam will do that to you.” He shrugged. “But heck, I'm going to have to deal with her wrath anyway. No disrespect, Amp. They call me Babyface.”

“Good to meet you, bruh.” The two shook hands, and Babyface continued. “Madam ain't try to get you to dance?”

“No, but it looks like a bunch of new guys are here tonight,” Amp told Babyface. In addition to the female clientele, he'd witnessed a few new male faces coming through the doors as well.

“That's just for amateur night. That's how I got started. Did amateur night a year ago, made four hundred dollars in thirty minutes, and I was hooked. Nothing beats getting so much cold, hard cash in your hand every night. I can't make this kind of money doing anything else—and it's exhilarating to turn on so many women at one time. They just can't get enough. Everybody is winning up in here.”

“Four hundred in thirty minutes?” Amp asked. It sounded too good to be true. “So, what could somebody make a week, doing that?” Amp's curiosity was piqued.

“Slow week, a stack. A good week, two to three stacks.”

“Damn.” Amp rubbed his chin. Now that wasn't no chump change, not for just showing a little skin here and there.

“Yeah. Not bad for four nights of work.”

“How do you sign up for amateur night?” Amp asked, suddenly considering a turn on stage. It wasn't like he was thinking about doing this full time, but there was no doubt he was in need of money. After all, this was a hell of a lot better than working for Jesse, which he'd been considering just a short while ago. Amp had even danced once in a similar amateur show, on a drunken dare from a college girlfriend who helped him spend the money he made. At the time he hadn't imagined he'd ever be doing it again, but after meeting Babyface and some of the others, he was starting to figure out that they were pretty much like him—regular dudes trying to get paid. Maybe he could do it, just this once, to make up for what he'd be missing from the store until he could find a second job.

“Sign up at the counter. And not on no funny business, but if you need some pointers, let me know. Oh, and you're going to need to see Madam about getting an outfit.”

Amp was quite familiar with the “outfits” the dancers wore. He'd gotten a glimpse of one or two on the occasions he'd gone into the club to check things out. There was Babyface, letting a lady from the audience rub baby oil on him as the oil dripped down his gas station uniform pants. Then there was that thing Dr. Feelgood did with his stethoscope, and that dancer who went by the name El Fuego, with his maracas.

“Bet. I'll holler at you after your shift is over.” Amp gave Babyface some dap and then Babyface headed inside while Amp walked back around to the front door.

Amp stood at his post for a couple minutes before a car pulled up. The driver, a fly, young-looking dude in his early twenties got out of the driver's seat. His boys stepped out of the car as well, and all four men headed toward the front door.

“Eric, man, you sure this is the right place?” one of the backseat passengers asked.

“I think this is the spot,” the driver answered, not sounding too sure of himself.

“Yo, my man. You prolly want the other side, where the women are. It's all dudes dancing on this side.” Amp had learned on his first night working the club that the other side of the club was for male entertainment. Security over there was a whole other ball game. Those dudes were huge—had to be pushing three hundred fifty pounds, if not four hundred. There was an off duty cop who moonlighted as security and carried his weapon. Clearly a rowdy female was easier to handle than a rowdy male.

“Oh, my bad. We high as hell,” Eric said. He took a good look at Amp. “Where do I know you from?”

“Nothing personal, but I don't know who you are.”

Eric stared at Amp, still trying to figure out where he might know him from. Nothing was registering. Finally he gave up. “You say the chicks are around this way?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks.” As Eric and his friends walked around to the other side, he kept looking over his shoulder, insisting to his boys that he knew Amp from somewhere. Amp watched him until he disappeared around the corner just to make sure they made it to the other side without causing any trouble.

Left alone with his own thoughts, Amp's mind wandered back to the possibility of hitting the stage. What if there was something more to this dancing thing than just dancing? He'd heard stories about female dancers who started dancing with the intentions of paying off bills or college tuition. One thing led to another, and they ended up in the business of selling sex. Who's to say that didn't happen with male dancers as well? Nobody, which was why when all was said and done, Amp decided to stick with what he'd been hired to do and pass on the whole amateur night business. There had to be another way.

He finished up the night, went inside, and squared up with Madam over at the bar. Tucking his cash in his pocket, Amp prepared to head out.

There were two women walking behind Amp, and he heard one remark, “I'd end up filing bankruptcy if he ever got up on that stage.” Amp could practically see the dollar signs and picture the money flying onto the stage. Was he making the right decision? There was a lot of money passing through this club, and from the women's reactions, he knew he had the innate ability and looks to get it.

He turned around with a smile and struck up a conversation with the two ladies.

Dr. Feelgood, a Caucasian dancer who went by the name of Casanova, and a Latin dancer named El Fuego were all walking out from the dressing room.

