Hot Sensations
By
Mathis B. Rogers
Copyright 1997 Mathis B. Rogers
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Chapter 1
"You're up next, Marty."
Standing in front of the mirror, Marty tied the black scarf he always wore around his neck. It wouldn't be there for long.
"Thanks Greg," he replied, using the mirror to look behind him at the handsome young man who had spoken.
Greg was buff. His smooth hard body beaded with sweat. He had an all over tan that Marty knew came from a tanning bed. Marty couldn't say anything though; his all over tan came from one, too. Greg was only wearing a red thong bikini and a pair of brown suede boots. Grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat off his neck and body, Greg took a long swig of ice water.
"The crowd's hot tonight," Greg said, chewing a piece of ice. "I made two-fifty. But the stage fan's not blowing right, or something. It's hard to breathe out there."
"Great. Just what we need," Marty sighed.
"Yeah. And I've got another show to do after you're done," Greg said. "I hope Nick gets it fixed before you get out there."
"Why are you doing another show?" Marty asked. "We're just supposed to do one a day. Isn't Brent coming?"
"No. Brent called in sick and Nick says the crowd wants three shows a night, so I volunteered to do two. Now that the fan's not working, I think I'm going to regret it.
"I'm going to take a shower and see if I can catch my breath before you're done," he added and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
A moment later, Marty heard the water running in the shower and he tied the black mask around his head and adjusted the eye holes so he could see. He put the white felt hat on and looked into the mirror.
The Lone Ranger stared back at Marty in the mirror. He wore black leather boots, a pair of skin-tight, white, break-a-way pants, a white long-sleeve cotton shirt that was unbuttoned just far enough to show off the top of the thick black hair on his chest. A black leather vest and a black scarf around his neck and the white felt hat completed the outfit. Except for the boots, hat and the mask, all of which would be either on the stage or in some strange woman's bra within the next half hour. He always had to make sure that the hat either stayed on his head or on the floor, or someone would run off with it.
The music began. His queue. Sighing, Marty headed toward the door. He wasn't looking forward to this.
The disk jockey's voice was heard over the sound system. "Ladies, please make welcome The Lone Ranger!"
The bar room was full, almost over flowing. Another successful Saturday night. "Don't these people have a life?" he asked himself, as he danced out to the center of the stage.
"Oh, no. Not Mrs. O'Neill again," he thought, plastering the fake smile on his lips. Yes, there sat Mrs. Alfred O'Neill. Every Saturday night she was there, sitting at the same table in the center of the front row. Every table sat three, but she always sat alone. Five foot four, she weighed at least two hundred pounds. Worse, she always bathed in the worst perfume he'd ever smelled. The first time he'd performed he had almost thrown up on her. Since that time, he'd made it a point to never eat before a show. But he couldn't complain too loudly, he had to admit, each of the guys usually took home a crisp fifty she doled out.
He was thankful that the club had a rule the performers couldn't date any of the customers. And the customers were told this in advance.
Marty's fake smile jelled into a real one when he made his way to the left of the stage. Sitting alone, at a table considered to have the worst view, was the prettiest woman he'd ever seen. She had milky white skin and sparking green eyes. The green scarf she wore accented her long auburn hair. At times like these he wished the house rule didn't apply.
Turning his back to her, he shook his bottom for her and the crowd cheered. Marty turned back to face her. Reaching down, he took her hand in his. Keeping with the beat of the music, he tipped his hat back and held her hand in his, pressing it against his chest.
Her green eyes sparkled as she smiled up at him. "Unbutton it," he said.
Slowly, she unbuttoned his shirt and ran her hand over his hard, hairy chest and stomach, smiling seductively up at him.
"I'll be back," he promised and kissed her on the lips. He let the kiss linger a little longer than he should have before pulling away and dancing his way across the stage. He looked over at her. Without expression, she watched him slowly take his vest off and the crowd roared with delight when he threw it onto the stage behind him.
Marty untied the black scarf and slowly let it slide from around his neck. Twirling it in his right hand, he danced his way over to a brunette at another table. Holding the scarf in both hands, he placed it behind her neck and used it to pull her to her feet.
"Having a good time?" he asked and kissed her on the lips.
"Oh, yeah," she swooned. He made his way to another table, leaving the scarf draped around her neck.
Marty turned his back to the audience again and lowered his shirt so they could see his muscular back. The crowd went wild. He pulled his shirt back up and they booed.
Marty knew how to work his audience. He never let anyone give him any money until he had removed all his clothing. He had found that if he had money to worry about while he was disrobing, he had to deal with it when it was time to take his pants off, which ruined the moment.
Marty turned to the crowd again. Taking his hat off, he threw it on the floor behind him and, reluctantly, headed for Mrs. O'Neill's table.
He took a deep breath. "Boy, Greg was right, it's hot up here," he said to himself. Sweat was already pouring off of him. "Hi, baby," he said, smiling at Mrs. O'Neill.
Her body shook as she giggled and blushed. He danced in a circle and, with his back to her, took another deep breath and held it while rubbing his hip against her arm. Then, he shook his bottom in her face. Squealing with delight, she reached up and grabbed his shirt tail. Keeping with the beat, he put his arms behind him and danced away, leaving the sweat-soaked shirt with her. Again, the crowd went wild.
Marty danced back out onto the stage. When he turned to face his audience again, a blast of cold air hit him like someone had turned a hose of cold water on him, making his nipples stand at attention.
The spotlight blinded him. He couldn't see where the wind was coming from, but he was relieved the fan had been repaired. He made his way to another table at the front of the stage. A red head smiled at him and he bent down to kiss her. "Take my belt off," he said and straightened up.
