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The Last Champagne Club In Atlanta

J.D. Barrett, Sr.


Stan watched out the dirty window through the rain as Becca walked from the car to the front door of the club. Though he couldn’t see her face, he could feel her revulsion as she opened the door to enter the deserted ballroom.
His sister had set foot in the Harem Club only twice before. Once was to inform Stan that their mother had suddenly passed away. She found their father with his arm around a half naked young stripper, and as if the girl weren’t even alive, told him that his wife of forty years had just died. She turned and walked back out the front door, never to speak to her father again.
The only other time Becca had entered the Harem Club before today was to tell Stan that their father had died from the cancer he had been fighting for three years. She had not found Stan sitting at the bar with his arm around a dancer; she had been directed up to his office where she sat and waited for him to come out of the bathroom. She had thought it was shock that kept Stan from realizing for a full ten minutes that she bore the news of their father’s death. She would never know that her brother’s confused state was due to a shot of heroin he had been doing as she sat in the office waiting to give him the news; only after the rush subsided was he able to understand what she was telling him. She knew about his habit, but would never have been so understanding had she known about that particular fix. There were many things that Becca didn’t know, couldn’t see from the height at which the Goldmans kept their women.
As Stan listened to Becca’s clipped steps cross the ballroom below and start up the stairs to the office, he thought about the differences between himself and his father. Stan enjoyed work with a flair, a moment in the limelight, but he hated all the little details that had to be tidied up when the spotlight was off. His father had been meticulous about details. Those details had kept the family business passing inspections by the city officials for over thirty years, had kept the semi-legal, as well as the outright illegal activities that went on there from detection. Those same details, neglected now for two years, were the reason the city prosecutor had finally succeeded in forcing the Harem Club to close its doors for good. The members of the grand jury were not wondering whether they should indict Stan; they were just deciding what they could charge him with.
The city prosecutor had spent the last ten years closing bath houses, peep shows, champagne clubs, and other sources of prostitution. The Harem Club was the last vestige of the hay day of the carnal commerce that boomed in the Sixties. Stan’s father had held the prosecutor’s office at bay for years by greasing the right palms and calling in old debts. Trouble was that so many things had changed in the last ten years. Even if Stan had learned all of the tricks his father had known, he would not have been allowed to continue. A new generation of people were in control and they wanted Peachtree Street cleaned up.
As he heard his sister climb the stairs to the office, he remembered the torture he had endured in the first months after his father’s death. Two days after Stanley Goldman, Sr. was laid to rest, the city prosecutor had sent a message to Stan that he could close down or else. Stan had decided to fight for the business that his father had built for the past thirty years. He had no idea what he would do if the club closed. He had wondered why Becca never married, but the fact that she hadn’t and that she wasn’t prepared to provide for herself left him feeling responsible for her. He also knew that he had no other possible means of supporting himself. So, Stan spent six months of pure hell getting off heroin so that he could have a clear head to run the business.
For those six months Stan left the business in the hands of the general manager. Stan had gone into a detox program in Decatur, where he spent the first week shaking, sweating, and shitting in his clothes. He could have left after the first month, but he decided to stay for the aftercare program to ensure that he was on firm ground. It was hell the whole time, but he knew that he would have relapsed had he left any earlier.
When Stan returned to the Harem Club, things seemed to go well for a while. Profits held fairly steady and he managed well. Then the raids started. Every three or four weeks since then the city police picked up several of his girls in prostitution round-ups. Several of his doormen had been arrested on drug charges. Then, a week ago, the city prosecutor’s office confiscated his liquor and business permits. They had informed him that the Harem Club was being closed because of its connection with prostitution and drugs. The local T.V. stations, tipped off by the prosecutor’s office, made a big deal of the closing.
Becca called from the family home in Dunwoody when she saw the story on T.V. Stan had been living in an apartment that his father kept in Midtown, so they hardly ever saw each other. She was scared for her brother when she heard the news clips about possible indictments and arrests. Stan had done his best to calm her down and had promised to fill her in on all the details at lunch today. Besides his legal position, he needed to tell her that all of the business accounts had been frozen and that, at her present rate of spending, the personal accounts would only last her a few months. Stan dreaded letting her down, but he relished the idea of her finally having to sweat over money matters. At any rate, this was another detail that had to be seen to.
