Chapter 6

Club Royale was just outside the city limits of Rapier City, therefore under the laxer County administration. Its history was long and shameful, starting from when a widow named Monique Kores opened its Colonial style doors in 1909. The local trade even then was good, for Monique Kores only kept the finest and cleanest girls to be fucked. That is, within the concept of that day and age.

Then there was a brief history of being a road-house, with the girls taking second place to the running of very bad liquor. During Prohibition, it was often harder to cage a drink than it was to find a willing girl... As so often happened in the late Twenties, the speak-easy existence attracted a cartel of gangsters, and by the time of Repeal, Club Royale -- then known as Foxtail's -- was a integral part of a chain of such hootch outlets, and it remained in the hands of the underworld ever since. During the War the girls, and the still considerable quantity of illegal alcohol served unknown over the bar, was supplemented by gambling. The third floor bedrooms were converted into sectional areas devoted to crap tables, poker, and roulette, with a bank of slot machines along one wall. But the motto of the club didn't change: never give the sucker an even break. Between posted house percentages and the unposted rigging of the games, winners were extremely scarce. Still, it attracted the sports for miles around; they may be crooked, but they were the only games in town.

Sam Zeigler became owner and manager of the club during the Swinging Sixties, a perfect cover and operations base for his other gangland business. He didn't like to brag about it -- after all, if you are, you don't have to prove it -- but he was the area crime boss, with a series of lieutenants and henchmen set up on an Army scale. The numbers racket was his, the women and dope traffic were his; even burglaries were cleared through him first, or the independent thief soon found more heat than all of the cops could put on him.

Zeigler was also shrewd enough to change the club to suit the times. Now it was the Scandalous Seventies, and the emancipation of women more complete than even the original Carrie Nation would have dreamed or approved of. The result was that his second floor prostitution operation took a steady nose-dive, while his bar and dinner business and the gambling above showed rising profits. Even the locals who didn't gamble or really have much of any other vices, liked the now re-named and refurbished Club Royale. It was posh and subdued on the main floor... and there was always that hint of mystery and wickedness from being so close to the rumored gangland overlords. But nothing could happen in so sumptuous and subdued atmosphere... Or could it?

The naive element of Rapier City and surrounding country would be most shocked to learn that yes, things could happen... and did! Using an elevator artfully out-of-the way in the back and carefully watched by a concealed guard, approved and selected clientele could go and gamble, or stop off on the second floor, where extensive changes had been made. Madame Kores would be disheartened not to find any of her fallen women plying their trade -- now the willing escorts of sexually active men were customers to a lewd and erotic floor show which rivaled the wildest to be found in Tijuana, Juarez or Copenhagen.

Zeigler had been clever in using the general layout already there. Madam Kores had used the downstairs as her home and general bar and "parlor" for the gentlemen callers. The third floor -- all changed now -- and the second floors had been identically built for quick turnover. Her cribs were built along the four walls, all opening out to another "parlor" and bar (nowhere near as opulent as the one downstairs) which was in the center of the floor -- like a courtyard in a Spanish villa. The girls would sit on the velveteen sofas and wait for their johns, and then use any of the free rooms. There were the usual escape passages: long, narrow halls running the circumference of the outside, the bedrooms opening out on their other side to them.

Zeigler made the escape passages into main halls, the little rooms soundproofed and luxurious, and the walls facing the old parlor tinted glass. With the lights out in the rooms, one couldn't see in, but if the occupants turned the lights on, they and their antics would be in full parade. The parlor was now a raised dais, used for dancing or mixing inbetween the shows... and then a large white-covered round bed would be lowered on gold chains for the show. If that's what the show called for...

Being Friday night, the rooms were full by ten; it was after eleven now and two shows had already gone on and at one o'clock there'd be another. Zeigler glanced at his watch and sipped his martini and hoped that this Mrs. Oliss and her girlfriend would soon show up. He'd not been too happy about reserving a room; lost money on a busy night like this; but Oliss had been insistent, and carefully explained how important it was for the good of his long-range plans.

The gangster sat in the downstairs bar, as he mostly did when he wasn't in his office -- what had once been the dining room of Mrs. Kores' apartment -- and inbetween the occasional smiles or waves or couple of words to friends and steady customers, he mused over the culpability of the Olisses. Zeigler was not stupid; a successful criminal in today's big-business method of vice and corruption would never be promoted. He had a college education, and had even considered going into teaching once. But the call of easy money and the lure of constant supply for his unquenchable lusts and his totally psychopathic personality suited him to the life he was leading now. He was happy, contented, and like the egomaniacal streak inherent in born criminals, was contemptuously smug.

He'd known of the Carmel development from the trade journals which crossed his desk, and was alert to any chance of getting his hands on it once he found out that Carmel lived in Rapier City and that Skopos was a local company. There had to be some way... and then two incidents happened which placed the invention almost in his lap. One was the request by the swap club to reserve the whole second floor for a private orgy. Zeigler was the kind who couldn't understand how people would pay through the nose for a shot of liquor when a whole bottle could be gotten for one hell of a lot less in the long run at a store, nor how some could fritter away hard-earned money trying to beat Lady Luck and his rigged percentages and then complain about always being broke. But he was always one to go along with sex games. Those he loved and sympathized with; the lavish and personal interest in the shows proved that. Not that he would have turned away the swap club any more than he openly displayed his disdain for the other vices -- he was in the business to take, not judge.