With nervous hands, she fumbled for his belt. He continued to sway to the beat, making it difficult for her to get hold of the belt. The rules were that the customers couldn't touch the dancers in certain places. Since the buckle was just an inch above the main place they couldn't touch, and he was moving, it made her even more nervous.
The other two women at the table and the audience had no sympathy for her. Her table mates started laughing at her and the audience started chanting, "Take it off! Take it off!"
Marty felt sorry for her when she turned beet red.
Trying to make her task easier for her, he picked up the drinks on the table and handed them to the other two women. He turned his back to the table and, placing his hands on it, lay down on the table. Taking her hand in his, he placed it on the buckle. After she got it unfastened, she held onto it while he rolled off the table and the belt slipped off. The crowd cheered.
Getting to his feet, Marty took the belt from her and threw it onto the stage, where he could get it later. Then, since the crowd had been mean to her, he took her by the hand and pulled her up onto the stage. Placing his hands on her buttocks, he pulled her left leg up against his right hip and danced so that he appeared to be grinding his crotch against her, though there was still a foot between their bodies. He kissed her on the lips and the crowd went crazy.
"That will teach them," he said with a grin. "Is this your first time here?"
"Yes," she replied. "I'm Sheila."
"Nice to meet you," he said. "I hope you enjoy the show, Sheila." Marty sent her into a spin, then caught her, dipped her, and kissed her on the lips again.
Flushed from the excitement, she let him dance her back to her seat. Leaning down like he was going to kiss one of the other women at her table, he whispered, "Eat your heart out," and, smiling, danced away. The crowd didn't hear what he said, but they saw the fake-out and laughed, clapped and cheered.
He'd been to every table along the front of the stage and Marty still had his pants on. The only thing left to do was to start over. And that's just what he had planned on doing.
Marty turned toward the first table and almost froze in his tracks when it noticed that it was empty. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen was gone, in and out of his life in a flash.
Regaining his composure, he danced his way back over to the woman he'd left the scarf with and pulled it slowly, provocatively, from around her neck. He leaned down and kissed her again.
"Thanks for keeping this safe for me," he said, putting it around his neck. He pulled the scarf slowly back and forth. Placing the scarf between his legs, he seductively pulled it back and forth against his crotch and the crowd went wild.
Tossing the scarf over his shoulder, Marty danced slowly around the table, stopping in front of another woman at the same table. He gyrated his crotch in front of her face and she reached up and unbuttoned his pants.
"Take it off!" the crowd shouted.
Keeping up with the music, Marty pulled the scarf off his shoulder and covered her hand with it. "Unzip them, too," he said. He tossed his head back and made facial expressions that gave the impression she was doing more than just unzipping his pants.
Mrs. O'Neill sat at the adjacent table. She reached over and grabbed the left side of his pants. He stepped between the two tables. The lady on his right unzipped his pants underneath the scarf. "Put your hand on the side," he told her. "When I tell you to, both of you pull down."
She put her hand on the top of the right side of his pants and he stepped backwards. "Now!" he exclaimed. She and Mrs. O'Neill pulled downward and his pants split. He was only wearing a black thong bikini and his black leather boots.
The crowd cheered and he danced his way back onto the stage so they could all see him, leaving Mrs. O'Neill and the other woman each holding one half of his pants.
Marty turned his back to the crowd and rolled his hips for them before turning to face his audience again. Now it was time to start getting paid for his performance.
He danced his way toward another table. The music screeched to a halt. The spot light popped and the room went black. And like the calm before a storm, the wind from the fan stopped. The room was pitch black. An eerie silence engulfed the room. No one could see anything. The electricity had gone out. Someone screamed. Even the red exit signs had gone out.
"Everyone relax!" Nick's deep voice boomed from the bar. "No one move. The backup generator will kick in shortly."
Some of the women who had lighters lit them and held them up so they could see.
Marty sighed. Even if the generator kicked in the show was over. The generator would only supply simple lighting, not music, air conditioning, or the spot light. The room would soon be so hot that no one would be able to breathe. If a fuse had blown he might be able to continue when Nick replaced it, but he had heard the spot light pop and figured it would have to be replaced. Marty was sure the show was over for the night.
Marty couldn't see well enough in the light from the women's lighters to pick up his clothes, so he left them on the stage and headed for the dressing room. He was thankful that he didn't have to go through the crowd to get there. He knew they would probably try for an illegal grope if he got near them.
Reaching the door, he turned to look back at the room full of women. The generator still hadn't kicked in, but one of the bartenders, Grant, had lit some candles and placed them along the bar. Marty could see Grant in the candlelight, but he didn't see Nick.
Marty opened the door and almost ran into Greg, who was holding a candle. "What happened?" Greg wanted to know. He was only wearing a towel around his waist.
"Fuse blew, I guess," he replied.
"You didn't get very far, did you?"
"Nope. Just got my pants off. They did fix the a/c though," he said, looking up just as the spot light sparked and a curtain that hung from the ceiling caught on fire. "Oh, great," he said. "A curtain just caught fire. The ceiling will be next."
"Oh, no," Greg sighed as Marty grabbed the candle out of his hand and rushed out onto the stage.
Chapter 2
When they saw Marty run out on to the stage, the crowd thought he was going to continue his performance with the candle and they cheered. Because the ceiling was lower above the tables than the stage, they couldn't see that the curtain was on fire. Since they were looking at Marty they didn't notice the glow from above.
"Ladies! Please be calm!" he shouted. "May I have your attention, please?"
They quieted down for a moment and he said, "Please walk out the front door as carefully and as quickly as you can. If you need any help, the waiters will be glad to help you get out."
The ladies didn't question him. The room had started getting hot and it was getting difficult for them to breathe. They started for the door.
Nick appeared behind the bar. "Wait, don't go. We've almost found the problem," he said.
