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  “For 50 cents, a guy gets sixty seconds to sink as many basketballs into the hoop as possible. Something like foul shooting,” said Tony. Already, Gil warmed to the pitch.

  “. . . There are six basketballs, see. And the balls are small enough for anyone to palm. Like they was on the court themselves . . .” Tony pointed out the various benefits on his brochure. “. . . if a person makes more than fifteen baskets, they receive a bonus of thirty seconds to score more points.” Tony spoke fluently, as if he’d done this a hundred times.

  “Hoop shoot, huh?” Since Gilmore was already a basketball fan and found himself captivated by the bold type, the imagery and the idea that he could have this clever amusement in his establishment.

  “Yeah and it’s a monster. Customers love dis here, and it would fit nice into a spot . . . er, a club like yours.”

  “How big is this machine?”

  “ ’Bout fifteen feet. But it’s narrow and doesn’t take up much standing room. Like in a corna or sumpthin’.”

  “How much?” Gil inquired.

  “Well, that’s the beautiful thing here. You don’t pay us, we pay you.”

  Gilmore let out a murmur.

  “Dat’s right, Gil.” Tony was becoming more talkative by now. “We could give you three thousand and have the game in here in three days. Brand new.”

  All Gil could think of was his enormous debt and the cost of living. Every day, every hour was one that required money being spent. Some way, somehow. Gil’s dreams were even consumed with spending money whenever he managed to squeeze in a few hours of sleep.

  “Could you do five?” asked Gil. “Cuz I could use it right about now.” And Gil’s audacity led to a handshake. There would be a $2,500 payment up front and 50% of the take from the machine would settle the deal until the full $5,000 was paid. After that, all but 25% of the proceeds went to Tony.

  Although Gil agreed and shook hands with Tony, he had no idea who he was associating with. He did not know that Tony was with the Bianco crime family. It was through Tony’s efforts that the Biancos planned to finagle a percentage of the club’s profits. It was a hidden agenda that Gilmore didn’t even detect as he signed the agreement with Tony “the HoopShoot salesman.” As Tony pivoted to leave the dusty air he heard Gilmore ask his name.

  “Angelo,” Tony lied.

  Finally

  Four months after the struggles, the hard times and the tears, Fool’s Paradise was bustling with business, as if all of those challenges were just an illusion. The Certificate of Occupancy was finally obtained thanks to Jeff Weiss, the attorney whom Douglass had contacted with the help of his friend. And Jeff sure knew his stuff. He pulled more strings than a puppeteer. A few payoffs and some promises. And finally, the club was now legit. All required paperwork was in order for Gilmore to showcase tits and ass as well as sell liquor. White collar workers and auto mechanics patronized the club from 12 noon till 4 pm. Blue collar workers, civil service workers and more auto mechanics piled in after 4 pm. By 8 pm, the night crowd was a mix of hustlers, lady-killers (just another title for playboy) and unfaithful husbands. And although these were the only hours a nightclub was permitted to open, it was a sure bet that, if the law allowed, Gil would have been open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, just like the donut shop next door. He was already repeating his old Mt. Vernon ritual; how he opened the club every day of the year, including Christmas and New Year’s day. And Gil’s non-stop, relentless approach paid off in spades. The regulars became regulars once again, as well as they began to bring in new customers. Besides auto mechanics, the area was loaded with drivers. There was a Fed Express depot whose drivers serviced more than 100 cities and towns. There was the department of sanitation and the New York City Bus Company which accumulatively housed and dispatched over 2,000 vehicles. There were oil companies, bakeries, dairies and tow trucks. There were depots for both the telephone company and the electric company. Add to all of these critical services the six lane traffic, and the end result turned out to be the deepest money-well imaginable.

  In the club on a busy Friday night, the colorful lights, as well as the infectious bass and drums of urban music, fueled this saucy, sexy atmosphere inside of Fool’s Paradise. Dancers gyrated on 3 elevated stages, conversations and outbursts of laughter competed with the music, and all of this mixed with this hazy, crazy fusion of temptation. Also interesting was the reality of how this erotic experience forced a culture clash that had white men, Latino men and black men, both young and old, to sit along-side one another in perfect harmony while being consumed, constrained and put away by violent and aggressive hip hop beats and lyrics. The sound system and a house deejay were a standard now, creating an ultimate impact.

