Chapter 5: Tits

Vanessa and I took Lyft to the hotel and checked into the High Line. Overlooking the former elevated railway now converted into one of the most popular parks in New York. She and I were grinning as we unpacked. Why? Here’s a hint - the bellman opened our drapes as wide as they would go.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. He saw two hot-looking babes and pegged us correctly - a couple of showoffs.

Now Vanessa and I aren’t gigglers, that’s not us. But there were a couple of wide smiles as we came out of the shower, arms around each other’s waists and beelined our way to the third-floor window. Ordinarily I book high floors, but we wanted to see. And, more, to be seen.

Didn’t take long. Soon groups of tourists, office workers, were pointing in our direction. Cells came out, photos were snapped, videos taken. Someone in our room did giggle.

Walker’s Big Day. The BaBoomz interviews. It’s Saturday morning and Vanessa will meet with the staff and performers to determine which ones to rehire, which ones to let go.

Vanessa has a shrewd eye for talent, a basic insight into human behavior. Her instincts have been honed by years of running BEAR’s on Broadway and later opening Euforia. Other than real estate, the single biggest determinant of restaurant success is people. Hire the right ones, treat them fairly, pay them decently, and you have a chance to make it in a cutthroat industry.

Walker of course isn’t thinking of the business side. His focus is on boobs. And, I’m sure, on pussy. Well, why not? BaBoomz is BaBoomz. So, with Pilar’s bemused encouragement, the lad is ... ready. Trying to mask his eagerness with casualness; good luck with that.

I put off going into the office so I could watch the first round of auditions. Vanessa has invited the dancers, three at a time, to come to our loft. The Wrigley is only a block south of BaBoomz so the girls should be on time. They were.

Stage names, of course. Which I don’t remember. I’ll call them Spring, Summer, and Fall. All were in the late 20s, early 30s. Only one was chewing gum.

Vanessa was smiling, gracious, inviting them into our sun-dappled loft. Coffee, juice, water, and muffins were set out on the kitchen table.

Vanessa introduced me. I shook hands and said, “This is our houseboy, Walker. And Pilar, his girlfriend.” Walker stumbled momentarily, caught himself. Glanced at me. I’d pay for that one. He made a mock bow toward me, palms pressed together in front of his chest, his version of Namaste. Murmured, “Sahib.”

An okay try - he got the Hindu subservience right, but missed the gender. Oh well, 15.

Vanessa was well prepared, had the résumés in front of her. A list of gently probing questions. Thanks to Sullivan & Sullivan Research, we also had their real backgrounds. Minor busts - marijuana, public intoxication, a loud boyfriend spat. No convictions with these first three.

Walker, Pilar, and I sat quietly, this was Vanessa’s show.

I wasn’t surprised at her skill. She started with softball questions, non-invasive conversational warmups. When she reached the ‘what are you willing to do in BaBoomz?’ stage, Walker squirmed, just a little. Pilar unobtrusively patted his knee under the table.

I was a little bored, but then I’m not a 15-year old boy gazing at three ladies who take their clothes off for a roomful of men. Only one of the girls admitted to ‘going upstairs’. Vanessa didn’t press her - the only reason to take a customer up there was obvious.

Then the Walker Moment. Vanessa led the girls back to Pilar’s bedroom. Well, Pilar and Walker’s. In any case it was the room that had Pilar’s stripper pole. Vanessa and I had never watched her routine; Walker had. Frequently.

Vanessa said, “If you don’t mind a guy sitting in, Walker would like to.”

Confusion, then Summer giggled, “That’s what we do. Guys watch us.”

Vanessa let each girl select her own playlist and the music seemed to perk the room up. To his credit, Walker tried not to stare, but still got three eyefuls, one after the other. Then all three at once. Two bald, one with an arrow.

It was teenage overload - three casual ladies openly flashing him. His boy bulge was obvious and no one seemed to mind. I might have; there is something unseemly, exploitive, about this morning’s exercise. But then again, I’m part owner of a titty bar. What right do I have to ride the Righteous Horse?

And Vanessa had okayed Walker’s presence; she was in charge. I kept my yap shut, a novelty that I may experiment with from time to time. Or not.

Once Vanessa thanked the girls, she made notes on each one. Walker said, “Are you going to hire any of them?”

“Too early to tell, babe. I need to talk with a few more before I have any perspective.”

She smiled, patted his jeans front, and said, “Better take care of this before the next batch.”

Pilar held his hand and led him back, “I’ll see to him.”

I left for work; Vanessa told me that Walker had needed three more comfort breaks that day.

Even if I hadn’t bought a new pistol - Heckler & Koch PSM10 - I’d still be going to the police range on Main Street. In the former National Guard Armory. I try to practice two or three times a month.

With my new handgun, it’s even more important. I like to fire a minimum of 500 rounds with any pistol. We need to get to know each other.

Gertie is no longer startled at the sight of Harold’s naked whores. Or if she is, she doesn’t show it.

When we walked into his living room, the four kids stood at attention and, one by one, shook Gertie’s hand, then mine. “Miz Gertrude.” “Miz Winter.”

Harold and Columbo watched closely. No missteps, no slip-ups. Good manners observed, the proprieties in place. Even though they cleaned and scrubbed that house during the day, their nights were relatively free. Harold or Columbo, or both, might fuck them. But compared to a night at the Buena Vista it was like a vacation.

The little whores went back to polishing windows and Gertie got down to business. “How many kids did you turn away this month?”

Harold said, “Fourteen.” Columbo nodded. Two businessmen agreeing on inventory.

Gertie shook her head, “Waste. You’re buying another apartment building, Harold. Actually two more. You’ll need a total of $74,000 for the down. Problem?” She knew it wouldn’t be.

Harold frowned, going over his options, “Could I take out a second on the BV?”

Gertie didn’t bother to answer, just kept looking at him.

He sighed. The titans of commerce have to put up with so much. “I can make it, Gertrude. Cash okay?”

Small joke, cash is all Harold deals with.

Four tiny butts wriggling back and forth as the kids squinted up at the windows, careful not to miss a smudge.

As I drove away from Harold’s, Gertie said, “Winter, do you think I’m rationalizing? I believe those kids will be better off whoring for Harold. Better than being on the street.”

I didn’t know the answer to that one and I said so. Maybe nobody knows. A home environment so intolerable that they come knocking at Harold’s door. Fully aware of what being employed by him involves.

Now that he has them working in a relatively nice apartment building ... fuck, I just don’t know. I don’t have anything against whores. In fact I’m in favor of legalizing prostitution. But these kids are so young, barely legal...

At least Gertie has rounded up a real doctor - a people doctor, not a veterinarian - to see to the kids. Doctor Madeline Larsen, a good Samaritan if there ever was one.

And I got Gloria VanLandingham to allow the kids to meet with the youth counselor at the the Sister Mary Packer Shelter. If they ever feel the need to talk with someone nonjudgemental. Professionally non-censorious. Maybe some of the kids will.

You do what you can do, but you can’t do everything.

Gertie smiled at Vanessa and me, “I suppose you girls have already figured out the BaBoomz plan.”

I tried to look as if I had. Vanessa smiled, “Speak, o vaunted seer.”

We were at BEAR’s on Broadway in our favorite booth. Two in the afternoon, most of the lunch crowd had departed. Louie-Louie refreshed Gertie’s Tanqueray; Vanessa and I were abstemious this session - house-made lemonade without vodka. Just the right degree of tart.