"No, Nick. Let them go. Please? Trust me on this," Marty said.
The women were confused, but the waiters knew Marty wouldn't be turning them away if there weren't a good reason. After all, he hadn't received any money from the audience for his performance. They sensed something in Marty's tone that told them they should leave, so they ushered the group toward the door.
"Okay," Nick conceded, reluctantly. He knew that it was getting hot and he didn't know how much longer it would take him to get the electricity back on, so he returned to the basement, letting them go outside.
Mrs. O'Neill rushed onto the stage where Marty was standing. "What's wrong, Ranger Baby?" she asked, worriedly.
"Don't worry, Mrs. O'Neill, let's just get out of here," he replied as Greg rushed out onto the stage. He had gotten dressed.
"Okay," she said, turning around to head for the front door. From where they stood she could see the ceiling, now ablaze. The light from the fire cast eerie shadows across the stage.
Mrs. O'Neill screamed. Terror-stricken, she stood rooted in place. "Fire!" she exclaimed.
"I've already called the fire department," Greg said, grabbing her by the arm. "Calm down, Mrs. O'Neill. If we cause a panic, we'll never get out of here alive."
Over half of the women had already gotten out of the building. The other women looked towards the stage. Although they couldn't see the flames, they could see the glow from above the stage. Some started screaming and others started shoving their way to the door.
"Great. Thanks, Mrs. O'Neill," Marty chided.
"Come on, let's get out of here," Greg said, taking her arm and guiding her toward the group of terrified women.
Heading for the front door, Marty and the waiters tried to get the women to calm down. "Grant, come on, let's get out of here," he called as he helped Sheila up off the floor, where the others had trampled her and left her laying.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I think so," she replied putting her arm around him.
"Okay, let me get Nick," Grant replied. "He's down in the basement."
"Hurry," Marty replied as the other bartenders headed toward the front door.
"That's everyone except Grant and Nick," Greg said, sitting Mrs. O'Neill down on the bench at the bus stop across the street from the club.
"I don't think it's a good idea to go back in," Marty said. "But I wish they'd get out here."
"So do I," Greg replied, worriedly.
Sheila was still clinging to Marty. He pulled away from her. "Are you sure you're okay, Sheila?" he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking into her green eyes in the yellow glow of the street light.
"Yes. I am. Thank you," she said.
"Where are your friends?" he asked, looking around.
"I obviously don't have any friends," she replied as tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Sorry you had such a miserable time for your first Male Review," Marty said.
"Well, thanks to you, it wasn't so bad," she said, running her hand through the soft, thick hair on his hard chest. She kissed him on the lips.
"I'm glad," he said. "Excuse me. I'm going to see if I can find Nick and Grant."
Marty headed for the front door, which was still open. Greg was at his side. "Nick! Grant!" Marty called. "Can you hear me?"
Looking into the building, Marty could tell that the beam that separated the sitting area from the stage had fallen and the ceiling above the tables was now on fire, too. The beam was ablaze, giving him enough light to see Nick's large figure rushing toward him, carrying Grant.
"Thank, God," Marty said as Nick put Grant down.
"Boy, you should have gotten out of there when you had a chance," Nick scolded, but Marty could see by the sparkle in his eye that he was glad that Grant had gone to get him. He hadn't known the building was on fire when he had returned to the basement.
Coughing from smoke inhalation, Grant said, "I wouldn't have left you to burn to death. You know that.
"I couldn't get to the rest rooms," he added, "so I don't know if anyone was in there, but I think they would have gotten out when the lights went out."
The distant wail of a fire engine pierced the stillness of the night as it drew nearer. Marty, Greg, Nick and Grant crossed the street to the bus stop, where the crowd stood and watched their favorite night club burning to the ground. Several of the women had moved their cars out of the parking lot so the fire engine could get closer to the building. They parked down the street and walked back to watch.
Marty guided Nick to the bench. Nick sat down and stared blankly at the building he'd worked so hard to make the best club in town. Insurance would replace the building, but it couldn't replace the hard work, or the memories that had been built there.
Flickering flames from the burning roof now danced in Nick's eyes, but he didn't see them. He remembered back to the sunny June afternoon the year before when he had been looking for a job.
The Loser's Hide Out was its name then. Nick walked into the dimly-lit bar half an hour before opening time one Wednesday afternoon.
"Sorry, sir, we don't open for another thirty minutes," the young bartender said, drying a glass he'd just washed.
"I'm Nick Carpenter," Nick said in response. His deep voice echoed through the bar room and rattled the glasses hanging above the bar. "I just moved to town and I'm looking for a job. I can be a bartender or a bouncer. Anything you need."
The bartender ran his eyes over Nick's six-foot-three-inch frame. "I think you'd probably be a great bouncer," he said, timidly.
Nick chuckled, "Don't worry, my bark is much worse than my bite."
"That's good," he said, extending his hand. "Grant Willard. You could say that I'm the head bartender here. I'm the only bartender here."
"Nice to meet 'cha," Nick said, shaking his Grant's hand gently, so he wouldn't crush it.
"Mr. Haywood is in his office. I'll let him know you're here," Grant offered.
"Thanks," Nick said and watched him disappear down the hallway. He figured Grant was around twenty-two. He had blond hair and blue eyes. He was probably about five-seven.
While Nick waited, he looked around the bar room. There were several tables in the center and an old wooden stage in the back. "Very dreary atmosphere," he thought, as Grant rejoined him.
"He'll be right out," Grant said. "Have a seat and I'll get you a drink. What will it be?"
"Just a Coke," he replied, lowering himself onto a bar stool. "How long have you worked here?"
"We opened up in November of last year," Grant replied. "I started then. I've actually been the only one who has stayed."
"How's business?" Nick asked as a tall, slender, white-haired gentlemen entered from the hallway.
