Spider Lake Blues; party animals1

Spider Lake Blues chapter 2 by: MJ Carson
Current mood:Sanguine
Category: Writing and Poetry

The invitation didn't come with directions, and as a result, I spent half an hour driving up and down Rt 41/94 between Illinois and Wisconsin. Finally, I stopped at the truck stop on Russel Rd and asked for directions. As luck would have it, the girl behind the counter said that her sister worked there and was able to give me directions. The lyrics "follow the road 'till you see a road you think's not a road and take it" come to mind.
Victoria's club was literally back in the woods. She'd set up shop almost a quarter of a mile off the main road. I had to drive down a dirt path to get to the parking lot, which was so full by the time that I got there that I had to park back by the trees. I half expected a bear to come out and attack me. It took me about five minutes just to get from my car to the door.
When I reached the door, there was a very large Italian bouncer with a scanner pen. I handed him my card, he scanned it, threw it in a bin to his right, and waved me in.
This was not a party. This was an orgy of roman proportions. I mean this place had everything a perv could want. There were models, actors, strippers, and even midgets, mingling and mingling with guests and each other to the sound of a woman's fake orgasm set to a heavy techno beat. Brightly colored twirling lights in the ceiling revealed more than an hundred sweaty bodies in various states of undress, either dancing or in some form of sexual activity.
There were steel catwalks crisscrossing over the main floor, connecting the four corners of the wrap around steel balcony. These were filled with party goers till I thought that they might not hold. There were naked women walking around with candy/cigarette boxes filled with condoms and sex toys. The smells of sex, and cigarettes, and marijuana, and opium saturated the air. It was a little hard to concentrate on my job while trying to ignore those scents. I have a good nose for pretty much everything, and there's not alot of smells that I really like. Smoky smells give me problems. In the center of the room was a small stage upon which stood a very large black man, wearing nothing but boots, chaps, and a raging hard-on. This gentleman was flogging a skinny little blonde haired, blue eyed white guy with a bullwhip.
Insert joke here.
I was in the door for not even two minutes, when a latina midget named Rosalita came up to me, unfastened my pants and went to work on me like she was getting paid for it. Maybe she was. I don't know. I think her name was Rosalita. I couldn't really understand what she said when I asked her. Once she finished with me, she went over and went to work on a couple of stoners sitting on the couch in the corner. I pulled out my note-pad and wrote in it, make doctor appt. In one corner of the room, I found my favorite actress from ER in a foursome with two strippers and her latest boyfriend, whom the tabloids speak very highly of. It's so hard to put sarcasm on to paper. Go figure, huh? You dream and fantasize, and when you finally get to see it, you're working.
Stationed at eight points in the room were sixteen very large bouncers. Each was wearing a black Value City suit jacket over a green vest and white tuxedo blouse. There was one bouncer on the floor wearing a purple vest. I pegged him to be a manager. They were watching the party with ernest alerness, masked by practiced indifference. There was something off about a few of them. I couldn't tell what it was at the time. I didn't get close enough to really investigate. That's not what I was there for. I was there for the party.
Speaking of the party; I never knew you could fit so much debauchery under one roof. The strip club next door must have seemed tame. I know every strip club I've been to did at that moment. I know I'm not the best looking guy around, but my crotch was molested by so many delicate feminine hands at that party that I felt like Brad Pitt.
So anyway, I was standing there watching a pair of strippers going at it with a hot pinay girl, using toys that I've never even heard of, when guess who walked right up to me.
It was Victoria Malloy herself. She tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Mr. MacQuaid?"