He'd let them have the second floor on an off-night, giving them a bulk rate on the condition he could participate. He did, and that night was the first time he'd used a dog in the show -- a specially trained German Shepherd from Mexico -- and the first time he'd seen his then current girlfriend, fucked by another man. Christ, his cock had leaped at that sight -- and he had to return the favor by fucking the seducer's wife. And that swap had been the second incident.

Mr. and Mrs. Martin Oliss had proved to be a well worth-while aquaintanceship. Oliss-Skopos' sales veep! What a stroke of luck! Nothing like selling a salesman, he'd found; Oliss had been putty in his hands, for if the man had been enough of an opportunist, and he had, to fuck his, Zeigler's girl, at the price of letting his wife be laid by the dog, he was sure to be greedy enough to see the pot of gold Zeigler dangled in front of him. All he had to do was get the plans or a mock-up of the invention, and Zeigler would handle the rest. And Oliss' promised cut would make him richer than his fondest dreams. His wife, the greedy, self-centered bitch, had urged her husband on, overcoming his initial reluctance.

Things hadn't been so damned easy after that, though. Zeigler couldn't tolerate excuses, yet that's all he'd gotten from Oliss. If he didn't know the sucker better, he'd almost suspect he was trying a double-cross... but he was too naive to believe in the old adage: "honor among thieves." Too bad Zeigler didn't -- that is, Zeigler laughed silently to himself, too bad for Oliss. Oliss wasn't going to end up with anything when this was over, except a long jail sentence and a ruined reputation if he squealed. But Carmel's plans and models were in Kirsten, Nevada, and Oliss hadn't been able to come up with an excuse to go there until today. And now it was going to be nip-and-tuck to see if the invention could be wrenched from Skopos' control before the unveiling.

Zeigler was impatient and frustrated, and damned irritated at how close, and yet how far away he was. His superiors would brook less mercy on him if he failed than he was with Oliss. They already had the contacts lined up and the legitimate front organization with which to make a quick bleeding of the invention's worth. He had to succeed, and that was the only reason he could see for going along with this hair-brained, eleventh hour scheme of Oliss'.

To fuck some woman he'd never seen before! And a woman who never had laid for any man except her dippy husband! God, Zeigler could just imagine what Mrs. Carmel was like if she didn't like to fool around much. A sexless, horse-faced old prune, not withstanding Oliss' assurances that the wife was a looker. They always said the blind date was a stunning wanton, but if that was the case, why was she a wall-flower? Zeigler conjured up a skeletal-type in her late forties with damp-looking, string-like brown hair. She'd be wearing a limp dress with damp spots under her arms, and talk with a nasal twang.

And Zeigler could just imagine how smart she'd be. He'd tell her all the crappy lines and look mistily in her eyes, and all he'd see is vagueness, as if she'd just come up from a basement and didn't know quite why. He sighed and ate the olive and shoved his glass across to Louie, the bartender. Jesus and Mary, Mother of God, the things he had to do to make a buck these days.

"Why hello, Sam," came a familiar throaty purr, and he turned around, taking a deep breath as he started his act. He smiled in warm, yet surprised greetings to the sultry blonde standing next to him.

"Mrs. Oliss," he said with honeyed tones. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"It's Cylvia, remember?" she grinned back, and then added, "We came here for dinner. Oh -- I'd like you to meet my very best friend, Lonnie Carmel. Lonnie -- Sam Zeigler. A dear old friend of the family."

"How... how do you do, Mr. Zeigler," Lonnie said hesitantly.

"Fine, thank you. And call me Sam... Lonnie. Everybody does." He grinned infectuously, and then was interrupted by the bartender who placed another drink in front of him. "Your martini, Mr. Zeigler." The gangster chuckled at the two women. "Except for bartenders," he added. His cock stirred heavily in his pants. Jesus, so this is Mrs. Carmel, the woman he's to fuck! God, was he wrong! She's a knock-out, an absolutely tasty dish.

Lonnie stood and slightly blushed under the brazen gaze of Sam Zeigler. She tried to not show that his roving assessment of her curves were making her feel warm and embarrassed. Of course, she'd had that same shame-faced emotion ever since Cylvia had disapproved of her clothes and taken Lonnie to her house and selected one of the outfits hanging in her wardrobe. There had been the inevitable couple of drinks to steady her nerves, and so she'd been unable to put up more than weak resistance when Cylvia had insisted the wife put on a see-through gossamer blouse with only two small dark cups to hide her nipples, and a wet-look green plastic mini-skirt which barely covered her buttocks. And instead of her usual panties, the other woman had given her a tiny G-string which covered her actual vagina, but left her cunt lips exposed. The string rubbed against her still aroused clitoris, making her tingle every time she moved.

