CHAPTER ONE

THE DANCING GIRL

 

Back in Atlantic City, my old boss, Tony Bianco, sort of headquartered himself in a bar he owned called The Cat's Meow. It was a high class place, as go-go bars go. He had premium girls from Philadelphia and New York working there and they made good bucks. Tony would sit in the bar dreaming about which one he'd like to fuck while, from time to time, guys who wanted to make deals or guys who had been working jobs for him came in to talk or give him big piles of dough.

He would take them in the back room, which he had swept for bugs every day, along with me or Big Mike, or Paulie Numbers, called that 'cause he liked to play them, even though he knew he was betting against the house. Tony didn't mind since Paulie almost always lost. Then there was Fat Jack, who kind of ran his own crew, but paid dues to Tony, and this guy we called 'the Butcher', 'cause his family had been in the meat business, and for other reasons too.

In this back room, Tony had a bunch of pictures on the wall. They went back maybe ten years. He used to take them with one of those old Polaroid cameras where the picture came out right after you took it and you had to peel off the film to see what you got. They were pictures of all the blowjobs he got from girls who were auditioning at the place. You could see their mouths around Tony's fat pole, a little bit of it sticking out, his curly black pubic hairs at its base. He would make them look up and their eyes were always spread wide and pitiful, making it seem they were thinking miserable-like thoughts as they saw the camera in Tony's hands pointing down at them. There must have been at least a hundred and fifty pictures.

You wouldn't see any of the New York or Philly girls up there. Those girls didn't have to suck cock to work anywhere. Besides, most of them were owned by crews in those cities and it would have been a sign of disrespect for Tony to make them suck his wand for free. It was mostly the other girls who had their picture taken, local girls wanting to break into top of the line dancing, or girls coming from Pennsylvania or North Jersey, and some from Maryland and Delaware too. Being featured on Tony's marquee was a good intro into other first class joints plus the tips were real great.

Once in a while, there would come along a girl who was something special. She would be some girl from the local college with hardly any miles on her trying to make her tuition, or a girl right out of high school who was trying to make a little bank roll for moving to California so she could make it into the movie business or something. Or maybe a girl who had drifted into town, fresh off the farm, so to speak, and looking to make a quick buck for one reason or another. A lot of them would be dancing on the QT, not wanting their families or friends knowing they were displaying their luscious, pure bodies to men for money.

Tony would let them dance without any funny business. Then word would go out to the crews in New York or Philly that Tony had a nice piece of prime beef on the hoof working. The guys would come down with their goons and scope the girl out. They would pay Tony a commission, a nice piece of change 'cause these girls were worth a lot, and one night after work she would be asked to do a special party.

The girl would dance up close and personal to the buyer so he could see real good what he had bought. If the merchandise met the guy's satisfaction, and it nearly always did, Tony knew how to pick 'em, that night the girl would find herself traveling in her g-string and pasties in the back seat of a black Lincoln Continental, or maybe a Caddy, to a major metropolitan area as the guy's 'guest', the guy and a goon on either side of her, and doing a couple of blowjobs on the way. And if she gave too much trouble she would be riding all bound and gagged in the trunk instead. A few weeks of 'orientation' and the girl would end up working high class call girl stuff.

Sometimes, after they were worn a little, maybe a year or two later, they came back to dance and as a courtesy their owners would let Tony have them for a night or two. And then their picture would go up on the wall.

This was kinda one of those deals. Me and Draco, you remember me, Harry Wiggins, were sitting at a table in this dive kind of a place in Decatur, Georgia, about 10 miles or so outside of Atlanta. We had mailed off the load of girls we had gathered over the last couple of weeks and were back out on the prowl. It wasn't normal to stay in the area once Draco and his gang had made a sweep, but he had unfinished business and so, while we were killing time, we were shopping around for likely recruits.

The bar was a large square with stools all around it. The tables were set back on a little platform so you could sit there and see the girls dance over the heads of the guys at the bar. It was dark there and all the tables had those fat little jars with candles in them so you could see your money as you counted it out for your drinks. The place wasn't too crowded. It was a Tuesday night. Draco had blown out our candle as we took our seats. The waitresses all wore fishnet stockings and these little, skimpy uniforms that their tits were half falling out of.