"Rotten," the gentlemen replied for Grant, in a raspy voice.
"Mr. Haywood, this is Nick Carpenter," Grant said.
"I know. I've heard everything he's said since he came in here. I ain't deaf, you know."
"Yes, sir," Grant replied, wiping the counter for the fourth time since Mr. Haywood had entered the room.
"We don't need no bartenders," Mr. Haywood informed him. "There ain't hardly enough business to keep Willard here busy. But we could use a bouncer, I guess. Sometimes these drunks get rowdy. Willard's such a wimp that he can't handle them."
Nick saw the hurt look in Grant's eyes before he diverted them to clean another imaginary spot on the counter.
"Course, I could just fire him and hire you to do both, since you could handle both," Mr. Haywood said, thoughtfully.
Nick stood up and stretched to his full six-foot-three inches. He was still three inches taller, and much heavier, than the man who stood before him. "How much a month are you losing here?" he asked, to Mr. Haywood and Grant's surprise.
"Oh, I don't know off the top of my head," Mr. Haywood replied, cautiously. "Why?"
"Well, if you're losing money, I certainly don't want to work here," Nick replied. "But if you want to sit down and figure out what you want for this place, I'll see if I can buy it from you. If the price is right."
Mrs. O'Neill put her arm around Nick's shoulder, bringing him back to reality. The only time she could reach his shoulders was when he was sitting down. "I'm so sorry, Nicky," she sobbed, tears streaming down her chubby face. The lights of a police car reflected off of Nick's glazed blue eyes. He put his arm around her and squeezed gently.
"Who's in charge here?" a tall officer asked, getting out of the vehicle.
Marty, who had been sitting next to Nick, stood up. "Nick Carpenter here is the owner," he said putting his hand on Nick's shoulder.
The officer ran his eyes over Marty. "And you would be the masked nudist?" he asked, sarcastically.
Marty had forgotten that he was still in costume.
"No, he's the Lone Ranger," Mrs. O'Neill spoke up on his behalf. She jumped up and, grabbing Marty’s arm, pulled his hand into hers as he started to remove his mask, just as a news van arrived and a camera man jumped out with the film rolling.
"I was in the middle of my performance when the electricity went off and the place caught fire," Marty informed him. At first he didn't realize why Mrs. O'Neill had stopped him from taking his mask off, but there were still several women around that he didn't want to see his face, so he was thankful she had.
"My clothes have gone up in smoke, along with my wallet and the keys to my car and apartment," Marty added.
Two fire engines finally arrived as the officer said, "Sorry. I'll see if I can get you a locksmith," he offered.
"Thanks."
"Mr. Carpenter," the officer said, turning his attention to Nick. "May I ask you a few questions?"
Nick sighed. "Sure. I don't know what happened, though. The building inspector was just out last week.
"The lights went out and the emergency generator never came on. I finally found a blown fuse in the basement and replaced it. But the new one blew, too. That must have been when the place caught on fire. I don't even know how it happened," he explained before the officer could ask anything.
"The spot light had a short in it," Marty added. "I saw it spark and when it did, a curtain ignited, setting the ceiling on fire. It was too high for me to do anything but get everyone out of the building."
"You're sure you got everyone out?"
"As far as we can tell everyone's out," Marty replied as an ambulance arrived. "Grant had some smoke inhalation but he's okay now. Luckily, no one's been hurt."
The smoldering embers of the building were finally out. The late June moon shone brightly on to the corner of Fourth and Elm. Most of the spectators had given up and left. Nick, Grant, Greg and Marty sat on the bus bench and watched the tired firemen wrap up their hoses. Even Mrs. O'Neill had made her departure.
Looking at his watch, Greg sighed. "Two o'clock," he said. "How are you going to get home, Marty?" he asked.
"The officer said he was going to get me a locksmith, but I haven't seen one yet. I'll have to call the manager and have him let me in once I get there. And I can't legally drive since my license was in my wallet."
"I'm sure they'd give you a pardon, or something," Grant spoke up. "But I'll take you home if you want."
"Thanks, I'd appreciate that," Marty said. "Oh, great. I don't even have money to use the pay phone. I have to call the manager and my cell phone is in the glove compartment."
"Don't worry about it," Grant said. "We can call on the way."
"Thanks," Marty said, placing his hand on Nick's shoulder. "You going to be okay, Nick?"
Nick stared into the rubble. "I don't know. I don't understand it. Those wires were just checked last week."
"Things do wear out," Greg said, standing. "Maybe they'll find something tomorrow."
"I hope so," Marty said.
Greg reached over and untied Marty's mask. "Everyone's gone now. You don't need this any more."
Taking it from him, Marty said, "Thanks. I guess I won't be needing it any more, period."
"Will you walk me to my car?" Greg asked. "I need to talk to you."
"Sure," Marty replied. "I'll be right back, Grant."
They walked in silence to Greg's red Mustang convertible. Greg unlocked the door and leaned up against the car.
"Sorry I couldn't get your clothes out," Greg said. "I didn't know the combination to your locker."
"That's okay. I just lost my clothes, wallet and keys. I only had my license and a little bit of cash in my wallet."
"You didn't get any money tonight," Greg said. "Are you going to need some to hold you over? I got two-fifty. I can lend you some if you need it."
"Thanks. I appreciate the offer," Marty replied with a smile. "But I'll be all right. I got paid yesterday from my real job. I've been thinking about quitting here anyway. You can't really meet anyone doing this, anyway."
"Yeah. I know what you mean," he replied. "Luckily, I've got someone special, so I don't need to worry about finding anyone."
"That's good. What are you going to do?" Marty asked.
"I don't know. I don't have a real job like you do. This is my bread and butter. I'm sure that Nick can find another building somewhere that we can move into."