  In the meantime, Sadie, China, Cinnamon, Moet, Champagne, Dynomite, Extacy and close to 80 other black and Latino dancers filled the club day and night. Sadie, China, Dynomite and Cinnamon were considered top-shelf dancers. Moet had been part of the old Gilmore’s crew, along with Champagne, Extacy and Juicy. Dynomite, on the other hand, was considered the craziest, loosest, wildest entertainer on the stage. She was always good for the most unexpected exhibitions, often pointing at a particular customer, indicating that he could have her ass. If you blinked your eyes you might miss her pointing to another customer, winking at him, promising him that she’d take him in her mouth, between her legs, or wherever, however. To say the least, Dynomite left very little to be imagined, and was received well because of it.

  Most other dancers were visitors to the club. They had no specific schedules or commitments with management, sometimes coming from other boroughs or states. There were also the local girls who added to the huge selection of flesh for customers to feast their eyes on. But, aside from the “top shelf” girls, it was clear that Gil allowed most any shapely woman onto his stages. If you could at least stretch a bikini, a teddy or a lacy bra—even cut-off jeans—you were good enough to work at Gilmore’s Fool’s Paradise.

  Naturally, this was a very sexist trade. And when desperate or out-of-work women came to the club they would look forward to immediate tips from lap dancing, wall dancing or be paid for merely becoming a customer’s so-called date for the night. The whole scheme of getting a man’s money was a well-known science among prospective dancers—

  “All you gotta do is grind and wiggle in a man’s lap or up against his groin for ten minutes. But you gotta be good enough, real seductive-like, cuz you wanna sell ’em the fantasy. Do it right, and the tip could be ten, twenty or even fifty dollars. Sometimes more if the guy ejaculates in his pants . . .” Women had developed a talent for encouraging men who were too timid. And if the dancer was creative enough, she could make a week’s salary in one night. She’d hustle her ass off, being aggressive with the conservative man, or even straight up demanding with the humble types.

  China, in particular, always had that certain attitude and charisma.

  “You need to come with me,” said China, her eyes speaking louder than her whisper as she directed her prey to the wall-dance area. And naturally, the patron followed obediently while China sought out an empty place up against the wall.

  There was lap dancing and table dancing, but not until Fool’s Paradise tripped over that next level of innovation was there such a thing as the “wall dance.” Sure, couples had most probably turned a “slow dance” into something of a wall dance, maybe in some quiet cove in some dark corner of some nightclub somewhere in the country. However, Fool’s Paradise made it a routine “service,” actually setting rules and regulations for wall dancing so that the recreation didn’t turn into a “slow screw up against the wall.” So, while the lights and music flickered and pounded; while the stage shows and porn movies and closed-circuit sports events kept everyone’s eyes and ears busy, the illusion of simulated sex went on against every available wall in the club.

  Punish Claudine

  “Go home,” exclaimed Gil. And he was serious this time. There would be no more excuses. Claudine was certainly not a
top-shelf dancer and had acted up many times in the past. Late for work; missing items from the dressing room; altercations with other girls over who owned what G-string, and various other incidents with dancers and staff. Claudine was a nuisance. Claudine was the type who tried to copy the styles of the top-shelf dancers, trying to be aggressive with the timid customers. In most cases, that customer found the courage to snatch his hand back and catch his very own attitude. Her nerve!

  If the popular adult entertainment venue was known for the best-looking girls with the best moves, Claudine certainly didn’t qualify; not even with her double-D breasts or the piles of makeup she wore to make herself look like something that she wasn’t. At 6 feet tall, Claudine was taller than a lot of customers but very disproportionate. Her 19-year-old body still carried excessive body fat. Her ass was also excessive; similar to the side of beef that you’d see hanging up on sale at the butcher shop. And not that there’s anything wrong with excessive fat, an excessive ass, or simulating a side of beef; it’s just not that type of party at a topless nightclub. Moreover, Claudine, whose hair was always plastered in wild, swooping styles with a pound of sticky gel to keep things in place, often made customers laugh at her, always trying to be something that she wasn’t. Up on stage doing the Cabbage Patch dance or the Harlem Shake, as if she knew what she was doing. Frankly, if not for Gil’s “anything goes” attitude about who could and who couldn’t dance at the club, Claudine would be shown the door. She’d end up working down at The Goat on Hunt’s Point—a hole in the Bronx where girls were giving head for crowds of onlookers.

