Gynophagia Chronicles: Samantha
Wednesday, August 26, 2218, 8pm
Northbound Interstate 680, Just south of Walnut Creek, CA
Narrative Reconstructed by Peter Howard
The rented blue Ford Icon was inexpensive enough not to attract attention and luxurious enough not to be out of place at the swankiest hotel or club. Gianni ha an appointment and he needed to hurry. The man he was to see was impatient and Gianni could not afford lack of cooperation.
His phone rang.
“Yo!” Glen’s voice was on the other end. “How’s the investigation coming?”
“Which?”
“Either.”
“Mine is slow, as you already know. I’m coming down to the wire on it, so I hope you’re going to come through for me!”
“Don’t worry… and the other?”
“Yours… well, I may very well have what you need tonight.”
“Great!” Glen exclaimed. “Hey, Friday. San Ramon. Eight AM, ‘K’?”
“Why not tomorrow?”
“Because I get to see all those kids perform on Friday. They all swim and have light gymnastics. So I can honestly look at their files.”
“How deep did you say we could go?”
“The whole thing! Anything you want. Everything they have, that is.”
Gianni paused only a moment. All of it? “Fabulous!” he finally replied. “I’ll see you then.”
“Later, Gator!”
Lance cursed. Friday did not leave him much time. It would be difficult to get into any lab till Monday at the earliest. Friday would be near impossible.
Shortly, he pulled onto Hwy 24 and exited at Camino Pablo in Orinda. On Vashell he found Club Tropicana Blue looking out over the freeway, its flashy neon Art Deco style fitting in nicely with the other buildings in the area. The lot was already filling up as the valets managed a steady stream of expensive cars.
At the head of the line he stepped out in his black dinner jacket and bow tie. Had the car been an Aston Martin he might have been mistaken for James Bond. As it turned out, two cars behind him was a vintage 2158 model in slate grey.
He gave the girl his keys, a five, and made his way to the queue.
The rich and fabulous were on full display in their swankiest glory in the queue to get in. But this was California, where the “front-less” dress had scandalized the nation only twenty years before. Breasts were sometimes covered only in paint or in sheer fabric. The dresses, whether they were front-less, transparent or traditional hearkened back to early Hollywood glamour, a style that never lost its allure. The younger women tended to wear the newer front-less, but there were those older women who's breasts were lower on their bodies still confident enough to bare their chests. They universally wore some form of make-up across them, however. They wore glitter or paint or a combination of the two in colours matching or complementing the fabric of their outfits. Prior experience had shown Gianni that these women spent hours preparing themselves for such events. The body paint might be applied by decal, but even that was a tedious affair best left to a professional.
Back east, women would not be caught dead, or only be caught dead in such revealing outfits. Even so, the atmosphere was polite, proper and, contrary to the East Coast, friendly. The author of this establishment had every right to boast. Michael had, in fact, expected a seedier atmosphere. It was a very pleasant surprise to find otherwise.
“One,” Gianni said, paying, as always, in cash. The cover was a full 400 Euros, or about the monthly rent on Glen Carrington's apartment.
Inside, it felt like a time warp. On the stage, a pianist played “Claire d’Lune.” Couples mingled and posed for pictures taken by young women wielding ancient looking bellows cameras with bulb flashes. Cocktail waitresses in short shorts and tuxedo shirts carried umbrella laden drinks deftly through the crowd.
Then Gianni did a double take. The waitresses, at first glance, did wear the proper attire. But upon further inspection, only their collars, shoes, sleeves and aprons were real. The rest was body paint. It was quite an illusion.
Gianni made his way to the bar where a very large man, who probably doubled as a bouncer, turned and asked what he could get for him.
“Glenlivet, neat.”
“Right away, sir.”
It was right away. Gianni handed the man a twenty and saw two come back in change.
“You’re late,” said a familiar voice that had no hint of the accent Gianni had known.
“Fashionably,” Gianni smiled. “I have to hand it to you, Johnny. This place is… quite something.”