"Okay. Well, if something happens and you need a place to stay because you can't make ends meet, let me know," Marty said.
"Thanks. I've got a pretty good nest egg right now. I'll probably find something else pretty soon."
"Great. Well, keep in touch," Marty said extending his hand.
"You, too." Greg's green eyes sparkled in the moonlight as he shook Marty's hand.
"Good night," Marty said and returned to the bus stop bench.
"You want us to drop you off at home, Nick?" Marty asked.
"No, I'll be fine," he replied as the tall officer rejoined them. "Thanks, though."
Seeing Marty, the officer said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot to get you a locksmith."
"That's okay. Grant's going to take me home. I've got a spare there."
"You sure you'll be okay, Nick?" Grant asked.
"Yeah. I'll call you when I decide what we're going to do," he replied.
"Okay. Take care."
Marty sank into the plush velvet seat of Grant's midnight blue Buick. Fastening his seat belt, he said, "I'm glad you don't have leather or vinyl."
"I bet," Grant replied, starting the car.
Grant pulled out into the street. "Where do you live?" he asked.
"Thirty-two-fifteen Broadmore," Marty replied. "I need to call the manager first, though."
Reaching across in front of Marty, Grant opened the glove compartment, where he pulled out a mobile phone. He plugged it into the cigarette lighter and handed it to Marty. "Just dial the number and press 'send'," he instructed.
"Wow. Those tips must be pretty good," Marty teased. "You must be a better barkeep than I thought."
"You never drink anything but water, so how could you know?"
"You got me there," Marty admitted. "Hello? Mr. Springer? This is Marty Shelton in four-twenty," he said into the instrument.
"It's two o'clock in the morning. This had better be good," Mr. Springer replied, gruffly.
"Sorry to bother you. Actually it's two-thirty now," he said looking at the dash clock. "But I need to get into my apartment. The building I work in burned down tonight and I wasn't able to get my keys out."
"Oh, all right," he said with a sigh. "But you should keep them in your pocket."
"Well, they were in my pocket. I just didn't have my pockets with me," he replied shrugging as he smiled at Grant. Grant tried to keep from laughing too loudly.
"I thought you worked at Milton's Electronics," Mr. Springer said. "They're not open this time of night."
"I do, but that's my weekday job," he replied. "I had a weekend job Saturday nights, too."
"Where are you at now?"
Marty looked around. "Exit here and turn left," he told Grant. "We're just getting off the freeway onto Broadmore. We'll be there in about five minutes."
"Okay. I'll meet you at your apartment."
"Thanks, I appreciate it."
"Yeah, sure," Mr. Carpenter grumbled and hung up.
Marty pressed the "end" button and placed the phone on the floor of the car, leaving it plugged in.
A few minutes later, Grant steered his Buick into the parking lot of the Broadmore Estates apartment complex.
"Any idea what you're going to do now?" Marty asked, opening the door.
"Not yet. I'll wait to see what Nick's going to do. I'm okay for a week or so."
"Okay. My number's in the phone book, so give me a call some time," Marty said.
"Ah, that's why you don't want anyone to know who you are," Grant said, his blue eyes sparkling in the dome light of the car.
"Yeah. With my day job, I might get in trouble if they find out I'm stripping on weekends. Especially since I deal with customers. Mrs. O'Neill just happens to be my boss' sister."
"Oh, boy. That would be a problem," Grant agreed. "Has she suspected anything?"
"Not that I can tell," he replied, getting out of the car. "She did stop me from taking my mask off this evening. I thought that was interesting.
"Oh, well," Marty said with a shrug. "Thanks again for the ride. Keep in touch."
"Will do," Grant said. Closing the door, Marty waved and hurried up the four flights of stairs to his apartment.
Marty stopped, shook his head and smiled when he got to the top of the stairs. Mr. Springer stood with his back against the wall. His head tilted to one side and his mouth hung open. His gray hair stood on end and went everywhere. His old, worn-out robe couldn't cover his pot belly. Marty was thankful he also wore an old dingy T-shirt.
"Mr. Springer," he said softly. "I'm here."
Mr. Springer jumped as he woke up. His sleepy hazel eyes tried to focus on the handsome young man standing before him. Was he dreaming? Marty wasn't wearing anything but a thong bikini and a pair of leather boots.
"What are you doing dressed like that?" he asked, trying to catch his balance and stand up on his own without the help of the wall.
"I told you," Marty replied. "My clothes burned in the fire."
"Well, if you'd had them on, they wouldn't have." He winked at Marty. "Did you have a dish or something you were working with? I would love to have a job like that."
"Yes, I had quite a few," Marty admitted.
"Did they lose their clothes, too?" he asked, hopefully.
"No. I was the only one," he replied.
"That's no fun," he said, unlocking Marty's door. "I guess you'll be needing a new key."
"Yes, Sir."
"Here you go," he said, handing it to Marty.
"Thanks. And I'm sorry I had to get you up. I hope you can make it back to your apartment okay."
"Certainly," he said, heading for the elevator.
"Good night, Mr. Springer."
Mr. Springer didn't look back, but waved and pushed the down button for the elevator. Marty was glad he hadn't attempted to take the stairs in his groggy condition.
Chapter 3
The early morning sun streaked into the office. Milton's Electronics was situated on the corner of Seventh and Jackson facing the east. Standing in the ray of sunshine, Marty poured himself a cup of coffee and sighed.
"What was that for?" Darla asked. "Bad weekend?"
He turned to look at his secretary. Her black hair was neatly combed and glistened in the cold, florescent light. The beam of sunshine just missed her desk and landed on the counter that held the coffee maker.
"You could say that," he said, stepping out of the sunshine and leaning up against the other side of the counter. Marty had caught a bus back to the club Sunday morning to get his car. When he arrived, he was met by the city fire inspector.
