CASEMENT

China Dawn jogged up the four wooden steps to the small platform stage. She gave a playful squeeze to the left breast of the departing dancer and quickly peeled off her black spandex mini dress. Arching her back and jutting out her chest, she spun defiantly to face the crowd of men gazing up at her from below. The throbbing beat of the Rihanna song, Birthday Cake steadily increased in volume from the jukebox loudspeakers. China Dawn flexed her knees and began bouncing on the balls of her feet. She held her hands low at her sides, balling her fists and then splaying her fingers in time to the beat. Continuing to follow the gathering intensity of the music, she started alternately raising her knees higher than her tiny waist, as if she were stomping on the heads of the appreciative males. China Dawn's signature dance. Part aerobics erotica; part hip hop groove thang.
The first man approached the edge of the stage with a folded $5 bill clenched in his teeth. Thirtyish, with a highly starched white shirt and Hermes tie. He appeared cocky and confident as he leered up at the petite Chinese girl dancing before him. Dawn reached up to grab the brass bar above her head, pulled upwards and shot her legs straight out on either side of the man's head. The momentum generated by her swing carried her crotch to within a fraction of an inch of the nonplused Yuppie' s nose. Rapidly regaining his composure, he leaned into her next swing so that his mouth was brushed by her sparse, trimmed pubic hair. China Dawn gave him a reproving look and pointed at the day-glow orange sign taped to the mirror behind the stage which read “DO NOT TOUCH DANCERS”.
The young man proffered another $5 and whispered, “That wasn't a ‘touch’, that was a kiss. Can't you tell the difference?”
China lifted her left leg and let the inside of her thigh rest on the top of the man's head. Draping her lower leg down his back, she levered him closer to her.
“Of course I can tell the difference. It's only that if you want to put your ugly face in my crotch, I prefer a lick to a kiss.” She grabbed the bill from his fingers and pushed him back towards his seat.
It was Wild Wednesday at Naughty Boy's. It was the night that drinks were half-price, the patrons were half in the bag, and the girls weren't half bad. What had begun as a nondescript neighborhood pub on the verge of bankruptcy, was now the hottest spot on Prospect Street in the heart of Georgetown. Tired of losing business to a trendy new sports bar, owners Brian and Doreen Shula decided that it was time to take off the gloves. To Doreen’s great dismay, their “Cheers” concept wasn't working anymore. Dark wood paneling, friendly barkeeps and wholesome fare worked on TV. But as soon as the series ended, they knew their days were numbered. They also knew that the vast majority of the local pub patrons were male. And two things attracted men to bars. Sports and women. Because the sports angle was already covered by a bar and grill across the street, they only had one choice. Always a believer in strong market research, Doreen surveyed every strip club between Washington and Baltimore. Not exactly an onerous task, since she was happy her husband had to stay home and “mind the store”. Brian began making discreet inquiries into the availability of the dancers at other clubs to come to their bar in Georgetown. The fact that it was co-owned by a strong busy-savvy woman helped in his poaching. They started with a one night a week program on Wednesdays. When that proved profitable, they focused on trying to increase midweek and weekend business. Wild Wednesdays were what put them on the map. Now so successful, they had a full house with dancers simultaneously gyrating on three stages six days and nights per week. Yet Wednesday nights were kept half price to remind them of their humble beginnings.
Life was looking good for Brian as he watched China Dawn handle the Yuppie in the starched shirt. Only a few oddly threatening phone calls during the immediately preceding days gave him any concern. Apparently, someone connected with several of the girls didn't like having his “talent” diverted to Naughty Boy's from another club.
“Well, fuck `em if they can't take a joke,” thought Brian. He leaned back against the cigarette machine by the bar and watched his clientele line up to press five-dollar bills into the dancers' hands. A reasonable tip in appreciation of being afforded a gynecologist-eye view of their waxed and trimmed intimate areas.
Brian continued his survey of the three stages, noticing that the dancers had slowed down their movements. The sweet but funky rhythms of the Fugees, “Killing Me Softly” remake of the old Roberta Flack torch song was one of their favorites. It gave them a break from the frenetic beats of some of the newer releases. A college student had his face pressed deep into the cleavage of a Barbi look alike named Kelly. By the center stage, an elderly man in a silver-blue tracksuit arranged rolled bills like a headdress in Amber's blond hair. Amber flicked her tongue wickedly at the old man, revealing a small gold stud which pierced its center.
He shifted his gaze to the stage on the far right, closest to the front door. As usual, China Dawn was performing the most athletic and gymnastic maneuvers of any dancer in the club. Five shifts of six hours a week wasn't enough for the young Chinese girl. She claimed that she conducted a morning aerobics class every day at the Bethesda Sports Club just to get her going every morning. Brian could believe it. Not an ounce of spare change on that tight little number. Doreen had been saying that she planned to join her in the gym to keep herself fit. Brian smiled at the thought of 45-year-old Doreen leaving China Doll in the dust on a ¼ mile running track but folding when it came to a high intensity 60 minute aerobics class. This thought made him think that he should go back in the office and help Doreen with the monthly income/expense reconciliation. Creative as it was.
Shortly after Brian left the room, a slender, Asian-looking man waited patiently for his turn to inspect China Dawn's reproductive equipment. He was wearing a dark brown raincoat that seemed a bit lightweight for the sunny but cold December skies outside. His hands were in his pockets as he stepped in front of the slowly spinning girl. China Dawn tossed her long black hair over her shoulder, bent sharply at the waist and raised her left leg high over her head in a perfect split to the beat of the Fugees. Rotating her body slowly on her right heel she paused with her crotch just a breath away from the man's face and hooked her left shoe on the bar above. Coyly, she extended two fingers to suggest he place a bill between them.
With astonishing speed his latex-gloved right hand came out of the raincoat pocket. But instead of holding the expected bill, a ten-inch carving knife flashed in the beam of the stage lights. Without uttering a sound, the man thrust the blade deep into the girl's lower abdomen. His other hand came out of the raincoat and locked fingers with the knife hand. With surprising strength, he pushed the knife upward, slicing China Dawn's belly fully open, her blood and organs spilling to the floor of the little stage. Wedged between the overhead brass bar and the floor, China Dawn pathetically grabbed at her escaping entrails, a silent scream frozen in her throat. The man reached again into the pocket of the raincoat, this time extracting a rolled sheet of paper which he roughly crammed down her throat. He slammed the bloody knife into the wooden floor and drew a large caliber semiautomatic pistol from his waistband. Slowly sweeping it across the stunned room, he cautiously backed out the door and disappeared into the Georgetown crowds.