Disclaimer: "Strong Morals in Strange Places" is a work of fiction. The events described are imaginary and all characters are fictitious. Where actual locales are mentioned, the events and settings described in them are entirely fictitious."
I met Hannah when we were both working at the Sahara as check-in clerks. I knew she also worked as a stripper under the name Thalia at the Spearmint Rhino. But we weren't close, and I didn't get into dancing through her. I did it on my own. When Jaguars opened last year, I just went in and auditioned. Soon Hannah and I began to bond, though for some reason I didn't tell her I was stripping until she told me she was quitting the Sahara because the casino didn't pay her enough. After that, we began to meet at Starbucks once a week, and she would give me pointers on lap dances.
We didn't really discuss guys much because our tastes are so different. Hannah had this progression of typical stripper's boyfriends—unemployed musicians, drug addicts and emotionally damaged freaks—all abusive and controlling and totally dependent on her. I don't think Hannah's ever had a boyfriend with a job. But the funny thing is, she's always terrified that her man is about to leave her. A lot of them do and usually for another dancer. I can't explain it. I don't have much in common with the other dancers, though Hannah disagrees and says I'm just a standard-issue gold digger. I do like successful guys, but not for the money; it just gives them confidence, and that's what I like in guys. At this point we were both single, anyway.
Actually, once I started dancing, I had no interest in dating. One thing about stripping in Las Vegas is that you always see men at their fucking worst. It's sickening: the married guys looking to cheat, the perverts trying to steal your panties, being groped by drunken conventioneers. I didn't want to talk to any of them. So most nights I just sat at the bar waiting for the guys to come up to me. Except for the stray dollars I got from guys at the tip rail when I was on stage, I made no money.
Hannah tried to give me advice. "It's a sales job, only we're the car salesmen and we're the cars. You can't just sit there. You got to be the aggressor." That's not what I wanted to hear. I wanted to just sit there. I thought I should be able to just sit there. And I planned to just sit there.
I'm not stupid. Hannah's a few years older than I am, and it made sense that she had to hustle dances. Also, Hannah made most of her money off regulars. I didn't like that. After I dance for someone I never want to see him again. Last night I knew you, tonight I don't. But, like I said, I'm not stupid, and Hannah was making money and I still had a day job. So I began to work the club a little, going table to table, just checking if anyone wanted a dance. Not really putting myself out or flirting or any of the things you see girls do. I'd ask once, take it or leave it, and that was it. That was when I finally began to make a few bucks. I took them directly to the bank, and as soon as my balance read $4000, I bought boobs. My plan was to make the flies to come to my shit. I got my hair straightened, colored and I added extensions. I started going to the tanning bed. I was obsessed. I wanted to look perfect.
Anyway, I'll never forget that the weekend before my boob job was the first time I danced for Malcolm Ballard. I'd seen Malkie around Jaguars (he came in about once a week) and even talked to him some. He was self-employed doing something with computers. I couldn't say exactly what. I never really listened. Hannah was the one who got to know the customers, and the way she talked about her regulars she sounded more like their therapist than a stripper.
Besides, Malkie wasn't even my customer. Though he bought dances from a few of the girls, up until that night he had never had one from me. I saw him sitting at the bar, just sipping at a drink, watching the girl onstage. I had already worked the floor, and it was dead; I was bored and just went over to burn time, not expecting anything. I was surprised that he asked for a dance.
Malkie was one of those guys who wanted to buy you a drink and talk first. I hate that, but since I had planned to hang out with him a bit already, it wasn't so bad, and Malkie was a nice guy. Say what you want about Malcolm Ballard, he was always a nice guy. He was sweet and it was totally authentic. Every time I saw him after that—even near the end when he was having money problems—he would insist on buying me a drink. He always wanted to know how I was doing, and he would always be recommending books for me to read and telling me the music he thought I would like.
You could also tell right away that he was a little odd. Like before the dance, he talked about this stripper who was his best friend and about the trouble she was having picking a conditioner that worked for her hair. He went into how he bought her a book, Living Life for Those Who Suck at Life, because he thought that her issues ran a lot deeper than the conditioner crisis. There was nothing wrong with anything he said; it was just odd.
Hannah came to my apartment every day to check on me while I recovered from surgery. She told my story to one of her regulars in order to borrow a car from him especially so she could make the trip. Who can resist the plight of a single stripper recovering from a boob job? Hannah never gave the car back. If the customer cared, Hannah never mentioned it. I was a little surprised that she would accept a car, especially since it was such a crappy car: a decade-old Ford Escort with too many miles and lots of dents and a habit of breaking down.
