Murder by Valentine Candy by Gregg Sapp

Author:Gregg Sapp
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: valentines day, humor in fiction, satire in fiction, best contemporary literary fiction, holidays, humorous and satirical fiction
Publisher: Evolved Publishing LLC
Published: 2021-02-04T00:00:00+00:00

Living on a chauffeur's salary, Jay-Rome could not afford to frequent gentleman’s clubs. On special occasions, when he did seek the kinds of pleasures those venues provided, he adhered to high standards. No dives, please. Some dudes went slumming in dank holes where garish neon flashing lights promised GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS. Jay-Rome avoided those places.

By contrast, he looked for legitimate adult cabarets that advertised their elegance with subdued exterior lighting, tinted windows above eye level, a solid door with ornate patterns, and a well-lit parking lot filled with tricked-out late-model cars. The best joints even featured valet parking. He appreciated a place where he could fit in while wearing a white felt fedora, cashmere jacket, and riotous bling. He felt comfortable in a club where the interior had subtle perimeter lighting, open spaces for roaming, a bar with chrome rails and plush stools, and a central stage like a theater in the round, although with a pole. Among his fellow gentlemen, he could switch between casting admiring glances at the athleticism of the dancers and carrying on lively conversations about the day’s affairs. Of course, drop dead gorgeous waitresses clad only in glitter welcomed him with a sweet smile and called him by his first name. Even the food was good.

The Booti Tooti Club was not one of those places. It not only fell far below Jay-Rome’s usual standards for a gentleman’s club, but it failed even to meet his minimal hygienic expectations. Standing in the parking lot, in fearful anticipation of what awaited him behind those rusty metal doors, Jay-Rome tried to recall when he’d had his last tetanus shot.

To enter, he had to walk by a huddle of slobs, rednecks, and seedy degenerates smoking and spitting tobacco outside the door. There wasn’t a single brother in the whole lot of them. He felt their sloppy drunk glares burn on the back of his neck. Once inside, his sinuses shrank from breathing air thickened by heavy breathing and hormonal excretions. Lonely men sat at rickety tables by themselves, their hands out of view. On stage, the nude woman writhed for their amusement while hanging from a pole. Floodlights beat down on her like lighthouse beacons. She had a detached look on her face. Jay-Rome wondered what she was thinking—did she imagine herself as a fashion model prancing on a Parisian walkway? Or, was she merely going through the motions, devoid of thought or imagination. He felt sorry for her, sorry for the men, and sorry for himself for being there.

“‘Sup, buddy? There’s a two drink minimum,” the beefy man at the end of the bar said to him.

“Are you Tank?” Jay-Rome asked. God help him if he was wrong and had just called somebody Tank. He’d heard that rednecks battled over far less.

“Who’s asking?” the man demanded.

“My name’s Jay-Rome. My friend Huck Carp said I should ask for Tank.”

“Huckster?” The man relaxed his jowls. “How’s the kid holding up?”

“He’s been better.”

“No shit. Tell him if he needs to unwind while waiting on his trial, he can come here.

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