Read Tea Leafing: A Novel for Free Online

that man begged
me to marry him . . .”
    “Of course,” Sam nodded
having heard the story twenty times before. She guided Pietra toward the office, “Anyone would know that just by looking at you! I
remember you talking about how people used to mistake you for Anne Margaret? Or
was it Sophia Loren? You could double for either one.”
    Pietra relaxed into the
thought of her own irresistible beauty as the two made their way through the
sweaty crowd and approached the second floor manager’s office. Faces of
relieved co-workers blurred past, darting out of Sam and Pietra’s path to keep
from slowing their progress. Sam successfully pawned Pietra off onto one of the
bouncers who had been loitering outside Giovanni’s door and clearly hadn’t had
his earbud in. He looked composed on the outside but panic flashed in his eyes
as Sam turned to flee.
    “Always a pleasure
Pietra. Take care of yourself and I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
    Pietra waved her off,
already absorbed in the prospect of making this young muscle-bound hottie sweep
her off her kitten-heels. Her plans were thwarted by the sound of young Gio’s
voice “MA! What ah you doin’ here?”
    Sam quickened her pace,
heading for the staircase leading back to the main floor. Once out of range,
she took a moment to rest against the railing and scan the club.
    The Pink Pussycat was
decorated as you might imagine the library in a high-end brothel, if   such a
library ever existed. The walls were covered in mahogany wood paneling and
massive Baroque, gold-framed mirrors. The seating was a mix of overstuffed
leather, velvets and tapestry prints with a leather bench rimming the perimeter
of the main room. The floor was a dark, wide-plank laminate that mimicked a
rich wood but was much easier to clean.
    From her perch on the
second floor, Sam could see the entire club with the exception of the front
entrance, which was tucked down a long hallway on the right side. The wall of
mirrors to her left was the backdrop for the main stage. The manager’s office
sat on the second floor, behind two-way mirrors, for easy monitoring.
    The center stage was
home to the two-story, floor-to-ceiling brass pole. A floor vent blew cool air
up the girls’ legs and into their hair for that slow motion, cover of Cosmo
effect. A balcony ran the perimeter of the second level, where all thirty-five
VIP rooms were accessed. At either end of the stage, staircases ascended to the
balcony. These were used for what the club called the “Catwalk,” otherwise
known as full dress walkout, or the Pussy Parade as the girls nicknamed it. The
walkout, a break taken twice an evening, was an opportunity for the club to
push logo imprinted swag onto unsuspecting customers.
Shirts, hats and golf tees were just a few of the items the dancers were
expected to sell for thirty bucks, along with two “free” table dances. The
girls kept ten of the thirty and the house got twenty. So, the free part was on
the girls.
    Rolling racks of
costumes — top hats and tails, Santa coats, or whatever the season
dictated — were brought into the dressing room. The girls wore their own
g-strings with the costume du jour. The club’s outfits were rarely washed so
they reeked of sweat and cigarette smoke. The dancers would split into two
groups and march down the staircases at opposite ends of the stage in a chorus
line kick, waiting to be picked by a customer. The whole experience was
gruesome. Humiliating if you were unlucky enough to be left on stage,
unselected for the two-for-one. It was a startling break in the regular hustle
of the evening and dreaded by dancers.
    The dressing room and
service bars were all located on the first floor, at the far end of the
building from where Sam stood. Their entrances were camouflaged behind a series
of faux ficus trees that weren’t fooling anyone with their authenticity. The
club was set up in a well-thought-out arrangement, funneling men into cozy
seating groups close to