I earned my money and then bought for myself. Back at Jaguars, my new tits and I made plenty of money. It wasn't that hard to be what the tourists imagined as sexy: Marilyn, Pamela, Britney and me. I found I had a knack for it, too. During National Finals Rodeo, I wore chaps and hats. When the computer convention was in town, I danced with Vulcan ears on. And when the alternative-glassmakers convention came to Vegas, I had for the stoners bikini bottoms decorated in pot leaves along with a Bob Marley T-shirt that my nipples poked right through. I am tailored to your dream, my look said, but hotter than your fantasy.
After a few months, I quit the Sahara without notice. I didn't feel like going into work one day and so I didn't. I never went back, not even when the supervisor left voice mail telling me I could pick up my final paycheck at human resources. I was driving on Flamingo on my way to the mall when I listened to the message. I hung up and kept going until I saw a sign for a real-estate agent. I told the receptionist I had $15,000 for a down payment, and I began to shop for a house.
Malkie was now starting to turn up every night at Jaguars. Looking back, I can see that his problems were already severe. Always fat, Malkie had grown into one of those huge people who sweat when they move. His grooming became erratic, his long hair flopping greasily down the sides and stubble covering his massive face. Sometimes he would buy dances from me, other times from some other girl. I didn't care either way. I never made much money from him; he never bought a VIP, even once. Also, he could get this pathetic and needy look while I was dancing for him that I found irritating. So I didn't chase Malkie's money. Yet I had a soft spot for him, because he was the one customer who really knew how much I'd changed and how far I'd come. So on slow nights I'd let him buy me a drink and we'd talk a bit.
He told me he'd taken in a roommate, and he said something about job hunting. What really got him worked up, though, was that he could no longer go to the Spearmint Rhino, where his best friend worked, because he'd confessed his undying love to her and she'd freaked out. For a while she had refused to dance for him, and now she didn't want him coming into her club anymore, though, he said, they were still best friends. It sounded sketchy to me. But Hannah worked at the Rhino. Remembering to use her stage name, Thalia, I tried to change the subject and asked Malkie if he'd met my friend at the Rhino.
"There is nothing about Hannah Cooper that you can tell me that I don't know," he said. "There is nothing about Hanna Cooper that I don't know." He sounded proud of this fact, to the point of being pompous, like he had announced that he fully understood international economic theory or had the solution to the problems in the Middle East.
I tried to match Malkie to one of the customers Hannah talked about. He certainly wasn't a casino executive, and I knew he wasn't the married Mormon construction supervisor. There was another one, a single father, and Malkie had no children. I was pretty sure Hannah had never mentioned Malkie, which was odd, since she spoke about her regulars regularly.
"He's not a regular," Hannah said when I asked about Malkie. "I only danced for him a few times. He's my friend, a friend. I like talking to him sometimes. I just don't think about him that much."
"He's totally in love with you. You are his world. Don't you see that as a problem?"
"I won't dance for him. You get more dancing for him than I do."
"So, he doesn't give you any money?"
"He loaned me cash for my rent this month. I had an emergency." Her testiness had nothing to do with Malkie. Since I bought my house and began renting Hannah a room, our friendship had become strained. "Why is it that I pay half your mortgage and you wind up owning the house?" she always wanted to know.
"Because I bought a house, and you could buy a house, too. Instead, you're renting a room in my house and, oh yes, investing in the future of crack-head Danny." Her latest soul mate was the drummer in a local metal band. I'd come home one day to find this treasure on my sofa, smoking speed. I banished him from my house.
"I told you it was the first time he tried that stuff. He didn't even like it. He would never do it again. He said he's really sorry, but admit it, you were looking for an excuse to throw him out to lord over me that it is your house."
"Yes, because I knew Danny had nowhere to go—after all, how can I forget the conversation you and I never had when I agreed to let him move in? Oh, and it's so decent of you to con a member of the winner's circle in life like Malkie so that a great artist like Danny can rent himself an apartment." I had little patience when Hannah turned bitter over having only a rented room in my house to show for her life. Oh, and she had Danny, too, as long as she could afford him. If Hannah resented my success, I resented her resentment more, because I worked hard for my money, and I earned my house. Hannah had never spent a week in bed recovering from a boob job. Hannah didn't spend hundreds on her hair or get regular injections in her lips. Hannah was born beautiful, the stripper equivalent of a child of privilege, but now she was losing the battle with the clock. Like a spoiled brat who wasted an inheritance, she frittered away the years on good times and shitty men. Not my fault.