  But Gil tolerated Claudine. Until now, that is. This was a busy Friday night.

  “Not a night for your shenanigans,” Gil had to tell her constantly. “This is not a nursery school, and I shouldn’t have to watch over you like a little kid. You’re a grown-ass woman.” Gil ripped into her. He was very focused on making money. The club had quickly become New York’s premier adult entertainment complex and his objective was to get through every night without a hitch. His take-home for Fridays had grown to a steady $10,000 a week. And that was after expenses.

  So Claudine’s antics sho’ nuff wouldn’t be tolerated. Gil repeated his order before shifting his eyes toward club security. Claudine finally took him seriously, standing with her hands on her hips. The black Spandex she wore was stretched to the stitches, covering all but the cellulite on her waist and reaching down to her calves where a furry pair of pink socks stood out. Her pink blouse was stained and discolored, pressing into her cellulite to create a pseudo-cleavage.

  “Fuck this place. And fuck you, Gilmore!” Claudine was arched to one side and then the other. Doing her damned best to create a scene. She was stuttering now, knowing that she had reached a limit and that her future in Fool’s Paradise was now questionable. But her ’tude flipped a switch within her that said FUCK IT! And she snapped. A few more profanities were spit and exhausted, and Claudine swung out of her hooker’s pose, almost crashing into a customer on a stool. Onlookers peeled out of Claudine’s way as if a drunk driver had come through. She strutted across the floor through dazed patrons, finally disappearing into the dressing room.

  “No question, that broad’s drunk. She’s acting up, as usual, Jimmy. So she’s barred for a week,” said Gil to the head of his security staff.

  And indeed Claudine was drunk. Earlier that evening, she swallowed a few shots of Hennessy straight up. Maybe it was in response to her poor financial status for the night. Or her poor financial status forever.

  Nevertheless, that scene between Claudine and Gil went virtually unnoticed in the adventurous atmosphere. The giant screens to the front, side and rear of the club were projecting the usual sports of athletics and sodomy. Sadie was on the main stage with old-assed Juicy to the side. Juicy was laying on a blanket, spreading her wrinkled folds for her small fan-base. She was a mismatch in comparison to Sadie’s youth and beauty, but Juicy could care less. She had her own thang goin’ on, slithering and seducing her group of three aging onlookers.

  The instrumental of the club classic to Rapper’s Delight (or Good Times, depending on how you looked at it) kept the walls and floors vibrating all the while. It had been a few minutes since she argued with Gil, but Claudine was now dressed and half bouncing along the club floor with her knocking knees. She swished her Amazon frame and toted her travel bag towards the club’s entrance. Gil shrugged off her obscene gestures with a gradual blink of his eyelids. And now he signaled Jimmy.

  “Jimmy, I don’t want her back in here. Put her in a cab or something.” Gil was leaning over the circular bar, his elbow and forearm planted on the Formica surface. A lukewarm black coffee was within reach. At the same time, the ousted dancer finally lowered her middle finger and worked her way into the foyer, under the metal detector and towards Jimmy, who was holding open the front door. She looked Jimmy directly in the eyes and sneered.

  “Jimmy, you can keep yo’ dick in yo’ pants. I can handle myself tonight.” With her palm raised and flagged inches from his face, Claudine passed Jimmy and stepped through the doorway. Jimmy casually accepted Claudine’s snide remarks as nothing unusual, and he stood outside the club’s entrance, leaning back against an exterior wall. Two fresh customers were thrown for a moment, but didn’t hesitate to scurry right through the entrance. Jimmy lit up a Newport and watched Claudine as she turned into the parking lot.

  The parking lot was the least of the priorities in renovating the property. It was still unpaved, with loose dirt and gravel on its surface. Claudine rested against a Mercedes and fumbled in the dark for a joint from her artificial Gucci purse. From the short distance, Jimmy could see how sorry she looked with her fake fur half-on and half-off her body. Claudine’s left breast was showing almost to the nipple, just barely ready to spring from her tight, pink halter top. This was one of those days when she raced out of her boyfriend’s place. So the blond wig had to suffice. Even that wasn’t on straight.

