Private Dancer by Stephen Leather Page A

they also put on shows. The girls in the upstairs bars danced topless or naked, which strictly speaking is illegal but the bars have lookouts on the ground floor. Whenever the police pass by the lookout hits an alarm button and red lights start flashing in the bar, signalling to the girls that they're to rush off and get dressed.
    The shows are what pull the punters up to the first floor bars. They have girls pulling razor blades out of their fannies, bursting balloons with darts fired from blowpipes in their fannies,
    writing with felt tipped pens stuck into their fannies. They have shower shows, candle shows,
    where the girls drip hot wax over their bodies, and full sex shows. The first time I went into one of the upstairs bars I was amazed by what I saw, amazed at the sort of things girls would do to their bodies for money. Now I hardly even notice what's happening on the stage. Even the full sex show is a disappointment. According to Nigel, the same guy's been doing it for at least ten years. He's tall and thin and not particularly well-endowed, and he makes love to his wife five times a night at five different bars. He starts at ten o'clock and performs every thirty minutes,
    usually with the same woman, his wife. I once saw him do the business with a different girl and was told that it was his wife's sister. Apparently his sister-in-law's happy to step in when the guy's wife doesn't feel up to it. A real family business.
    Bruce stopped outside a bar I hadn't noticed before. There was a sign saying “Dream Bar” and a flight of stairs leading up to a closed door. “What do you think?” asked Bruce.
    “Never been before,” I said.
    “Give it a go?”
    “Sure.” There were two Thai teenagers standing at the bottom of the stairs holding laminated cardboard signs. One of them shoved the sign in front of us. It was a menu of sex shows.
    “Have you got the wine list?” asked Bruce, but the teenager didn't get the joke.
    “Fucking show,” said the teenager.
    “Fucking great,” said Bruce, in his broad Newcastle accent. “Lead on MacDuff.” He twisted around and beckoned to Nigel. “In here, mate!” he yelled.
    “Any cover charge?” I asked the teenager.
    He shook his head. “Come inside,” he said, pointing his sign towards the door.
    “How much for a Carlsberg?” I asked.
    The teenager pointed at his sign. A Carlsberg was eighty baht.
    I nodded at Bruce. “Seems okay.”
    “Pete, you worry too much,” he said, slapping me on the back and running up the stairs two at a time. Nigel and I followed him in.
    Bruce had ordered two beers and a gin and tonic and was sitting at a table close to the raised dancefloor where two naked girls were gyrating unenthusiastically to a Thai pop song.
    “Quiet, isn't it?” said Nigel. There were only half a dozen other drinkers scattered around the bar.
    “It's mid-week,” said Bruce.
    The dancers scurried off the stage and were replaced by two girls who went through the motions of a lesbian act.
    “Where's our chit?” I asked. Normally the waitress would put a beaker containing a running total of the bill on the table.
    “It's coming,” said Bruce. “Relax.”
    Nigel began bitching about his job. He sold advertising space for a company that produced trade directories and most of his wages were commission. He hated the work and I got the impression that the only reason he stuck it was because he couldn't get anything else.
    The lesbian act finished and a middle-aged girl with horrific cellulite climbed onto the stage.
    She began to pull a string of plastic flowers from between her legs.
    “I'm getting a bad feeling about this, lads,” I said.
    Two heavy-set Thai men were standing by the door. They kept looking over at us.
    “What do you mean?” said Nigel.
    “It doesn't feel right,” I said. “There are hardly any girls. And too many Thai guys. And where the hell's our bill?”
    “What are you getting at?” said Bruce.
    “I don't know. But let's go