"Rent us an apartment," Hannah said. And she moved out.
I wanted to stay friends with Hannah, and I put an effort into it, too. I thought of friendship with Hannah as a responsibility as real as work or paying the mortgage. She sure was as unpleasant as a bill: even stuck me for some rent and left her room a shithole. I don't know why losing track of her never occurred to me. It didn't. She was also a measuring stick, and I needed her. But she didn't need me. When I called, she was always in a rush somewhere. The few times I could get her to actually meet me for coffee or something, it was awkward. I avoided the subject of Danny, and she never mentioned Malkie. I eventually gave up when Danny's stubbed toe was literally more important to her than my birthday dinner. "But he's a drummer!" she shrieked into my ear as I sat alone at Picasso, waiting for her as she was trolling around the Freemont Street Experience trying to score him Lortab.
Malkie had become a problem for me at work, and I wasn't sure how to deal with it. He started coming into Jaguars lovesick, almost stalking me with his need for news about Hannah. She had cut off all contact with him. I felt guilty, like it was my fault. And, though I could have complained to the floor manager and had him banned from the club, I, of course, never considered doing that. Instead, I used the goal of avoiding Malkie to motivate me to earn more money. I started to be more forceful about having my customers pay to take me into the VIP room (which kept me off the main floor and away from Malkie for extended periods). Even if I was only doing a regular dance for a customer, Malkie had to keep his distance, just another of the shadows.
All I had to do was stay busy, and at this point I was extraordinarily good at staying busy. From the moment I left the dressing room, I could survey the club like I was wearing special goggles: I didn't see men, I saw laid out for me masses of green cash, and I headed for the darkest green in the room. I seemed to know how much I could extract from each guy. I could tell when they had truly run out of money, or when they were pleading poverty when all they needed was another trip to the cash machine.
Yet, whenever I was at Jaguars, Malkie, massive and hulking and endlessly patient, was always waiting for the instant I was alone. Once he had me cornered, he'd ask to buy a dance, and, of course, he insisted on getting me a drink first. Then I had to listen to him obsess about Hannah. He talked in disconnected bursts about his love of Hannah, yes, of course, but also just about her and her life. Stuff I never knew about, like how her dad died from cancer when Hannah was 12, and that her mother was useless and they were poor, and Hannah had to do everything around the house, including raise a little sister who she had lost contact with and missed. It was endless, until I a gently nudged him to let me start dancing.
"What do you want to do when you grow up?" he asked.
"I am grown up."
"I mean when you are done stripping."
"I've actually thought about it, and I think I may go into sales, maybe real estate. But I've still got a few years, I think, before I hit my expiration date."
"What do you think Hannah will do?"
"I don't know," I said.
I considered refusing to dance for Malkie. There were other customers I wouldn't dance for, like a guy who I heard tried to bite another girl's nipple and a perv who once asked if my daddy had ever touched me naughty like some bad daddies do to their little girls.
In some ways, even that guy disturbed me less than Malkie. Malkie's decline had accelerated. He smelled, and looked more like a filthy, old grizzly bear than a person. His hands and knees trembled, and he sometimes stuttered, which he never had before. His condition was alarming. But I never said "no" when he asked me to dance for him. Hannah was his focus, not me. With me, he was always polite and not at all threatening. As for taking his money—of which he clearly had very little—I didn't even feel a little bad: He would have just spent it on another dancer.
I give clean dances, though no one can entirely keep to code and earn money stripping. So, while I may not always have one foot on the floor during a lap dance, I would never give a customer a hand job, even outside his pants. I've been offered a lot to do it, too. I dance how I dance and I don't change it. Even for Malkie, except for the one time—the last time.
I'd just come out of the VIP room when Malkie grabbed my arm. Before I could be irritated, I felt the furious beat of his heart surging through his palm. "Hannah called. She is in trouble," he said. "I know. I know. I know everything. I know about Danny. I even gave her money for his new snare drum. I told you there was nothing about Hannah Cooper I don't know."
According to Malkie, a few nights before, Danny showed up at the Spearmint Rhino while Hannah was working. Danny bought a dance from another girl, and when Hannah got in his face about it, he shoved her to the floor. The Spearmint Rhino bouncers, of course, pounced on Danny, and as they were dragging him face first out the front door Hannah tried to intervene and was fired on the spot.
"She needs money," Malkie said.
"For what?" I said.
"I want to buy a dance," he said. He began to cry.
"What is wrong? What does she need the money for?"
"Danny had some warrants. She needs to post his bail."
"It sounds like Danny is the one who needs money."