"Hi," the inspector said, walking toward Marty. "You were here last night, weren't you?"
"Yeah," Marty replied, unlocking the door of his black, two door, Honda Accord. "I was The Lone Ranger."
"I'm Chief Fire Inspector Davidson," he said. "We found some things here that you might be interested in."
"Oh?"
"Wanna come over here and look?"
"Sure." Marty hit the button on his remote to lock the car doors and followed the inspector to the edge of the rubble.
"Officer Langly told me you had lost your wallet and things in the fire."
"Sure did," Marty replied.
"Were they in a locker, by chance?"
"Yes. In the dressing room in the back."
"Turns out that room didn't burn, after all," Chief Davidson said. "Let's go around back and we can see if you can get into your locker."
Marty followed him around the building to the back door. The wood was scorched and blackened, but still stood. Someone had already opened the back door, leaving it propped open.
Chief Davidson stepped into the room. The stench of smoke hadn't cleared, but Marty could see that the lockers were still intact.
Stepping gently on the smoke-blackened floor, Marty made his way to his locker. He was able to unlock it and pulled his shirt and pants out, leaving them on the wire hanger that he had hung them on before his show.
"Well, they're covered in smoke," he said, "but at least my wallet, keys and watch are okay."
"Glad to hear that," Chief Davidson said. "You might be able to wash your clothes to get the smoke out of them."
"Have you found anything that might have caused the circuit to overload?" Marty asked as they made their way out of the room onto the stage.
Three large beams lay across the stage and on top of the tables. The spot light was blackened and a couple of fire inspectors were examining the wiring.
"Not yet," he replied. "Langly said Carpenter told him the backup generator never came on. We did find it. It turns out there was sugar in the gas tank."
Marty raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"
"Yeah. Do you know whether Carpenter had any enemies?"
"Not that I know of, but I did only work here on Saturday nights. I've never hung around here very much. I'm a computer consultant during the week, so I don't want to risk any of my customers finding out that I strip on weekends. I don't know much about Nick or anyone who works here, either. The only customer here I know is Mrs. Alfred O'Neill. She's my boss' sister. And I wear the mask, so I don't think she knows I'm The Lone Ranger. She's never said anything if she does."
"Langly told me that she was pretty shaken up about the fire, so I don't think she'd be a suspect," Chief Davidson said, thoughtfully.
"I don't either," Marty agreed. "She's here every Saturday night. It really crushed her."
They walked over to the remains of the bar, carefully stepping over a couple of the fallen beams. Chief Davidson picked up one of the candles Grant had lit the night before and inspected it. "How'd you get this job?" he wanted to know.
"A friend and I came to check the place out one night, back in January, and there was a poster on the inside of the entrance hall advertising that they were looking for dancers for the Male Review. They only have the show on Saturday and it's for women only. The rest of the week the club is open to men and women. My friend Mark said we should try out. So we came back the next day and talked to Nick. We had an interview the next week and he hired us both. Of course, after we had done it for a while, Mark lost enthusiasm, since we couldn't date any of the women who came to see us, so he quit.
"Actually," Marty continued, "I have been thinking about quitting for the last few weeks, myself. But I wasn't going to without giving Nick a couple of weeks to find someone else."
"This Mark guy, how long has it been since he quit?"
"He quit in February," Marty replied. "He moved to Los Angeles in April. I e-mail him daily and he's having the time of his life. He found a club there that lets the dancers date the customers. So he's definitely not a suspect."
"What about the other dancers? Do they still like it?"
"I haven't really talked to them. Greg told me last night that he's been making enough to live on, so I guess he wasn't thinking about quitting. He's hoping that Nick can find another building pretty soon so he can keep working for him. Brent called in sick yesterday. I haven't really spent any time with him. He's pretty quiet."
"Think he might be a suspect?"
"He's never called in sick before," Marty admitted. "He replaced Mark. I couldn't really tell if he was happy working here or not."
"You know his last name?" Chief Davidson asked.
Marty stared at him blankly for a moment. "Actually I don't know Greg's last name either," he admitted.
"Parker. Greg Parker," the chief replied. "I haven't been able to get in touch with Carpenter today, so I didn't know about Brent. I will see if I can find out and check him out.
"Now, there are bartenders and waiters. I'd like to get a list of them," Chief Davidson continued. "Langly got several of their names last night, but not all of them. I guess you don't know them either, do you?"
"Grant is the head bartender," Marty replied. "But I don't know his last name, either. He's the only one I know. And, again, I don't know anything about him. But last night he went down to the basement to get Nick and almost got himself killed. Nick had to carry him out. So I wouldn't suspect him."
"Grant Willard," Chief Davidson informed him. "I talked to him this morning. He's really worried about Carpenter."
"Yeah, so am I."
Marty hadn't heard from Nick. The news had reported the incident, but there was nothing further said about how the fire had started. Marty was thankful that he had kept his mask on after getting outside. His interview with the police had been on the news and he hadn't realized at the time that the camera man had been filming him. He was glad that Langly hadn't asked him his name after Mrs. O'Neill said he was "The Lone Ranger." He wished he could thank her for stopping him from taking his mask off, but then that would reveal his identity to her. Maybe she really did already know.
The rustle of the morning paper brought Marty back to reality. "Sorry to hear that. Mine was wonderful," Darla said.
"Good. I'm glad," he said, absently.
"Mm, did you hear about the Golden Slipper burning down Saturday night?"
"Yeah, sure did. It was awful," he said, staring blankly into his coffee cup. In the cup he could see the burning beam that had fallen onto the tables; Nick and Grant rushing to the door; the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen before, there one minute, gone the next.