  Finally having an opportunity to relax, she slipped the strap and travel bag from her shoulder and dropped it to the ground. She searched her pockets for a book of matches and eventually lit the stick of weed in the cup of her hands. Squinting her eyes from the fumes, she sucked in the smoke. After a long drag there was a mild burn in her throat as the marijuana found its way through her body. With her face tight, as if she was pressing out a rocky bowel, Claudine was now high as well as intoxicated. She was out here at a time when the last of the after-midnight crowd had paid their $10 admissions. It was now 2:30 AM. Jimmy had returned to his indoor post and Claudine had begun to talk to herself, alone, under the cool moonlit sky. The hum and drone of Cameo’s Candy filtered through an exhaust fan in the wall and could be felt like a soft tremor in the parking lot. There were close to 50 spaces in the lot with every one of them filled. The stillness in the lot seemed stranger with all of that excitement only feet away, inside the wall. Like a wake for shiny vehicles.

  “Fuck Gilmore.” Claudine was slurring her words now. Just above a mumble.

  “He just mad cuz I didn’t let him eat my pussy tonight . . . fuck ’em.” She took a last pull from the blunt wedged between her thumb and forefinger until the orange flow touched her skin.

  “Shit . . . Fuck. Fuckin’ shit!” She shook her hand furiously like she was trying to force the ink down in a malfunctioning pen. “He ain’t the only motherfucker payin’ . . .” Claudine was disoriented, now blaming Gil for her burnt fingers. “Fuckin’ stud . . . man, my hand is hurtin’ . . . fuckin’ killin’ me!” She looked up to see two full moons and then cradled her head into her inner elbow, reaching her hand to the back of her neck.

  “I need a break from this shit. Wack-ass, cheatin’ men. Dogs! All full of shit.” If Claudine wasn’t high and twisted, then maybe things were in fact spinning fast around her. Maybe all was wrong with the world, while her little universe was fine and dandy.

  “Motherfucker gonna give me a dollar tip and ask me for change. Got his fuckin’ nerve.” C
laudine opened her eyes again, swearing that relief was somewhere. Somehow.

  “I’mma wait for Sadie . . . she ’bout it. Take me home, girrrl . . .” Claudine moved her legs like they were weighted down with sandbags, and eventually she reached the rear of the lot. She could barely keep on her feet as the hallucinations fought with her want for sleep. With different sets of black tires and spirals of whitewalls to guide her, Claudine came to a halt and leaned against a black Cherokee jeep. She wasn’t conscious of the tear sliding down her face, creating a path down through her layers of makeup.

  “Hi, Moet. Wassup wit’ chu? Tired or sumpthin’?” Claudine asked. There was very little light back here, not even enough to see that Moet’s eyes were shut. Still, Claudine carried on like this was a usual conversation. “You need to fix yo’self, chile, wit yo’ lame ass . . . guess Gilmore threw you out too, huh?” High as a kite, Claudine was having a one-way conversation with Moet—Moet, one of the top-shelf dancers at Fool’s Paradise.

  Moet began dancing for Gilmore at age 13, but nobody suspected her of being a minor. She was short and physically gifted. Cocoa-brown skin. C-cup breasts. She had the stage presence of a pro, demanding a man’s unquestionable focus. Her alluring gaze and provocative dance swerves did it for a man. Her on again-off again “ghetto attitude” only helped to spice up her performance. She wasn’t into the flashy outfits that Sadie or Dynomite wore. She was simple. Some denim short-shorts and a bleach-white brassiere might do it; as if she just threw something on. That was all she needed to make money. For sure, Moet had grown up in the business. She was 21 now and a seasoned veteran. One of Gil’s top moneymakers.

  Claudine assumed Moet was sleeping—sleeping?! On the dirt of an outdoor parking lot???—

  She slumped down to sit beside her friend on the dusty ground, offering her companionship. Moet looked comfortable to Claudine; so peaceful with her eyes half closed like they were. And she was stretched out on the gravel like she was at the beach. Moet’s right leg was cocked and leaning against the jeep, with part of her body exposed under the oversized sheepskin coat she wore. Claudine thought Moet was lookin’ sexy for real. She relaxed against Moet’s leg and the Cherokee, pulling her knees to her breasts.