Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Twenty-Four

There are some things you never prepare for as an adult. How not to get spotted walking into a business of ill repute thirty yards from a church, in bright sunlight in the middle of a weekday is probably not high on the list. But it should be.

Till now, I've never raised the collar on my London Fog. I've always thought it was too Inspector Gadget-y. Today, I'm grateful for that collar, and the floppy fishing hat I keep shoved under my front seat for stakeouts.

"Which one you got, honey?"

The question catches me off guard, partly because it's posed as I dip and bob and weave to avoid making nose-to-crotch contact with the sweaty loins being thrust in my face. I haven't wagged my neck so much since that time I dodged angry honey bees who'd built their hive under the front stoop of my grandma Rosa's church.

I am not at Rising Creek African Methodist Episcopal Church, though. I am at the North Pole, slipping into a reclining red wine-colored crushed velvet chair that doesn't recline far enough.

If you are a connoisseur of "classy" gentleman's clubs, AKA strip clubs, the North Pole is likely your kind of place. I am not a connoisseur of such places, though, which is why it took me two days and several clownings from the likes of Freeman, Baller Johnson, and Allah, before I understood the meaning of the business card slid under my front door.

The North Pole is, I'm told, is high end. Nicer furniture, cleaner, less sticky floors, less haggard dancers, and, according to Limpett, who once revealed after four beers at the Shangri-La, that he's been trekking to the North Pole twice a week after work since about a month after he got married...sixteen years ago, the dancers are generally better conversationalists than at rival nudie bars. I have no intention of conducting empirical research on this topic, so I will continue to take Limpett's word for it.

Quality isn't what makes the North Pole so popular. It's all in the name.

You can remain honest when you tell your wife or girlfriend that you'd like to visit the North Pole. It's like those hideaway taverns that generic business types slip away to in the middle of the day, with names like "The Office," "The Library," and "The Grocery Store." An old supervisor of mine struck gold back in the day when he retired, took his savings to Anchorage, Alaska, and purchased a tavern called Fat Richard's Halfway Inn. For reasons that should be pondered in college marketing classes everywhere, people from around the globe —even those who'd never visited— purchased Fat Richard's tchotchkes in bunches, t-shirts, coffee mugs, tote bags, and so on.

But right now, I'm pondering the question posed by Calvin Ward, former Daily Midway fashion critic turned fashion designer and modeling agency owner, turned general manager of the most popular nudie bar in the Upper Midwest.

I get it. He's asking me about which dancer I favor most, the redhead with freckles — at least I think they're freckles, the blonde, the Filipina, or the African American with an Afro that Foxy Brown would have killed for. This place is a virtual Benetton commercial, and I honestly don't have a satisfactory answer. I have always had a thing for redheads, and that 'fro on faux Foxy makes my knees buckle. But picking a favorite doesn't seem right or very nice.

Still, I have tons of questions!

What's up with all the C-section and knee scars? I want to know how many of the guys I see around the main stage are regulars. Do they see the women outside of work? Might any of these guys be the dads behind those C-section scars?

"You aren't even thinking about these girls, are you?" Calvin asked, breaking in. "In fact, I'm guessing you're looking for a story angle. I know the look."