Ours was a kind of mousy, brown haired girl. She had a dour look on her face like she couldn't believe she was working in a place like this. Either that or she thought she should be working the stage making some real money, but from what I saw she wasn't quite up to snuff.

Draco ordered us some club sodas. No drinking on the job. The girl made a face because she knew that we would be nursing them and taking up one of her tables without spending any dough. Draco, of course, didn't give a shit about anything like that.

The stage was set in the middle of the bar behind where the bartenders worked, business like girls who didn't take any shit from the customers. It was bordered by flashing gold and blue lights. There was a pole, of course, three of them. One for each end of the bar and one in the middle.

When we came in, there were three girls dancing, this statuesque black girl with long bleached and straightened hair, a red head and this Spanish girl with long legs and long, black hair. Of the three, she was the best looking. She was wearing a gold g-string that just about covered her pussy lips and golden, sparkly pasties over her nipples. In Decatur, the girls weren't allowed to go naked anywhere that sold liquor. It was too bad because I really wanted to get a good look at her pussy.

We had been on our little mission, obtaining stock for Klitzman's operations, for about two months. We had done a load of 12 girls from our safehouse in New Jersey and another 9 two weeks ago from here. The girls were strictly off limits until they got to where they were going. Estelle, the tall, heavy boned lefty who acted as the chaperone for the girls we had stored in the basement of our little Georgia safehouse, had picked up a little girl, just 18, who had been hitchhiking back in New Jersey. Rather than send her off to Paliba, the central routing point for East Coast purloined pussy, she had insisted on keeping her around. So the girl was still with us.

Estelle was training her to service pussies, but she took mercy on us and had the girl blow us every couple of days, so she could get used to that too. But after almost a year of pussy galore on Klitzman's Isle, that only really wet my whistle, if you'll pardon the expression. I needed a slut I could work on for a couple of hours. And blowjobs are real good and all, but there's nothing like being in a sweet, soft, hot pussy. No way was Estelle going to let us fuck the girl. She had already locked the damn thing up with a little silvery metal, heart shaped chastity belt she bought at a porno shop back in Jersey in case we got any ideas. The point was to keep her pussy pure for feminine use only.

So you get the idea. I was hornier than a rooster in a chicken coop. The Spanish girl was making all the right moves. She was gyrating her hips, running her hands all over her luxurious body, feeling up her boobs, bending over and showing us her ass with her legs spread wide so you could get a good view of nature's way of getting guys to talk to women. The g-string was so tight, you could see her pussy lips and the gap between them. The girl must of liked what she was doing cause the fabric was soaked wet.

The rest of the girls were pasty looking Russians. They weren't as into it as the brown skinned chick, but they were alright. After the Spanish girl was done with a couple of dances, a little black haired Russian girl got up. She was the least enthusiastic of them all, though she was cute as a button and had nice tits. She looked downright unhappy.

I looked at the side of the bar and I saw why. There were two heavyset Russian guys sitting there. They were talking to each other and looking at the girl, shaking their heads. It was clear as acrylic what was up.

The Russian girls belonged to these guys. They probably carted them in every day from some lock down they had and then back again with no stops in between. These girls weren't volunteers. They were under the heel of the Russian guys, as much slaves as any girl on Klitzman's Isle. They were maybe worse off since the Russian guys had no qualms about dumping any of them in a sewer when they got to be too much trouble or had worn out their usefulness, while Klitzman always had another use for a girl even if just to sell her to a brothel somewhere on the mainland like Nairobi, Durban or Kinshasa.

I had a feeling that the black haired girl was in this category or close to it. Even though she was good looking, the Russians wouldn't have any qualms about getting rid of her. There was probably ten thousand or more girls like her back in the home country available to take her place.

The girls took turns at each pole, doing a few songs and then moving on to the next one. When the moping, dark haired girl was at the other end of the bar, the owner came over to us. He was a tall, very rotund and greasy looking guy with a ruddy complexion like his heart was working too hard. He was so big he probably had to have his clothes special made out of bedsheets. He kind of waddled when he walked. He had the stub of a cigar in his mouth which he chewed on instead of smoked. He stopped by us for just long enough to give Draco the nod. I figured out what that meant right away. Our girl was next in line.

