An excerpt from ‘Swayed’ – Copyright © 2014 by Michael A. Kuch
DUMPED HIS POCKY FAT ASS
On the leather chair wedged behind his desk.
Panting like a punch drunk boxer with one wild haymaker left in him before sleeping it off on the canvas.
Big Filthy anxious. Important shit to do. Getting fidgety with this one. First girl of the night. Friday’s Rising Star auditions for new dancers hustling to make the roster at Sugars. Leo’s smut emporium.
Dollar store blonde, Leo called them. He meant peroxide. Or, bottle. Buck a dozen.
Trailer Park White Caker Chick.
How Leo liked his girls.
Skinny. Skanky. Tramp Stamp certified. Body-pierced. Tatted. Smooth. Legal by a day.
Think she’d show a little respect and hurry it up down there already, honey?
Leo looked down. Boiler-sized gut blocking his view. Sweaty pig. A mucousy drop fell from his bottom chin into the crater of his navel. Then another. Slow drip. A tiny pool filling the crevice.
Wheezing through a deviated septum. Lips plum. Slippery from Cohiba drool and a peppery Scotch. Three fingers of Glenlivet served neat in a rock glass. The bottle uncapped.
Here we go.
A strip of dark roots splintered the cheap dye job.
“Fuck me, that a gray popping up?”
A rogue white strand flickered up at Leo. Not enough to make him go limp, but getting there.
Pink carpet burns chaffed her bony knees. She went at it, worked through a cramp in her hamstrings and a pinched nerve in the neck. Strong finish, honey. Some hustle to it now.
Nearly ringing Leo’s bell when a double knock at his office door interrupted the promise of a happy ending.
“Mr. Sugarman,” said Phil, the club manager talking into the door. “Sorry to disturb you, but you said if there was ever a time.”
“What?” Leo, snappy. Fuzzy like he was awakened by the sounds of his own sleep apnea. “Can’t this wait?”
“You gotta see this, Boss.” Phil pressed his ear to the door. “Check the security camera.”
“Fucksakes, Phil.” Leo, agitated. “I’m in the middle of a meeting here.”
Leo shifted the bulk of his carcass to the right. Leather fart. Timed perfectly. Churrasqueira. Spicy Portuguese roasted chicken. Late lunch. Hovering air biscuit.
The dancer on the tail end of her audition gagged and made a gargling sound like she was coughing up her tonsils. Sloppy broad. What Leo was thinking.
Leo shook his lumpy head, scratched the back of his neck, thick and greasy with beads of sweat cascading to his collar. He felt a dump about to drop inside. A turtle head nearly poking through to touch cloth.
Anxious to get on with it and waddle to the can. Plumpkin? Sitting on the shitter and getting some. Leo’s style. Dirty Old Prick.
He stared down at the tri-colored split ends – gray to brunette to blonde – like he’s had better a thousand times.
Leo could feel his dentures grinding.
“What?” Leo, barking.
“Couple assholes making dick faces at each other.” Leo gulped his Scotch. “They in love?”
“Don’t think so.”
“They do something?”
“No,” said Phil. “Not yet.”
“The fuck’s that mean, Einstein?”
“Mr. Sugarman, the one in the jacket is Hank Pepper.”
“Ray Delano’s next to him.”
Leo swung the chair forward knocking his about to be newest employee back on her butt. He grabbed the remote and scanned in for a close-up. Leaned in closer.
A woman leaving the club was now between them. Bumming a smoke from Ray.
“What I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“She with them two retards the whole night?”
“Had a couple drinks at their table after her last set.”
“How’d they get in?”
“Guess they paid the cover like everyone else.”
“Who let them in, dumbass?” Leo, inching into the monitor. “Doesn’t anyone check the list?”
“There’s a list?”
“Remind me to fire your stupid ass later.”
“Men’s room attendant didn’t show. I had Sammy stationed there,” said Phil. “You know how he is, Mr. Sugarman?”
Leo clicked the remote until he had a grainy close up of Hank and scanned across to Ray standing with a cigarette dangling in his mouth.
“Britney, the waitress with the dragon tattoos, served them. Says they’re going out. Seeing Chick Valentine’s band tonight.”
“Oh, hell, this is priceless.”
Leo pressed the door lock to open and Phil stepped in.
“Sorry, Mr. Sugarman,” Phil said. He looked at the dancer fixing herself. “I thought you should know.”
Phil turned to leave. “Not you, you idiot, her, Sandy.”
“Her, Mandy,” Leo said, tucking himself in.
“Mr. Sugarman?” said Mandy.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re good to go, doll.” Leo pointed his chin to Phil. “Wait for Philly at the bar. He’ll set you up with a schedule and let you know all the shit to get you started. Congratulations you’re now a Sugars dancer.”
“What about the other thing, Mr. Sugarman?”
“Geez, you’re persistent. I like that. You’re going to do well here, but you need to finish what you start. I’ll let you know about that later. See me before you leave.”
Phil watched Mandy leave and closed the door behind her.
“Leave it open,” Leo said. “Air out the joint. Smells like rotten ass in here.” He stood at the window overlooking the parking lot. “What’d you suppose those two ass wipes are up to?”
“Hell if I know.”
“You should know. Why I over pay you.”
“It’s been what, two years since they were here last?”
“What about the other loser they chum around with?” asked Leo. “Smart mouth punk with the queer name?”
“Never saw either him or Junior, but I’m sure they’re around.”
“Where the fuck were you this whole time?”
“Health Inspector had me nailed in my office.”
“You pay him?”
“The same every month.”
“He’s moaning for more.”
“You skimming me?”
“Uncle Leo, what, no!”
“What I’d say about the uncle bullshit, huh?”
“Sorry, Mr. Sugarman.”
“At Sugars, I’m Mister Sugarman. Capisce?”
“Screw the kvetsher,” said Leo. “Should be so grateful the prick gets anything more than a free lap dance and kick in the nuts out of me.”
“Alright, go talk to the door staff,” said Leo. “And send that skinny waitress Ashley up here?”
“Whatever the hell her name is.”
“Britney,” said Phil. “Brit.”
“Yeah, whatever, tell her I need to do her review.” Leo sat down, staring at monitor four and unzipped himself. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Viagra.
“Didn’t you review her last week, Mr. Sugarman?”