It was as if she was naked... and she blushed at the mere thought of allowing such indecent public display. But Cylvia had dressed similarity, and the blonde-haired woman's influence was still too strong to deny. They'd used the Oliss' flashy new Buick and before she'd realized it, they were parking in the large macadam lot of the Club Royale. She'd been here a couple of times before, on special occasions like her anniversary and Roger's birthday. After a few timorous hesitations, Lonnie screwed up her courage, and with her girlfriend's encouragement, walked through the marble foyer, keeping her eyes averted from the frank ogles which passing males gave the couple.

The interior of Club Royale was a combination of Gone With the Wind -- which went with the Old Plantation style of Colonial facade -- and Gay Nineties. The main dining and cocktail salon was impressive with white pillars and rich burgundy wallpaper and polished hardwood, and the booths were even out of the dim, indirect lighting, giving a romantic seclusion to their atmosphere. Their very design connotated knee-to-knee and head-to-head sitting while sipping cocktails or fine wines and talking in dusky murmurs, caught in a timeless void of sensual magnetism. The bar, at which Lonnie and Cylvia had "bumped into" the Oliss' wife's old friend was ornated carved oak with a gilt-framed mirror along the back-bar and low-hanging chandeliers of curved brass stems and rose-cups.

Lonnie was affected by the pervasive atmosphere, whether she consciously knew it or not; much time and money had been spent in making sure that the effect was not wasted. Somehow, Lonnie found that she was looking back at Sam Zeigler with less embarrassment, and with more interest. Detached interest, of course; she was not thinking in terms of him as a sex partner, but just as a good looking man. Sam was a six-footer, with a boyish and clean face and a strong, jutting jaw line. He was muscular and had a rusty brown color to his hair. In the soft light he was a handsome virile man; it wasn't until he was seen in daylight, a rare occurrence, that one could notice the softness to his skin, the slight moistness in his eyes, the small indications of beginning ravagement from his life of prolonged dissipation.

"Well, look," Zeigler said graciously, "if I wouldn't be butting in, why don't you two girls join me for dinner? I was about to eat, and," he said with a slight shrug, "who likes to eat alone?"

"Well, I don't think --" began Lonnie.

'Sounds delightful," Cylvia said strongly. "Of course we will."

"It's an expensive gesture, Cylvia," Lonnie protested. "I don't think it's fair to make Mr. Zeigler -- Sam -- pay for us."

"Nonsense," Zeigler said, waving his hand. "All on the expense account." He winked at Lonnie. "You're just a couple of my customers tonight. That's what I like about being a salesman."

Cylvia Oliss laughed at the harmless deception; her inner mirth came from the more evil joke that Zeigler was no more a traveling salesman than she was, and that the "expense account" was the gratis of the management. She hooked her arm through the gangster's arm and said: "Take your drink and find us a table. We're hungry!"

Yeah, I bet, Mrs. Oliss. Hungry for the show upstairs and the fun to begin. Zeigler signaled for the maitre d', outwardly pleasant, but filled now with burgeoning desire for the luscious black-haired young wife on his other side. The way she looked so damned worried! So blasted concerned and frightened! Zeigler was nearly unable to get off his bar stool as her innocent appeal made his cock stiffen into an erection and bulge his pants.

"We can't do this," Lonnie whispered urgently to her friend. "We're married women! What if somebody sees us?"

"Oh, don't be so silly," Cylvia admonished the wife. "Sam's a nice guy I've known for years. Best protection I can think of, and perfectly respectable." Before Lonnie could protest further, Cylvia grabbed her arm too, and the three of them followed the maitre d' to one of the darkest corners of the room.

Zeigler sat between the two women and while they had a delicious dinner, he steered the conversation artfully around a dozen different, innocuous subjects, fully in command. Slowly, inexorably, he moved into other, more intimate channels. He was a master of timing and could sense the most subtle of moods, knowing when to change and when to retreat or advance.

Lonnie Carmel, by her own admission, drank too much. Again. She always seemed to have a full glass in front of her; and the spicy food she'd allowed Zeigler to order for her was excellent but thirst provoking. If it wasn't the drink that was ordered before the main dinner arrived, it was the white wine with the fish course; if it wasn't the red wine which came with the meal, it was the port which was served with the dessert of cheese and crackers. By the time she was sipping her after-dinner coffee and the tulip-stem of Grand Marnier, she was more heady than she'd been at her house. It was an odd, worldly, devil-take-the-hindmost feeling she had, sitting so close to a strange man as if on a date -- though she knew that it really wasn't any such thing as that, merely a friend of Cylvia and Martin. Zeigler was awful witty and even his off-color jokes kept her giggling. She'd never heard such course language before in mixed company, but it only made the jokes funnier, and she blushed at a few but laughed anyway, to be a good sport.

"Well, now," Zeigler said, sitting back from his coffee. "What did you two lovely ladies have planned now?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," Cylvia said.

"It so happens I've been invited to the party room upstairs," Zeigler said expansively. "Are you interested in being my guests?"

"A party?" Lonnie blurted out. "At this hour? Why, it's almost one in the morning!"

Zeigler burst out in laughter. "It isn't that kind of party."

"Well, I'm all for a little fun," Cylvia said, but Lonnie here likes to go to bed early."