Free Death Money by Henry Chang Page A

time being, they were all winners.
    “Let’s go,” Billy said as the men headed back toward the minivan. “They’re going to the strip joint next.”
    That’ll be another hour , thought Jack, but we can wait in the car .
    They followed the minivan onto the highway and back to the Bronx. Traffic was light going south, and Billy had to slow down so as not to get too close to the minivan. He tapped the radio and another Steppenwolf tune rocked out. Pounding the steering wheel, he again mangled the lyrics.
    … On a magic carpet ride!
    Spread your thighs girl ,
    Open wide girl ,
    Let your fantasy take you away!
    Jack wondered if Billy had managed to sneak a drink at the track.
    “Perfect!” Billy declared as the song ended. “They said there was a Korean stripper in from Seoul. A real knockout. Goes by the name Soomi.”
    “Good for them . We’ll wait in the car,” Jack said, still worried about Billy’s drinking.
    “You kiddin’ me?”
    “C’mon Billy, that’s all just titillation.”
    “Well, you got the tit part right,” Billy said sardonically.
    “It’s crass, Billy,” Jack said.
    “It’s ass , brother. Trust me, I won’t get you in trouble. You promised that lawyer lady you’d be a good boy or something?”
    Jack smiled but didn’t dignify Billy’s poke at Alexandra with an answer.
    “Okay,” he relented. “But just one beer.”
    “One’s all we need, bro.” Billy grinned. “And it ain’t the beer I’m thinking about.”
    The entire trip took about twenty-five minutes. They parked under the overpass as the minivan stopped down the block from a big flashing sign that announced BOOTY . Silhouettes of naked dancers flanked a smaller sign with the words GENTLEMEN’S CLUB .
    “Yeah Booty’s!” Billy cheered.
    “You been here before?” Jack asked.
    “Just once. One of my customers threw a Christmas party here.”
    A huge black bouncer guarded the door, a bald, six-foot-five, three-hundred-pound load of hurt. He could have been a lineman for one of the local football teams. “Booty” rang a bell in Jack’s head as he tried to recall something from old police blotters, something about Bronx mafiosiand Latin Lords drug dealers teaming up to take over the area’s vice rackets. Jack imagined that, like most jiggle joints, Booty’s was mobbed up.
    A few blocks away, he could hear the rumble of a Metro North train, and in the far distance the lights of the George Washington Bridge twinkled. Farther south, he could make out the façade of Yankee Stadium. In the darkness, he realized they were near the Highbridge section where he’d been earlier in the morning.
    “The homies nicknamed this place Chino ’s,” Billy said, “because of all the Chinese waiters and market guys from Hunts Point who used to come here.”
    They watched the old men enter the club and, against Jack’s better instincts, followed them. The black bouncer barely noticed them, just another bunch of little Chinamen .

T. A. P. tits. ass. pussy .
    B OOTY’S WAS DEEP and wide. In a past life it might have been a garage or an auto repair shop. Now one of the long walls had been mirrored, in front of which a narrow runway, like a catwalk, supported the prancing of the dancers. There was a pole at either end. Under the dramatic play of track lights above, the scene was like a raunchy off-Broadway musical. Way way off-Broadway , thought Jack.
    Along the opposite wall was a long bar where you could get a tiny slice of pizza with your second overpriced drink. Some twenty little tables in two long lines filled the rest of the space.
    There weren’t that many Chinese from what Jack couldsee in the otherwise dim lighting. There were a few other Asians—he couldn’t tell what kind, Filipino or Cuban maybe—but most of the patrons on this cold night were black and Latino, many wearing Yankees or Knicks caps and sweatshirts.
    Jack waited by the bar across from where the runway began and ordered a beer just to hold his spot