“Some say that,” said Johnny, sipping his own drink, a Martini, vodka Martini, Gianni noted. There was no gin on Johnny’s breath. Johnny slicked back hair had a receding hairline on a main that was otherwise long in back. His Roman nose and slightly sunken cheeks gave him a stately look. His thick brow, and deep set eyes, however, took away from it. He wore a white smoking jack and looked every inch the mob capo he was. “So,” Johnny said, putting his drink down. “What does the the good professor want with a lowly Jersey hood?”
“We want Chicago,” said Gianni.
Johnny laughed mirthfully at the old joke.
“You have to admit,” Gianni said. “A Chicago pedigree is better than one from Jersey.”
“Where does New York fit in?”
“Depends on your opinion of Mario Puzo.”
Johnny laughed again. “C’Mon. I’ll give you a tour backstage.”
The club had a rough start, according to Johnny. His original idea was a variety club. A total 1930s throwback that would bring the golden age of both Hollywood and the Mob back into vogue. It would be an ‘in your face’ to the Feds. The original entertainment had been a singer with a few comedy teams, lots of slapstick. But it wasn’t attracting any kind of crowd. The singer was mediocre and the comedy teams, male and female were not cutting it.
“So a month ago, my singer got booed off-stage. The club wasn’t full, but it was a decent sized crowd, better than most nights. I was pissed off at her, anyway. She was one of those ‘I got talent so my shit don’t stink’ types. So I dragged her up on-stage and gutted her right in front of everyone. Served her that night. Place is now packed Wednesday through Saturday.”
“Sounds lucrative.”
“Yeah,” said Johnny. “Capacity is nearly twelve hundred. At 400 Euros a pop… you do the math. We’re at or near capacity every night.”
“480k, almost two million a week. What about expenses?”
“Our bills are paid,” Johnny said. “We’re doing fine.”
“Who’s we?”
“Sylvester Carrington is my partner,” Johnny whispered. “He never comes here, though. Silent partner.”
Gianni nodded, seeing it come together.
The host took Gianni down a flight of stairs to the basement where the actors were. A father-daughter comedy team were painting on clown make-up complete with red noses. A father-son team was practising ventriloquism with the son playing the wooden dummy.
“That’s Penny,” Johnny said, pointing out a lovely blonde in a white sequin gown. “Used to be a waitress, now she’s my singer. Unlike my former talent, she can actually carry a tune.”
“You own her?”
“All the girls, yeah,” Johnny nodded. “Valets, Waitresses, Camera girls. All of them belong to the club.”
“How much do you make off them?”
“Shit,” Johnny said. “If I sold them for meat, I’d have to replace the staff nightly! We do one on Friday night without fail. We might do another on a night that the club is full, depending on my mood. It keeps them coming back. But often, I don’t have to do that. Lots of these well to dos bring in wives, girl friends or daughters they want done. That’s by appointment, a week in advance.”
“You advertise for that?”
“Hell no!” Johnny said. “I don’t want our A list clients scared away! It would also kill our chances of opening up another club in Atlantic City!”
In the next basement room a body builder with very pale skin was getting an air-brushed tan. The man was not all that tall, maybe 5’7”. But his back legs looked like Glen Carrington’s did at his fittest. The artist was laying on a light base coat that matched Gianni’s own complexion, but it was too even to look natural.
“Turn!” the old man with the airbrush ordered. When the body builder did turn, the naked figure turned out to be a woman. Her breasts were average size and well formed, but unimpressive on that body. What stunned Gianni is that from the back the woman looked so very manly, but from the front, she had re-formed, making her waste seem narrower. Even her face, under short curly blonde locks, was quite lovely.
“Oh!” She said. “Ha, Mr. DeSilva!” The accent was unmistakably from Alabama.
“Almost ready?” Johnny asked.
“Oh, ah am!”
“Got her at an auction, if you can believe it,” said Johnny as Gianni was still marvelling at this creature. “She’s trained in Ballet and Gymnastics. She’s either going to knock ‘em dead tonight, or she’s meat!”
“Ah won’t let ya down, Mr. DeSilva!”
“Knock ‘em dead!” Johnny said as he lead Gianni to yet another basement room.
