Page 52 of Free to Judge
Not the guy who gets the bottom of his shoes sticky walking across a strip club floor.
But Sal wanted me here because he claimed he needed a legal presence. In other words, the strippers were about to make things messy and they knew if I were there, any bullshit excuses for starting a fight would be documented and looked into. Then I’d spend the next few days giving him all the information he needed to “throw the fuckin’ trash out.”
I spy Sal near the back, lounging in a booth like a king surveying his kingdom. His current lieutenants, Tony and Frankie, flank him, sneering over a crumpled envelope tossed on the table.
Across from them, three of the daytime dancers who want nothing more than to fuck their way to the evening shift—Chrissi, Tammy, and Nerissa—stand half-dressed and visibly furious.
“I told you, I’ll do anything for it!” Chrissi hollers.
“Obviously, not your job,” Sal riles her up.
Chrissi stamps her foot. “That’s all the money I’ve made in the last week. Either put me on nights or give me a little more time!” Chrissi’s whole demeanor changes as she saunters toward Sal. “That is, unless you’d rather work it off me in a different way.”
Christ, I might be sick. I can’t prevent the curl of my lip. After having just come from Kalie’s, the machinations of this bitch make my stomach churn.
Tammy shoves Chrissi’s arm. “You’re not the only one who wants to make that deal!”
“You shut up! I’m not the one who blew her cash on her cokehead boyfriend!” Chrissi spills Tammy’s secrets.
The two women shove each other hard enough that a nearby table collapses when they bump into it. Beers crash to the floor, spilling all over two unassuming patrons. Fucking fantastic. Then someone in the crowd hoots, “Naked catfight!” and wouldn’t you know? That sets the two women off like they’re exhibition stars in the porn version of the women’s WWE Championship.
Is this really my life?
Within minutes, the bouncer has shoved his way through the circle and I want to choke the fuck out of Sal, who waves him off with an easy flick of his wrist.
“Let ’em,” Sal says, voice low and amused as he sees the flying dollar bills punctuate the air. “Maybe I’ll make back the money they owe me this way.”
Frankie and Tony chuckle. I don’t.
Instead, I take note of all the patron’s lifting their cell phones to get some shots of the girl-on-girl brawl occurring without an additional admission fee. I manage to keep a somber face but wonder how long it will take for this new video to go viral. Is it any wonder the Tiberi’s case is getting so much mediacoverage when every other day there’s new footage like this being released?
I was dragged away from Kalie to protect Sal’s interests, not watch this catastrophe that’ll make my job ten times harder when I have to prove the Tiberis are able to be released on their own recognizance. Sal pauses when I warn him of that. But like a child who is given too many toys, his attention is diverted when Chrissi swings an open hand against Tammy’s cheek—a slap so vicious it echoes over the music.
Tammy screeches and launches herself back at Chrissi, nails extended.
Nerissa tries to reason with them both and pull them apart. She gets mule kicked in the gut for her trouble. She taps out, limping over to the corner. Frankie makes his way over to her with a frown when he realizes she’s not breathing properly. He shouts, “Do I gotta call 9-1-1 or somethin’?”
“Fucking hell!” I bellow. The whole thing is turning into a full-blown brawl.
Sal, bastard he is, grins at me. “You gonna step in, counselor, before you end up as a witness to murder?”
I clench my jaw and step in to do just that with the realization that Hudson doesn’t pay me enough for this shit. A raise is the first thing on my agenda for Monday—even before heading to the station to bail out the Tiberis.
Wading into the chaos, I grab Chrissi by the hair just as she’s winding up for another hit. She twists, snarling, until she sees my face—and her body rolls into mine like a sinuous cat. She knows exactly who I am and she’s made no bones about the fact she wants a piece of me. Her voice tries to imitate a breathyschoolgirl when she redirects her hand, choosing to slide it up my thigh. “Hey, Declan. Come to save me?”
I push her away. “Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t relish having scabies.”
Her passably pretty face twists, making her look like a Botoxed mummy. She takes a swipe at me. Before she makes contact, I shout, “Enough!”
My voice cuts through the noise better than a gunshot. The women stumble apart, panting, battered and glaring. I raise my voice loud enough to include Nerissa, who appears to be gasping for air. “You signed a contract. No fights. It’s that simple.”
Chrissi attempts to touch me again, “But, Dec, baby?—”
I cut her off. “First, I’m not your anything. Second, let me lay it out in terms you’ll understand.” I jerk my thumb toward Sal’s booth. “You don’t strip, you don’t get paid. You don’t strip, he doesn’t get his cut. He doesn’t get his cut, he deals with you. Real simple.”
Nerissa speaks up from the corner where her back is against the wall. “I can get the money to you by Friday, Sal.”
Sal leans forward, lazy and dangerous. “I don’t like getting stiffed, sweetheart.”