She came out of the back room and slipped through an opening in the bar. She was black haired like the Russian girl. The difference was that where the Russian girl looked pasty from never seeing the sun, this girl's complexion was almost rosy. Her hair was down the middle of her back. She was wearing a scarlet red bikini top and bottoms with a fringe of reddish imitation fur along the edges of the fabric. On her feet were red, open toed, four inch platform shoes. She waited for a minute for the song that was on to end. It was a fast number and the Russian slut who was just before her was doing a jerky kind of thing with much more enthusiasm than grace.

The girl's eyes scanned the bar as if making sure that there was no one out there who knew her. She looked nervous. According to the info that Draco had gotten, she had only been dancing for a couple of weeks. You had to move fast on these girls. Eventually someone they knew would learn what she was doing and then the cops would come looking for her here when she disappeared. Or she would change her mind about having a bunch of skeevy looking guys coating her skin with their eyes and quit. This girl seemed to be in the latter category. She was looking with disdain at the men at the bar and I saw her take a big gulp and shudder when it was her turn to mount the stage.

A slower song was on. She started dancing slow to match it, with lethargic, almost desultory movements. She looked about 5'8" tall and had a voluptuous body. She was in tip top shape with languorous curves. Her breasts were a very nice size and they shuddered under her bikini when she moved. Her eyes were dark and she was wearing fire red lipstick and polish on her nails.

As the music went on, however, she started getting into it. A couple of guys handed her dollars. Since the stage was set back from the bar, she couldn't lean all over the guys and let them feel her up, so she instead spent a little time paying attention just to them, giving the guys sultry, longing, passionate type looks. She bent over and shook her tits at them. The guys started hooting and hollering and gave the bartender, a sour looking broad, older, maybe 40 or so, some more dollars to give the girl. She smiled, an icy type thing, and stuffed them in the waist of her bikini bottoms.

The second song was a little more lively. It must have been a song the girl liked because she closed her eyes and seemed to be humming to it. Her hips glided back and forth with a little more enthusiasm. She swung around the pole with a little more feeling. More dollars came her way. As the dollars mounted up, she seemed to get more excited, like she remembered why she was here. I could see that getting the money kind of turned her on.

The next song was a little wilder. Something seemed to change in the girl, like some switch had been turned or something. She started gyrating excitedly. Not like the prior chick, but graceful and with passion.

After about a minute, she reached behind her and undid the top to her bikini. She whisked it off revealing her mammaries in all their glory but for tiny little red sparkly dots on her nipples. Next she unhooked her bottoms at the sides. They stayed on for just a long, anticipation filled second and then flew away. What was left was a g-string as skinny as and as revealing as the Spanish girl's had been.

Now the girl was really getting into it. She got down on the floor, on her knees, and spread her legs. She snaked her hand back and started rubbing her pussy while she gyrated her hips. She rolled over to her back and spread her legs as wide as they would go, rubbing her painted fingers up and down her firm, pale thighs. She leaned over and shook her tits with abandon.

Her face was alive with passion. It was clear that it was not faked. This girl had a thing for showing her body to men. Many of the girls did. It had just taken a little while for her to get over the reluctance to exhibit herself that came natural to girls who were just starting out. She was a natural whore although she probably didn't think of herself as such. And she was a natural for Klitzman's purposes. Of all the women we had collected to date, she was clearly the best looking and most exciting to behold. I looked over to Draco and he looked back at me. He gave me a short nod. The girl's fate was sealed.

After the fifth song, the girl moved on to the center pole. Draco and I took gulps of our sodas. I knew him pretty good by now and he wasn't much for showing what he was thinking, but it was clear that the girl had set off his libido. She had sure set off mine. I could only hope that Estelle would be gracious tonight with her little teenager. If not, it was a date with Sally.