"Mrs. O'Neill is going to be a basket case," she said turning the page. "It's her favorite hangout. 'Specially on weekends."
"Yeah."
"Hey, look at this," she said with a laugh. "This guy looks a lot like you."
Marty looked over her shoulder. It was a photo of him guiding Nick over to the bus stop bench. Another photo he didn't remember being taken.
"Sure does, doesn't he?" Marty said.
Darla looked up at him and smiled. "I wouldn't mind seeing you dressed like that."
Marty smiled and chuckled. "As long as you're married to Danny, don't count on it."
The jingle of the bell on the front door informed them that a customer had entered the store and the ring of the phone meant for Darla to get to work.
"Milton's Electronics, this is Darla," she said into the instrument.
Marty walked into his office and slumped into his chair. Lost in thought, he jumped a moment later when Mrs. O'Neill knocked on the open door.
"Marty? May I speak to you for a moment?" she asked.
He looked up at her and nodded his head. She entered, closing the door behind her and sat down in a chair in front of his desk.
"What can I do for you, Mrs. O'Neill?" he asked, picking up a pen and a note pad.
He smiled as the aroma of her perfume filled the air. Why couldn't she wear that at the club? It smelled wonderful. Like petals of roses falling softly to the ground after someone had thrown them into the air.
She appeared to be nervous. "Have you heard from Nicky, Marty?" she asked to his horror. "I tried to call him several times this weekend, but he didn't answer. I left messages on his machine, but he hasn't returned my calls."
He shook his head and feigned ignorance. "Nicky who?"
"You know, Nick Carpenter. You don't have to pretend with me, Marty, I've known you were The Lone Ranger ever since you started working at the club. You may have always worn a mask, but you've always had the same deep sexy voice."
"Oh," he said, stunned. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"
"I figured you didn't want anyone to know. I haven't told Bernie either. I don't know whether he would fire you if he knew and I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize this job. And you are the only dancer who ever spent more than just enough time dancing for me to get my money. And even after I pay you, you come back just to dance for me.
"I know I'm fat, Marty," she continued, sadly. "And it really hurts when the guys just grab the money and run. You and Nicky are the only ones there who ever show any interest in me. Even the other women there don't want to sit with me.
"If Alfred were still alive, I wouldn't be there, but I've got to have some fun, too, you know?"
"I know, Mrs. O'Neill," Marty said with a smile. "But if you would wear the perfume you have on now at the club, they would probably stick around a little longer. I hold my breath most of the time I'm around you. That's why I shake my butt in your face so often."
"Oh. I never thought of that. I like the smell of that perfume." Then she giggled. "I like it when you shake your butt in my face, too."
"It may be one of those that just doesn't agree with your chemistry," he replied. "There's a cologne for men that I just love, but I can't wear it because it gives me a headache after I've had it on for about five minutes."
"Oh. I wish you would have told me before now."
"Well, I didn't want to hurt your feelings. And since you were paying me, I didn't feel right saying anything."
"I wonder why Nicky didn't say anything," she said.
"The same reason, I suppose," he replied. "But back to your question. No, I haven't heard from him, either. I tried to call him a couple of times, myself. I hope he's okay."
"Maybe I'd better go over to his apartment," Mrs. O'Neill said, standing. "His answering machine may not be working right."
Marty got to his feet. "Good idea," he agreed. "Call me if you find him."
"Okay. I will," she promised as his phone rang.
"I'll see you later, Mrs. O'Neill," he said picking up the phone. She left, closing the door behind her.
"This is Marty," he said.
"Morning Marty. Mr. Carlson here," came the raspy voice on the other end. "Sorry to start your Monday off this way, but my complete system is down. Darla said you were in a meeting, but this is an emergency."
"That's okay, Mr. Carlson. My meeting is over," Marty replied. It was going to be a Monday. Mr. Carlson's system wasn't a simple computer. It was a mainframe. If it were down, then over fifty of his biggest-salaried employees were being paid to sit and twiddle their thumbs until Marty could get it going again. Marty knew it was going to be a long day.
****
The evening sun began its descent in the west. Marty had finally gotten the mainframe back up. Sitting in rush hour traffic, he looked at his watch. It was six o'clock. Picking his cellular phone up off the seat beside him, Marty speed-dialed his office.
"Milton's Electronics. This is Darla," she answered.
"Hi," he said. "Sorry to be so late. I just got done and now I'm stuck in traffic. Why don't you go on home? I've just got to make my report and the invoice, then I'm heading home, too."
"No you're not," she said. "I was just going to call you. Mr. Milton has a client, Jerry Allen, that wants to upgrade his computer. He told Mr. Allen that you would call him today."
"I hate it when he does that," Marty said with an exasperated sigh.
"I know. I tried to tell him that you wouldn't be done with Mr. Carlson today, but he was adamant about you calling Mr. Allen."
"Leave his name and number on my desk, then," Marty said. The car in front of him came to a complete stop, forcing him to stop also. "It looks like I may not be there for a while. We're stopped."
"The radio just announced that there was a major wreck at the Greenville exit," Darla informed him. "If you can get off before then, I would. I'm glad I don't have to go home that way."
"I'm at I-12 and Grande right now," he said, "and I don't see any way to get over to exit, but I'll try.
"Be careful," he added.
"Okay. You too. See you in the morning."
Darla hung up and Marty turned his radio up so he could hear the news report.
Chapter 4
An hour and a half later, Marty steered the company Bronco into the parking lot at Milton's Electronics. When he had reached the Greenville exit, the wreck had been cleared and there was no sign that there had even been one. Because of the congested traffic, he had found no way to exit earlier.
Marty unlocked the door, turned off the alarm, locked the door and made his way to his office. Darla had left the note stuck to his monitor. Ignoring it, he dialed his voice mail box and listened to his messages.