This next room was larger, with almost two dozen black actors and another dozen actresses. The eight lighted mirrors were occupied by bald and nude women making up their faces.
“Those girls are from up and down the eastern seaboard with one from Louisiana.” Johnny said about the actresses. “But these guys are the real deal.”
Johnny referred to a group of naked men practising dance moves. Their bodies were, as with the women, waxed. They were not, however, bald. Their moves were heavy and powerful, nothing at all like the type of dance one might find in Urban North America.
“We ready, Mr. Dasilva, Sah.”
“Good,” Johnny said. “They ready?” he asked, referring to the girls.
“Jes, sah.”
One of the girls, tall, and very beautiful stood and walked over.
“Yes, Mr. DeSilva?”
“Just checking on you, Jasmine,” Johnny said. “Make sure those wigs are glued on tight.”
“They will be, Sir.”
“This is the main attraction,” said Johnny. “It’ll be great if it works. We’re débuting it tonight. Check this out,” Johnny led Gianni back to a man wearing only a blindfold and kneeling on the floor. He was carving on a log with hammer and chisel. Between his legs, his enormous penis was sliding in and out of an equally nude African boy on all fours. Gianni guessed he might be eleven…
“They’d only come if he came,” Johnny said.
“Where’d you find them?”
“I didn’t,” said Johnny. “My director did. He’s around somewhere. The guy makes one of these things every few days.”
“Why?”
“No idea. Something to do with their women, some secret ritual. The African girls don’t perform, just the men. This is my witchdoctor,” Johnny indicated the man who had spoken before. “God I can’t wait! Jasmine!”
“Yes, Sir?” the girl rushed up.
“Where the hell is Victor?”
“I think he’s in the kitchen,” said Jasmine.
“Thanks,” Johnny said. “C’Mon.”
As it turned out, they were directly underneath the kitchen. A spiral staircase took them up behind the bar where Johnny’s big bouncer tended. Another story up they found the kitchen.
“So you do serve food here,” Gianni said.
“Like I said,” Johnny said. “I served up the first singer a month ago. But dinner is only available on the balcony, and only to VIPs. We don’t advertise this either, it’s only word of mouth.
In the far corner, a bald man with horn rimmed glasses was speaking to several waitresses in a thick Cockney accent.
“If any of the actors comes near ya, ya might be the one,” Victor was saying. “So just do wot comes naturally. Be as scared as you would be… if you’re not, act it. Rememba, the actors pick who gets it. So be nice to them. Off with ye.”
The girls began to disperse, save one. A petite brunette with big brown eyes approached Johnny.
“Johnny, is…”
Johnny grabbed the girl by the throat and pushed her up against the wall. “Never, ever call me by my first name in this club again! Do it and I’ll cull you so fast you won’t know what hit you! Got it?” The terrified girl nodded. “Now do your job,” he said evenly, letting her go so she could scurry away.
Gianni almost smiled. This was the Johnny DeSilva he’d previously known. Ruthless, unforgiving and absolutely in control of his domain. It was nice to see he had not changed since, fifteen summers ago, Gianni first met him. Johnny had been his streetwise mentor in West New York and across the bridge to Manhattan. It was Johnny who taught Gianni how to be invisible and how to blend in. It was Johnny who helped Gianni put all his training into practice from the time Gianni was ten till he turned sixteen. Every summer, Gianni learned life on the street from Johnny. It was Johnny who introduced Gianni to the Carringtons. It was also how Gianni had met Jake Tucker. Johnny’s grandfather, Carmine DeSilva and Martin Tucker, Jake’s father, were old rivals. Old Carmine was the boss to contend with in Jersey City. That he was also at the top of DeSilva Inc meant he was a bigger target for the Feds. But he kept the Jersey bosses in line and the NYC Bosses at bay. Politicians routinely intervened for Carmine, and in return, Jersey City had one of the lowest crime rates of any city in North America, according to the Uniform Crime Reports.
Why did Glen Carrington hate Johnny so much? Gianni could find out, but the truth was, Gianni didn’t care until he needed to. Rule 32: Bad blood is a tool, use it. Gianni intended to.
