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it would be nice—but not necessary—if you tipped the girl after.
    And this is the part where I tell you I take care of my girls. I try not to let them go out with jerks. It happens, but not as much as it does at other bars. I do what I can to protect them. I try to keep them out of too much trouble. I know it won’t matter, but there are a hell of a lot worse Papasans around than me.
    So go ahead and hate me, but the business will still be here. The guys will still come. And so will the girls. Because for them the money’s better here, and there’s always a chance they might get taken out of the life to live in Australia or the UK or the States.
    Perdue, if I remember correctly, glanced at the narrow stage—more like a runway down the center of the room back before I remodeled—then took a seat in an empty booth on the far side.
    He wasn’t alone for long. That’s not why people come to the bars in Angeles City. They come for the laughs, for the cold bottles of San Miguel beer, but most of all they come for the brown-skinned girls so willing and available.
    A couple of my waitresses in their uniforms of tight pink hot pants and white bikini tops approached him together. Only half interested, I watched the encounter, still unsure if the guy was one of those who was only gauging the talent and would soon be leaving, or was someone we could milk a few pesos out of, maybe even hook him up for the night.
    One of the waitresses, Anna, giggled while the other one, Margaret, I think, looked over in my direction and said something to our new guest. Perdue looked at me, then removed a wad of bills from his pocket and handed a couple of notes to each of the girls.
    Now I was intrigued. Guys usually didn’t pay for anything the moment they arrived. What happened next surprised me even more. Perdue got up from his booth and walked around the stage to where I sat at the bar.
    He nodded at the stool next to the one I was sitting on. “May I?”
    “Please,” I said.
    “Thanks. I think the view’s better from over here.”
    Indeed it was. Superstar Ellie with the do-me-now looks was swaying back and forth less than ten feet away.
    “Joseph Perdue.” He held out a thin, rough hand.
    “Wade Norris,” I said.
    His grip was stronger than I expected. Whoever Perdue was, he was more powerful than he let on.
    “You American, too?” he asked.
    I nodded. “Ohio. Columbus.”
    “Never been there. I’m from Wyoming, myself.”
    “Yellowstone?” I asked. It was the only place I knew in Wyoming.
    He smiled at me. “Nah. Laramie. Cowboy country.”
    Anna walked over and handed Perdue a San Miguel, then set a cup on the bar behind him with a slip of paper inside noting the beer.
    He held his bottle out toward me. “Cheers, Wade.”
    I obliged by clinking the bottom of my bottle against the bottom of his. We both took drinks, his deeper than mine.
    “I hear you’re the Papasan . You run things.”
    Run would be a good word for it, I thought. I wasn’t the owner; he was thousands of miles away in the Netherlands. But I was the decision-maker. And gatekeeper.
    I shrugged, then said, “You enjoying Angeles?”
    “It’s not bad. But, you know, all these bars around here seem pretty much the same. You all got the neon, the mirrors with all the names painted on them, the big bells. The only difference I can see is the girls. Some places have a better group than others.”
    I couldn’t argue with his assessment. There are over a hundred go-go bars in Angeles City, all offering pretty much the same thing: pre-recorded music and liquor and women.
    “So how does ours rank?”
    “About average.” He nodded toward Ellie. “Except for her. She brings your score way up.”
    I couldn’t help but smile. The fish was circling the bait. Now all I had to do was hook him.
    While Perdue took another drink, I caught the attention of Kat, the bartender. With a quick, almost undetectable motion, I indicated our new customer’s interest in