The girl had moved down to the far end of the bar when the manager came over. He nodded to Draco towards the back and Draco nodded in understanding. We took long drinks of our refreshments and followed the fat man around the bar and to the door which led to the back room. A blond haired Russian girl was just exiting and she brushed up against me. She was wearing practically nothing and I almost came right then and there.

The dressing rooms were to the left. To the right was a solid looking door with a deadbolt on it. The manager unlocked the door with a key and led us in. It opened into a large room with large, overstuffed, easy chairs around it and a gleaming pole in the middle of the floor on one end. The floor was well polished, red and white, acrylic tiles. The ceiling was low and there were no windows. Light was shed onto the room by high hats set into the ceiling and a spotlight that looked like when it was on shone on where the dancer would perform. I assumed, correctly as it turned out, that this was for private showings.

The manager took us through the room to another room in the back. This room was smaller, about 10' by 20', and was his office. It was as slovenly kept as the man's person. He sat down in a chair behind a paper strewn desk and invited us to sit in the polished, well worn, wooden chairs opposite it. The Gorgon spoke.

"Well, what do you think?" His voice was tiny for such a big body as if maybe someone had punched him in the throat once and damaged his vocal chords. He had a heavy Southern twang. He lit his stubby cigar. The room filled up with smoke quickly.

"She's okay," Draco answered. "She's a little fat, you know, heavy boned."

The fat man laughed. "If you don't want her, just say so. The Russian guys might take her and sell her off to the Salvadoran boys back in Atlanta in the West End. Or there are others that would be interested."

Draco knew that the guy had us. The girl was top shelf stuff. She would command a top shelf price. So far the girls we had collected had cost us mostly just our labor, except for maybe the girl from the runaway home in New York where the lady who ran the place would get a commission. So if Draco had a budget, he was well within it.

"Fifty," was all he said.

"Seventy-five and you've got a deal," the fat man returned.

"Fifty-five," Draco countered.

"You're wasting my time," the man spat out. "You know she's worth seventy-five. I'll tell you what, I'll make it seventy and I'll through in a little deal maker with it."

"What deal maker?

"Go back into the show room there and have a seat. You'll see."

Draco knew that he would have to pay seventy for the girl, so why not see what the fat man was going to throw in? We got up and went into the outer room and took seats. There was obviously a show coming up. But what show? I knew that Draco wouldn't consider seeing some girl show us her pussy and tits to be much of a deal maker, even though we might enjoy it. The fat man offered us some beers, but we declined. Or, rather, Draco declined for us both.

The fat man left. A few minutes later, he came back. He was trailed by the two Russians and the dark haired girl who had been giving such a poor show on the stage a little while earlier. If she looked sullen then, she looked downright unhappy now. She had on a black g-string and silver pasties. She was wearing silver four inch heels. With her heels, she was maybe 5'5". Her breasts were tight and compact, like ripe apples, only a little bigger. She still had some dollar bills peeking out of her outfit in various places.

One of the men, the younger and bulkier of them, had her firmly by the arm. He had short black hair and looked like his face had once stopped a train. The other guy was older, grey speckled, black hair, a little shorter and, ironically, friendly looking. He was smiling.

He walked up to Draco. He held out his hand. "My name is Ivan," he said, although he pronounced it hi-van. "We are going to have Natasha here do a little dance for you and then we talk a little business, okay?"

Draco got up and took the man's hand. He didn't give his name. Ivan looked at me and I gave him a non-committal nod.

Ivan smiled and turned to his buddy. He issued him a curt command in Russian. The heavyset guy brought the girl over to the pole and went behind her. He took hold of her hands in his frying pan sized mitts and raised them over her head until she was standing on her toes. She let out a little squeal. The guy towered over her. Her eyes looked frantic.

As soon as the girl was dangling from his sidekick's grip, Ivan stepped up to the girl. She was staring at him with obvious, intent fear. He said something to her harsh and reproving in Russian. She issued a protest in a piteous, whining voice. Ivan's hand flew out as quick as a sparrow and he slapped her across her breasts, once, twice, three times. The girl tried to turn away, but Igor, or whatever his name was, kept maneuvering her into position to receive her blows. The girl screeched and screamed and struggled.