Episode 3

As Don emerged from the restroom into what should have been an empty lobby, a familiar voice said, “My main man!”

Don stopped and deliberately looked in the direction opposite the voice. Oily, vomit-colored sewage flashed in his mind, and he could smell its stench. Before he turned, he composed his face into empty innocence his grandfather had drilled into him. Grandfather always said, “Never reveal what you are thinking, especially to women and pimps.”

And the man he faced was a pimp. Teddy spent a lot of money in the club, but he usually came alone. Tonight, he was with three women̶—black, Asian and Caucasian—who were dressed in identical long, slinky, skin-tight dresses that revealed every curve of their Victoria’s Secret bodies, each a different color. Amethyst for the brown-eyed blond, ruby for the black woman and neon citrine for the Asian.

Don had never seen any of Teddy’s women in the flesh. Glittery makeup swept lightly across their flawless features. It looked as if Teddy had ordered them from a factory, and they had just rolled off the assembly line of female perfection. Don had heard that Teddy’s whores specialized in dominance and submission and the starting price was $500 an hour.

Teddy himself always dressed in hand-tailored, silk suits, and this one was all white. He was a Beverly Hills pimp with serious enemies. He’d earned an MBA from USC on a full scholarship and graduated in the top five percent of his class. His father was a white Russian, and his mother escaped from Somalia before being circumcised by some old woman with a chunk of broken glass.

Twenty years earlier, Teddy had also partnered with Amanda and directed some of her B-movie skin flicks when she attempted a comeback in film. The pimp porno director lived in San Marino, California, in a multi-million-dollar mansion.

Because of said enemies, when he wanted to party, Teddy drove his Jaguar out of Los Angeles to the beach and the Aphrodisiac Academe. Don also knew that Teddy considered himself a member of Amanda’s inner circle.

Ten minutes remained until 1990, and the club was already crowded beyond the legal capacity.

Don held out a hand, and they slapped skin.

 “Teddy, why are you coming to my house this close to the New Year? I thought you were going to a private party tonight.”

Teddy smiled. When he spoke, his voice was soft, like a feather duster gently moving across a hardwood floor. “A change of plans,” he said. “If you know what I mean.” Don knew. His wealthy customers and the pimps who wanted Teddy’s girls were turning up the heat.

Don guessed that these three young women would cost a customer at least one thousand an hour. For the night, well … There was no discount. Teddy only dealt in the highest-quality female flesh, and Don didn’t want to know how he recruited them.

“You know,” Teddy said, “if Amanda has stayed in the film industry, we’d still be partners. She’d produce, and I’d be directing.” Teddy held out a fist with the tip of a hundred-dollar bill peeking between two fingers and more hidden in the palm of his hand. Don freed the cash, wadded it up and dropped it on the floor, where he stepped on it and ground it into the bricks.

“Don’t insult me, Teddy.” Amanda was ninety-seven, and she’d retired into seclusion when she turned ninety.

For an instant, a hard look of anger flashed in the pimp’s eyes. It vanished just as fast. Then Ben came out of the lobby restroom, towing a cursing Norman behind him. Once out the front door, Ben shoved Norman toward the parking lot. The door closed behind them and muffled Norman’s curses.

When Teddy stepped closer, Don could smell his chemically controlled breath, and expensive cologne, the kind that stuck to oxygen like sticky, burnt rice.

“I’m begging you, Don,” Teddy said so his girls couldn’t hear. “Don’t embarrass me. I promise you I’m strictly here to have a good time.”

“If I hear the slightest hint that you are peddling flesh in my club …”

Pain swept across Teddy’s face, as if his mother had just caught him lying about not taking a bath. “Didn’t I say we were only here for pleasure, and haven’t I been good to the club for years? How’s Amanda? She’s a fine lady. Next time you see her, tell her I miss her.”

Don knew he’d been defeated. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and moved to the closed door between the club and the restaurant’s lobby. It was a thick crowd, and he didn’t see room for more bodies. He nodded to the bouncer, who opened the door and let a roar into the lobby that made Don’s bones ache.

Teddy’s face glowed as he ushered his women into the human crush. Before the door closed, Teddy turned and mouthed, “I owe you.”

It was time to retreat, so, with an inch of Grand Marnier in a cut crystal glass, Don went through the still-busy Lady Chatterley room and into the empty and dark D. H. Lawrence room. There was a booth in the farthest corner, lost in shadows—the perfect place to usher in the New Year alone.