“I say, Guv! I’ll be sure to stay on your good side,” Victor said, watching the girl scurry away.
“Is everything ready?” DeSilva asked.
“It is,” Victor said. “This should go over very well, suh.”
“Break a leg,” Johnny said and led Gianni down a dark corridor. It led out to a staircase on the left and to a door on the right. Johnny opened the door.
Beyond that door, a private box overlooked the entire place. To the right, the balcony with booths on three terraced levels. Across the way were six private boxes. If Gianni guessed correctly, this box was placed in such a way that it would not be noticeable by any observer from outside it. To that end, a rack of lamps was held in place above and below the box, which would further obscure what was behind it.
“Sit,” said Johnny.
Gianni sat, once again impressed with his mentor’s accomplishment.
Johnny picked up a phone on the wall. “Glenlivet, neat and my usual. Send up some Doritos too, plain.” Johnny hung up. “You still like Doritos, right?
“It’s scary how well you know me,” Gianni smiled.
A waitress delivered their drinks and a crystal bowl of plain Doritos almost instantly. She then stood, waited for Johnny’s nod, then left.
“So,” Johnny said. “What do you think?”
Gianni sipped. “I think I’ve spent nearly an hour with you and I’ve only seen one felony. You’re going soft. Or, maybe straight.”
Johnny laughed. “Don’t kid yourself. I wouldn’t settle for a mere two mil a week. I have to re-invest.”
“So what’s the racket?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Glen Carrington,” Gianni said evenly. “He’s itching to bring you down. I’m sure you know why.”
“And you’re helping him?”
“No,” Gianni said. “He’s getting me access for information I need in exchange for something on you,” Gianni paused, then added: “Something to get you clear of his mother.”
“That ain’t happening,” said Johnny, clearly angry.
“Not with her debt to Carmine, no.”
“So what do you want?”
“Anything that sounds good and is worthless to him. And for you to play along.”
Johnny nodded. “Play me and it’ll go badly for you,” Johnny nodded. It was an empty threat, and they both knew it. But Gianni let Johnny have posture. It would be pointless to get into a pissing contest with him at this point. “What's he doing for you?”
“I need what he has access to.”
“Why?”
“Because I do.”
Below, a twelve piece band had begun to take their places behind a conductor. The big band theme started off with Glen Miller’s “In the Mood” which brought the crowd to the floor to dance.
“That girl you brought in from Jersey, the one who called you ‘Johnny,’…”
“My cousin’s kid. Aunt Lila begged me to take her.”
“That’s Lila’s kid?”
“Granddaughter. Want her? Trouble is; she’s a virgin.”
“Were you serious about having her culled?”
“Yeah,” said Johnny. “She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”
Gianni smiled, then something dawned upon him. “How many of the tables are bugged?”
Johnny smiled back. “Every damn one.”
“VIPs in conversation. Now I get the whole club angle.”
“Carmine had every single room at the Ritz bugged when he owned it. When I told him my idea for this place, he called up Claudia, told her to take care of me. She set me up with Sylvester, and the rest is history. It’s been a year and a half in the making and Carmine’s already getting candy he likes.”
“The kind that tastes like carrots and beats like sticks.”
“Pretty much,” said Johnny, looking at the stage. Penny was out in her white sequinned gown and singing “Peachy Keen,” the dance floor stayed packed.
“Okay,” Johnny said. “I’ll play. But I need something in return.”
“Of course you do,” said Gianni.
“Carmen Sanchez is about to cut a few of my clients off from their income.”
“How so?”
“She’s going to try and decriminalize rug munchers. Lots of guys, and a lot of politicos married to wives with secret lives or with daughters who do the same, or both... you get the picture.”
“I see. You want dirt on her?”
“I’ve got more than enough worthless dirt on her. What I need to know is; who are her co-sponsors? Who is writing that bill, because I know for fact she isn’t,” Johnny said. He looked Gianni square in the eye. “Can you do this thing?”
Gianni nodded. “I can do this thing.”