Yeah, um. I haven't told you my name yet have I? Well, it's not MacQuaid.
I turned to her and said, "Yes, little lady? What can I do to you?
She smiled and said, "There's someone who would like to meet ye, sir. Please, follow me."
I didn't have much choice without blowing my cover, so I followed her leather chaps wherever she was going. By the way, Victoria's secrets were showing. I followed close behind with a limp in my step the whole way. She led me up the stairs to the steel balcony, then through a door into a hallway which must have connected the warehouse to the strip club. Once the door was closed, nearly all noise from the party just stopped. The floor and walls however, still vibrated from the bass flowing out of the immense woofers. Fluorescent lights flickered softly down on the red walls and black carpet. An exceptionally large bouncer with blonde hair and blue tinted glasses stood at the end of the hall like a vigilant monolith; guarding the entrance to the strip club. Ms. Malloy walked up to the first door on the right, and stepped inside. I followed quickly after, trying not to stare at the bulge under the bouncer's left shoulder.
Stepping inside of Victoria's office, the first thing that I noticed was that there was not one single family picture; no pictures of friends, no vacation photos. None of the things that you would generally see in someone's office. Either she has no social life, or she has something to hide behind the hedonism. On the orange faux stone finished walls hung numerous prints of Olivia paintings featuring Julie Strain in different states of undress or in fantasy costumes. The window to my right had a large window looking out over the party below. Under the window was a set of bookshelves, packed with volumes that you mght not find at your local book vendor; books such as "Burlesque: an Insider's History." To the right of the window were four very large filing cabinets. In the rear center of the room, featured quite prominently, was a large oaken desk.
Upon this neat and orderly structure sat a brand new HP pc with a seventeen inch plasma screen, a desk calender featuring art by Shel Silverstien, and an antique phone which probably cost more than my entire entertainment system.
The phone in particular, caught my eye. It was fashioned out of real ivory, with gold filigreed caps on the ear and mouth pieces, and matching gold filigreed feet. It was a rotary phone; the numbers were set in gold and the rotary wheel was also gold. That phone made me seriously consider for a moment, opening my own strip club.
Behind the desk and to my right was an old looking surveillance system, with a number of five inch screen monitors set up on five shelves with two little speakers on the bottom shelf, close to the desk.
I took two steps inside and said, "Wow! This is one hell of a fine office. You sure the boss won't mind us being in here?"
Ms. Malloy stopped at the corner of the desk, in her thick Irish brogue, without turning around, "Ye can drop the act now, Mr. Bowman. While ye're at it, ye may as well turn off your camera too."
My whole body went stiff as a board, and my stomach clenched up as if it might perform an emergency evacuation, one direction or the other. I was caught, plain and simple. This was something that had never happened to me before. I didn't know how it had happened, but it had. Perhaps I should shave my mustache some time.
Standing there, feeling like a deer in the headlights, I did what any sane, rational human being would have done in my position. I lied, "I'm sorry? What did you call me? I don't think I''m hearing so good right now."
Victoria stepped around the corner of her desk, and sat down in her black, leather, ergonomic chair. She swept her dark red hair behind her shoulders and said, "Sure and ye know who you are now; Jackson Andrew Bowman, head of Bowman Baxter Investigative Services, based out of Chicago. Ye were raised in Glenwood Illinois. Ye attended Bloom Township High school, where ye received two AFLA awards for excellence in foreign language studies, three awards in mathematics, and were voted most likely to join a suicide cult. After graduation, ye took a job as a security guard at River Oaks Mall and started taking correspondence courses to earn yer license to investigate privately. After quitting yer job at the mall, ye went below the radar for a couple of years. About ten years ago ye resurfaced and opened shop with Percy Silas Baxter. Have I forgot anything?"
I put my hand on the back of the chair closest to me for support and said, "I don't know. Did you get my hat size?"
Ms. Malloy smirked. I figured the only way for me to get home in one piece that night was to be cool like a cucumber. I was just hoping that I wouldn't get sliced like one.
Victoria leaned back in her squeaky leather chair, and absently played with one of the straps on her purple fishnet tank top saying, "So, will ye turn off the camera Mr. Bowman, or do ye need some assistance?"
She was trying to keep me off balance. The fact that her fishnet top was assisted by nothing in covering her was helping her cause. Have you ever had a fantasy about a squeaky leather chair? I was determined however, to keep my sensibilities. I reached into the inside pocket of my leather bomber jacket and pulled out my remote mp3 recorder and turned it off. This shut down the fiber-optic camera, and miniature microphone in my glasses. You'd be surprised at what you can find on the open market.
Once my camera was off, Victoria smiled and motioned to the chair next to me and said, "Please, have a seat, Mr. Bowman. There's no use in chairs if noone ever sits in them."