"Welcome. You have ten messages," the automated voice informed him.
"Great," Marty said with an exasperated sigh. He picked up a pen and the note pad and waited.
"Message one. Ten-thirty-four AM, today,” the automated voice informed him. "Marty, this is Mrs. O'Neill. I'm at Nicky's. He's okay. He's been over at Grant's trying to figure out what to do."
The other messages were work related. Marty wrote the messages and numbers down on the pad. He was going to be swamped all day Tuesday.
Looking at the clock on his desk, he dialed the number for Mr. Allen. He hoped that seven-thirty wasn't too late.
"Hello?" a woman answered on the third ring.
"Mrs. Allen?"
"Yes?"
"This is Marty Shelton with Milton's Electronics. Mr. Milton wanted me to call your husband today about upgrading your computer."
"I'm sorry," she said. "Jerry's not here right now. Can I have him call you back? He should be back by nine-thirty."
"No, that will be too late," he said. "I'll just call him first thing in the morning."
"Okay, I'll tell him."
"Thanks." Marty hung up. So what? He was being paid by the hour, but this was ridiculous. Now he knew why he had taken the job at the club. He was paid twice as much there in one night as he made here in one day and didn't have to put up with anything but a few drunk women trying to cop a feel.
Marty typed up his report. He added to the bottom of it that he called Mrs. Allen and Mr. Allen wasn't at home. He printed it out and took it out to Darla's desk and put it and the invoice her “In” basket.
The phone on her desk rang four times then transferred to voice mail. "Who would be calling at eight o'clock?" he wondered. It wasn't the main number that had been dialed, because that number rang once and automatically transferred to the answering service. It had to be someone who knew the number for line-two, or it was a wrong number.
He returned to his office and grabbed his suit coat. The light on his phone flashed, informing him he had a message in his voice mail.
Sighing, he sat back down and dialed into his voice mail.
"Welcome. You have one message," the machine said. "Message one was received at eight-oh-one PM today."
"Marty, this is Mr. Milton. I just tried to call you at home and on your cell phone, but am not getting you anywhere. I got that phone for you so that I could get in touch with you when I need you. You need to keep it on and with you at all times. I just talked to Jerry. He said you haven't called him yet. I need you to talk to him today."
"Well, how can I when he's not home?" Marty said sarcastically to the instrument.
Marty walked out of his office and locked the door. After resetting the alarm and locking the door, he jumped into his car and dialed his home number with the cellular phone that Mr. Milton thought was his link to him.
When his machine answered, he punched in the code to retrieve his messages, started the car and headed south on Jackson toward I-12.
"Marty, this is Grant," the answering machine played. "I know it's short notice. It's about four-thirty. Nick is coming over for dinner at six. I'd like for you to come, too. Give me a call when you get this," he said and gave his phone number.
"Oh, man, I missed it," Marty said with a sigh as he yielded for on-coming traffic on the service road. He scribbled the number down on a note pad. "I'll have to start checking my messages more often, I guess."
"Marty, this is Grant," the machine continued as Marty got onto the freeway and headed west. "It's seven-thirty. Sorry you couldn't make it tonight," he said, sadly. "We had some leftovers if you still want to stop by. My address is twenty-ten Norfolk, apartment three-oh-four E." He gave his phone number again.
"Milton here. Where are you? It's almost eight," he said gruffly as Marty exited I-12 and almost missed the green light as he turned left on Norfolk. "I need you to call Jerry. Give me a call at home when you get this."
Marty hung up and dialed Grant's number.
"Hello?" Grant answered.
"Hey, how's it going? This is Marty. Sorry, I just got your messages. I had a mainframe down and just got off work."
"You want to come over?" Grant asked. "Everyone's gone, but I've still got some leftovers."
"Sure. I'm starving," Marty admitted. "I didn't get a chance to get lunch."
"Okay. Do you know how to get here?"
"I just pulled into your apartment complex," Marty admitted.
"Cool. Come around back. I'm on the third floor in E."
"Okay. I see E building now," Marty said.
"I'll meet you at the top of the stairs. We don't have an elevator," Grant said as Marty parked the car.
Marty jumped out of the car and ran up the stairs. "I'm on the second landing now."
"Okay," Grant said, opening the door.
"Hi," Marty laughed, reaching the top floor.
Grant hung up the cordless and Marty hung up the cellular and turned it off. He didn't want Mr. Milton to bother him again.
"How'd we ever get along without these?" Marty asked.
"I don't even want to find out," Grant admitted, stepping aside so Marty could enter the apartment.
The apartment was small, but neat. A cream-colored, six foot couch with two rose-colored throw pillows, placed one in each corner, set against the west wall. A solid, rose-colored recliner faced the sliding glass doors that led out on to the balcony that overlooked the courtyard and the pool. Glass-topped tables with rose-colored ceramic lamps, covered by cream-colored shades, sat at each end of the couch. A lighted glass aquarium coffee table sat in front of the couch with several exotic fish swimming lazily in it. Grant had a blond dining table with matching chairs, which sat next to the kitchen, in the dining area beside the front door. It was apparent to Marty that this furniture wasn't supplied by the apartment complex.
"Nice place," Marty said, appreciatively.
"Thanks. I enjoy it."
Marty sat down at the table. "I'm sorry I couldn't make dinner," he said. "I'm going to have to start checking my messages more frequently, I guess.
"How's Nick doing?" he asked as Grant put some silverware on the table in front of him.
"Not good," Grant replied. "He's trying to put up a front, but he's really out of it. He spent the weekend here. I didn't think it was a good idea for him to be alone. I went back to the club after I dropped you off and he was still sitting there, just staring at it, so I insisted he come home with me. He had just gotten home when Mrs. O'Neill showed up at his apartment this morning."