“Hey, look. The doorman's getting a little action,” El Fuego said. A very well-built Latino with green eyes and a five o'clock shadow, he had been dancing for Madam since she opened the club. He hypnotized and mesmerized the women with his looks and Latin dance techniques, which often involved pulling a lucky woman on stage and making her wet with excitement as he led her through his dance of ecstasy.

Amp heard his smart comment, but ignored it to maintain his professionalism as he continued talking to the ladies.

Dr. Feelgood decided to have his say. “If you ladies tip him, he might frisk you.”

As the guys laughed, Babyface and another dancer came walking out to join the group.

Amp turned around and faced the men as the women headed toward the exit, not hanging around to hear the grown men's back and forth banter. “You got a lot of jokes for somebody that's wearing a thong,” Amp shot back.

The laughter immediately ceased, as none of the dancers found Amp's comment amusing.

“Oh, he speaks,” Dr. Feelgood said, breaking the silence. There were chuckles.

“I do more than that.” Amp's face was stoic. He might as well have been back on the yard at that moment. The wrong move by Dr. Feelgood and he was getting a WorldStar–quality ass-whupping.

“Hey, ol' boy is all right,” Babyface said. “Leave him be.”

“That your new BFF or something?” Dr. Feelgood chimed in.

“No, your mom is,” Babyface said.

The dancers started laughing and cracking jokes as they walked away, easing the tension.

 

 

The piercing screech of tires and a deafening crash woke Amp out of his sleep. He shot straight up in his bed, drenched in sweat, looking around the room in confusion. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was. Just moments ago, he'd been tossing and turning in bed as his mind took him to that dark place, where there seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel. He lay back down, still breathing heavily as his heart slowed to a normal pace. Amp stared up at the ceiling, willing his eyes to stay open—anything but close them and risk drifting back into that nightmare.

Amp turned his head toward the nightstand. The glow of the clock radio provided just enough light for him to see the newspaper clipping he'd left there. It was like it was taunting him. Asleep or awake, it didn't matter: he could not escape the memories of the accident, thoughts of Shannon and the real-life nightmare he'd caused. Amp closed his eyes and drifted off into another fitful sleep.

The next morning, Amp got up, inhaled breakfast, and made an important phone call. When he heard the voice mail recording, he left a brief message with the number where he could be reached at the halfway house. Next he turned on the computer and typed the name “Patrice Ellis” into the search engine. Opening the desk drawer, he pulled out paper and a pen and copied some information from the screen.

As he was writing, the phone rang. Amp took a second to finish what he was writing, dropped the pen and then answered the phone.

“Hello . . . That was me. I called. It's Amp, from the club.... Listen, I need to make a li'l bread. I'm gonna do the amateur night next Wednesday.... I'ma see what I can find on YouTube, but I'm still going to need some pointers.... I'm free tomorrow during the day.... Bet. Thanks, man.”

Amp hung up the phone, feeling confident that he was making the right decision, one that would get him back on track. Growing up, he certainly never had ambitions to become a male dancer, but as a grown man now, he did have ambitions to be independent and to go back to school. If one night on stage would get him closer to his mission, then he'd decided he was good with that.

He looked down at the piece of paper where he'd written some information, folded it, and placed it in his pocket.

Paul entered the room, and Amp looked up to greet him. “What's going on?”

“You tell me. What's your plan now that Mr. Lam let you go?”

“Try to pick up some extra hours at the club.” Amp paused for a second, not sure whether to share his full plan with Paul. Deciding that honesty was probably the best route to go with Paul, he admitted, “I'm going to . . . do the amateur night over there at the club next week.” He continued, intent on defending himself before Paul had a chance to voice his opinion. “I ain't proud of it, but it's a good way to make some money legally.” He braced himself for Paul's response.

“Amateur night, as in dancing?”

Amp nodded.

Paul folded his arms thoughtfully. “Hmmm. I'm not sure how I feel about it, but it's really not up to me. Just be careful of the situations you put yourself in. The deeper you get into something like that, the more things you have access to. Bad things.” Paul gave Amp a knowing look.

“I hear you. I'm going to try to find another daytime job too, but for now, it's not like anyone is knocking the door down for me to come work for them.”

“Okay.” Without further comment, Paul walked away, and Amp turned back around to log off of the computer. A photo of Patrice Ellis faded out as the computer shut down.

 

 

Amp was standing next to Babyface, who was sitting at the bar with a very sexy woman planted next to him. She had one hand on Babyface's thigh while the other played with the stem of the cherry in her mixed drink. Her scented body lotion, the aroma of fresh fruit, smelled good enough to eat. Judging from the way she was rubbing up on Babyface, that was probably her intent—to be his edible treat.

Amp was trying to fight his nerves as he hit Babyface up for some last-minute advice on his amateur night performance. Two days ago, they had met up, and Babyface shared some moves and techniques with Amp. Everything was pretty basic, but it was enough to get him through tonight's set. Even though Amp had been on a stage once years ago, he'd seen how wild the crowds in Club Eden could get, and his nerves were trying to get the best of him.