€€€
When Becca entered the office of the Harem Club, she was immediately reminded of the funeral home that had handled the burial of her mother and father. Gone was the loud noise of the show that had always been in progress on her previous two visits. The office was dark; the only light on was a small desk lamp and the curtains were drawn over the window. All of the clutter of daily business was gone and everything was clean and orderly. The only sound was of an old Beatles song playing on a clock radio; it seemed like a hymn mourning a dead past. She almost whispered when she spoke to Stan.
³Why did you want me to come here? You know how I hate this place. Did you have to rub my nose in it again?²
³I just needed to show you where to find our legal papers in case I’m arrested.²
³I thought you said the lawyers were handling everything.²
³It’s not going as well as I’d expected. I’m going to be indicted, and you’ll need to know where these things are in case it gets complicated.²
³And just what am I supposed to do with this stuff? I don’t know anything at all about this...business.²
³Becca, please. These are just personal papers: checking account records, insurance papers, a couple of bonds and stock certificates in your name. All of the business papers are already at the lawyer’s office. Here’s the combination.² Stan handed her a piece of paper and swung the painting back in place over the safe.
³But how am I supposed to arrange all of this? I don’t know anything except how to write a check or sign a credit card receipt. You’ve always done this stuff since Dad died.²
³If anything happens, just take all the papers to the accountant’s office; I’ve already talked to him. They’ll help you get everything straightened out. Look, I’m starved. Can we talk while we eat?²
Stan and Becca left the office and were halfway across the ballroom when Mike, once a bouncer at the club, stepped out from behind the bar.
Stan asked, ³Is everything locked up?²
³Sure. I was just having a beer. Anything else you want me to do?²
³Nothing I can think of right now. Get yourself a six-pack and head for home. Don’t forget to come down tonight and check the building.²
³You expecting trouble?²
³Not exactly. Just be sure to check the office.²
³OK boss. I’ll be back around eight or nine.²
³Good deal, Mike.²
Mike followed Stan and Becca out the front door onto Peachtree Street. He locked the door and ambled up the sidewalk.
Stan and Becca got in the car and Becca drove the few blocks down Peachtree to the Plaza. Stan usually went for cheap joints, but for today he had made reservations at the Savannah Seafood House on the ground floor of the Peachtree Plaza Hotel.
The maitre d’ seated them immediately at a table off to itself. Stan and Becca hadn’t spoken a word to each other since leaving the office, and the silence between them was tense.
Stan ordered for the two of them. Becca wondered at the feast he was ordering: oysters, swordfish steaks, broiled scallops, and trimmings. She knew that these were his favorites, but Stan usually didn’t eat heavily. He ordered a double Scotch for himself and a rose’ for his sister.
As the waiter left, Stan sighed deeply and stumbled into his speech.
³Becca, I don’t want to scare you, but things are going to change drastically pretty soon.² Stan paused and looked at his sister, but she was expecting bad news and waited patiently for it.
³They’ve frozen all the business assets. And it could be years before they’re released. Almost everything was tied up with the club, so you’ll have to live on what’s left. The insurance money is about all that’s not frozen, and I’m afraid it won’t last more than a few months the way you spend money. You might even have to sell the house; that’s up to you. What I’m saying is that you have some decisions to make.²
Becca closed her eyes to have a moment to absorb it all before she spoke. ³What about your living expenses?²
³Don’t worry. I’ve made arrangements for myself.²
³Nonsense, you can come to the house. I’m sure we can come up with something before the money runs out. Surely if we put our heads together'²
³No Becca. We’d be at each other’s throats. We’ve never been able to get along together, even in the best of times. Besides, the money’ll last longer if you’re alone.²
³Stan, there’s one possibility, but'well,no, its really nothing.²
³What?²
³Nothing. I couldn’t'Just nothing.²
The drinks came and gave them a moment to collect their thoughts. Becca was thankful for the break. It gave her strength, and she always wanted to break the family rule that put all information on need-to-know status during her moments of weakness. She only had one secret, but she shuddered to think of how Stan would react if he found out. She forced her mind back to the problem at hand.
