white, silky minidress and black heels for me to wear. My hair is braided, with ruby-colored barrettes on the sides. My skirt is so short the crouching tiger tattoo is fully visible. I’m a little self-conscious about my tats, but my sister told me I’d get over it soon. Apparently guys like piercings and tats—she mentioned something about
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
Funny. Robyn also advised me to punch anyone who groped me, including Craig.
I still can’t believe I’m standing in the DJ booth at the Devil’s Den. Craig is giving me the grand tour and introducing me to everyone. The DJ’s name is Dave—he went to high school with Robyn. There are rows and rows of CDs and even some vinyl. Overhead, just outside the booth, I see two lights, the kind on police cars. “What are those for?” I ask.
Dave smiles. “A warning system.”
I gaze at Craig, then back at the DJ. “Against what?”
“If the cops are in the parking lot or inside the club, our doorman signals, and I flash the blue light. When they leave, I turn on the red one to signal the all clear.”
“Why do they hang around here, anyway?”
“To bust dancers and customers for whatever they want. It’s a power play, nothing more.” Craig looks irritated.
“Yeah,” Dave agrees. “Just remember when you’re doing table dances to keep an eye out. Half our girls have been arrested for public lewdness, a Class A misdemeanor.”
“Public lewdness?” I ask.
“Getting too close to customers during a table dance. There’s a strict twelve-inch rule, but it’s almost impossible to keep it. You’ll see, darlin’.” Dave messes with the soundboard and switches songs. “When you’re ready to do a guest spot, come see me—we’ll pick a killer set.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Craig opens the door and I step out. I can’t believe how big the bar is. The T-shaped main stage connects to a narrow catwalk that wraps around the back, and it’s full of customers. There are half a dozen big screens situated around the club, and beer and sports-team signs hanging on the paneled walls. There are pool tables and the famous 1957 Chevy pickup used as a stage in an adjoining room with a second bar. Half a dozen high-top tables and a sofa and love seat are off to the side. That truck looks really hard to dance on. I’m not worried about the main stage or catwalk.
We advance to the back, where I note the old saloon-style artwork on the walls: beautiful women posed on velvet chaise longues with their breasts or bottoms fully exposed. They look so authentic. I’ll have to ask the owner where he purchased them.
We walk to a door in the corner and Craig knocks.
“Come in.”
It’s a pretty nice office, with two leather sofas, cherrywood desks and chairs, and western artwork. The street-facing windows are blacked out. I wonder what kind of
fun
goes on in here.
“Marisela Gonzalez,” Craig says, “this is Darren Starr, the owner of the Devil’s Den, and Henry, our manager.”
Darren stands and offers his hand. When I shake it, he gently flips my hand over and kisses my palm. Henry grunts his greeting. “Have a seat, darlin’. Want a drink?”
“I’m underage.”
Darren looks around the office. “See anyone who’s gonna tell?”
I laugh, then gaze at Craig. He nods. “I’ll have a Kir Royale.”
Darren picks up a phone. “Glenda, send two vodka tonics, a rum and Coke, and a Kir Royale to the office.” He hangs up. “Sit down, kiddo.” He pats the empty space next to him on the couch. “We miss your sister.”
“She’s going to be a tough act to follow,” I say.
“Ever dance before?” Darren asks.
“A few guest spots in Austin.”
“Where?”
“The Yellow Rose and Sugar’s Uptown Cabaret.”
“The Yellow Rose is an old club. The crowd is similar here. You’ll make great money. Most of the customers will dig the fact that your Robyn’s kid sister. If I could get the two of you onstage together, though…” He
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.
Funny. Robyn also advised me to punch anyone who groped me, including Craig.
I still can’t believe I’m standing in the DJ booth at the Devil’s Den. Craig is giving me the grand tour and introducing me to everyone. The DJ’s name is Dave—he went to high school with Robyn. There are rows and rows of CDs and even some vinyl. Overhead, just outside the booth, I see two lights, the kind on police cars. “What are those for?” I ask.
Dave smiles. “A warning system.”
I gaze at Craig, then back at the DJ. “Against what?”
“If the cops are in the parking lot or inside the club, our doorman signals, and I flash the blue light. When they leave, I turn on the red one to signal the all clear.”
“Why do they hang around here, anyway?”
“To bust dancers and customers for whatever they want. It’s a power play, nothing more.” Craig looks irritated.
“Yeah,” Dave agrees. “Just remember when you’re doing table dances to keep an eye out. Half our girls have been arrested for public lewdness, a Class A misdemeanor.”
“Public lewdness?” I ask.
“Getting too close to customers during a table dance. There’s a strict twelve-inch rule, but it’s almost impossible to keep it. You’ll see, darlin’.” Dave messes with the soundboard and switches songs. “When you’re ready to do a guest spot, come see me—we’ll pick a killer set.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Craig opens the door and I step out. I can’t believe how big the bar is. The T-shaped main stage connects to a narrow catwalk that wraps around the back, and it’s full of customers. There are half a dozen big screens situated around the club, and beer and sports-team signs hanging on the paneled walls. There are pool tables and the famous 1957 Chevy pickup used as a stage in an adjoining room with a second bar. Half a dozen high-top tables and a sofa and love seat are off to the side. That truck looks really hard to dance on. I’m not worried about the main stage or catwalk.
We advance to the back, where I note the old saloon-style artwork on the walls: beautiful women posed on velvet chaise longues with their breasts or bottoms fully exposed. They look so authentic. I’ll have to ask the owner where he purchased them.
We walk to a door in the corner and Craig knocks.
“Come in.”
It’s a pretty nice office, with two leather sofas, cherrywood desks and chairs, and western artwork. The street-facing windows are blacked out. I wonder what kind of
fun
goes on in here.
“Marisela Gonzalez,” Craig says, “this is Darren Starr, the owner of the Devil’s Den, and Henry, our manager.”
Darren stands and offers his hand. When I shake it, he gently flips my hand over and kisses my palm. Henry grunts his greeting. “Have a seat, darlin’. Want a drink?”
“I’m underage.”
Darren looks around the office. “See anyone who’s gonna tell?”
I laugh, then gaze at Craig. He nods. “I’ll have a Kir Royale.”
Darren picks up a phone. “Glenda, send two vodka tonics, a rum and Coke, and a Kir Royale to the office.” He hangs up. “Sit down, kiddo.” He pats the empty space next to him on the couch. “We miss your sister.”
“She’s going to be a tough act to follow,” I say.
“Ever dance before?” Darren asks.
“A few guest spots in Austin.”
“Where?”
“The Yellow Rose and Sugar’s Uptown Cabaret.”
“The Yellow Rose is an old club. The crowd is similar here. You’ll make great money. Most of the customers will dig the fact that your Robyn’s kid sister. If I could get the two of you onstage together, though…” He
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