³I feel so helpless. I just wish there was something I could do to help.²
Stan almost choked on his drink. ³You, help? Just what the hell do you think you could do to help? Maybe you could buy a five thousand dollar dress and wear it to some big party tonight to show everybody we don’t have troubles. That’s all you know how to do, spend money. You’ve never done anything but flash around town in the latest fashions and then ridicule Dad and me for what we had to do to get the money you spent. You turned your nose up at our Œdirty business’, but you never hesitated to spend the money. Mother, too. You never gave a shit that me and Dad had to scrape for every goddamn penny.²
³Stan, I’m sorry. Can’t we just'²
³Sorry, you think you’re sorry? This family has been dancing for years, but now the piper’s come to collect. And I’m left holding the bill. But you don’t have to worry. You’re clean. That was Dad’s number one rule, ŒThe women don’t get their hands dirty ³
Stan, please stop. I’m sorry; I’ve never stopped to think about how you felt. It’s just that I’ve got scars; too; scars you don’t know about, scars you don’t need to know about. Listen, I’ve got a friend who can help me with money until I can find some kind of job. I’ll have to make a lot changes, but I can survive.²
Stan’s scowl changed to a grin. ³Oh, does my sister have a man?²
³No, it’s not a man, and it’s not like that. Please, just let it drop, OK. I only mentioned it so you’ll know I’ll be fine.² Becca ached to tell her brother about the woman she had fallen in love with, just dump it all out on the table. But the rule of secrets was just too deeply ingrained.
The food arrived and Stan tossed back his drink. He and Becca ate without speaking; the wall that stood between them had been cracked and needed repair.
When they finished their meal, Stan walked his sister back to her car. He opened the door for her and then ducked down to her window. ³Look, I’ve got a few things to take care of, so you go ahead. I’ll call you.² He turned and headed for the sidewalk exit. Becca shook her head doubtfully, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot.
When Stan got to the sidewalk, he found that the rain had slacked off to a heavy mist, and he drifted along up Spring Street. As he walked, he remembered the plans he dreamed up years ago of being a real kingpin. He had dreamed of having an army of thugs and hundreds of strippers and whores in his empire. God, he loved the life; he hadn’t liked the feeling of being dirty when under his mother’s scrutiny, but he truly loved the life of making a living running a perpetual party. He loved the in-charge feeling he got from bouncing some guy out onto Peachtree Street. He loved the excitement of getting away with the illegaL He simply loved it. And now it was gone.
•••
Stan unlocked the door to the club, walked in, and then relocked the deadbolt. He crossed the dark ballroom to the bar and turned on the lights, not the big lights but the dim lights of a busy night. In the DJ’s booth, he searched through the records until he found a slow song that had been his favorite and put it on. He slumped down in his favorite booth, lit a cigarette and leaned back to take it all in. He saw the crowd and the naked girl smiling and writhing on the stage; heard the raucous call of the men driven to touch but knowing better; smelled the smoke, whiskey and musk; felt the power.
After a few minutes, Stan returned to the reality of the empty ballroom. He stubbed out his cigarette and climbed the stairs to the office, leaving all feelings behind with the imaginary show.
When Stan entered the office, he sat at his desk and switched on the lamp.
From the several pictures on the desk he selected one each of his mother, father, and sister. These he arranged in a semi-circle facing him like an audience at a recital. He fished a small brown paper bag out of his pocket and emptied the contents out On the desk; then, he opened the top right-hand desk drawer. With the automatic precision that only comes from years of practice, Stan prepared the heroin that had been in the bag and shot the clear brown liquid into a vein on his left arm. In the middle of his chemical orgasm, he reached into the drawer, took out a nine millimeter pistol, and placed the barrel in his mouth, tasting the metal for a moment before he pulled the trigger. For a split second his troubles seemed so far away.



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