He stared hard at me; his agony was clear. "If I don't have the money right now ... do you think Hannah will still be my friend?" Then Malkie doubled over weeping like a drunk heaving. "I have a check coming in a week. But that is a week. Do you think she will still be my best friend?"
Two pieces broken so differently, it was impossible; Hannah could never love this man. Those pieces didn't fit. I hated how she used him. Even more, I hated how he knew he was being used and didn't care about it and, to top it off, I hated Hannah being that same way with Danny. I was getting pissed. "You are going to have to pull it together if you want a dance." A song started and I unhooked my top and began to lower myself onto him. I could see the tears caught in the massive crevices of his face.
Soon, Malkie began making a gentle wheezing noise, and I knew he was going into some fantasy of her. I should have been creeped out, but for some reason, I imagined I was Hannah, too. I had no idea how Hannah danced. I had never seen her strip. I danced like me. But I knew Hannah and understood his stupid, hopeless dream of her. I grinded on him; I closed my eyes and poured my body onto his soft flesh. I willed myself to draw comfort—instead of just holding back my distaste—from his sweaty odor. To the best of my ability, I rented him the embrace of her love. But if Malkie noticed anything special about the dance, he didn't show it. Maybe it only felt different to me. As the song came towards its end, I covered his face with my hair and leaning into his ear whispered: "I'll loan you the money to give her. It will be our secret." And, then, before he could react and embarrass me with gratitude, I gave him another dance; it was the only free dance I've ever done.
When I got home I called Hannah's cell phone. There was no answer. The voice-mail box was full. A week later, I got to work, and waiting for me was an envelope from Malkie containing the money, along with a generous amount of interest that I never asked for.
A month went by and I didn't see Malkie once. I tried occasionally to call Hannah. And she called me back, too. But it was always phone tag with us. I was busy. A customer had talked to me one night about how low interest rates were on home loans when you have really good credit. I had really good credit. So I refinanced my house and bought a four-bedroom house a short drive from the club. I rented those four rooms to dancers. I was able to give them a good deal and could still more than cover the mortgage on both houses. I also began taking the required classes for my Nevada real estate license while still working at Jaguars at night. I worked, I studied and increasingly I had to play landlord at all hours of the night. I knew my life was on autopilot, and I don't know if I was happy or sad, but underneath I felt my momentum and that was enough.
I only went to my own home to sleep, and I was usually in a daze by the time I pulled into my driveway. Maybe that is why I was slow to notice Malkie sitting in front of my door. But even when he reared up in front of me, a colossus inches from my face, I didn't reach for the mace on my key chain; I could not entirely process what was happening. I wasn't even startled. I just took a step back.
"I am not well," he said.
"Yeah" I said. "Malkie, Hannah doesn't live here anymore."
"Of course," he said. "She won't return my calls tonight, and I don't want to cause a scene with Danny by just going over to her place."
The sun entering the valley over the mountains cast the Las Vegas morning in odd shadows, and, after a night in a windowless club, I felt unbalanced by the odd patches of brightness breaking through. He was holding an envelope with Hannah's name on it. "I don't want to get involved," I said. "This is between you and her. I haven't seen her in awhile, anyway."
"There is no time. It all happened suddenly. Opportunity knocked. My flight is first thing in the morning. I have to move. I'm not well. My brother sent a plane ticket, and I'm going to live with his family in Philadelphia until I feel better. I need you to give this letter to Hannah."
He handed me the envelope and I accepted it. We hugged like friends, and I choked up a little when I wished him well in his move. But I also noticed the piles of cigarette butts on my stoop. Three empty packs; how many hours had he been waiting? I tried not to be annoyed about the mess. It reminded me of how Hannah had left her room when she moved out.
I was ready for sleep. But Malkie stood there at my door, silently, like he was expecting to be invited in. That was not happening. I really did like Malkie, and I realized that I might never see him again, and—despite the odd circumstances—I really had no worries about my safety with him. Malcolm Ballard was a nice guy and that never changed. There are just lines I never cross. I wondered: Did he know I was Hannah's friend before the first time I danced for him? "I'm exhausted," I said.
"You have been a good friend when it really mattered to me and to her," he said. "Thanks. Hannah will always need you. Will you always promise me that you will stay in Hannah's life? You are good for her. I know that with you around ..."
"Hannah knows she can always call me," I said. I felt bad about interrupting. But I wanted our talk to end pleasantly and soon. I had to cut him off, because Malkie never stopped talking about Hannah on his own. "Send me a postcard from Philadelphia. Something like the Liberty Bell." I tried my best not to sound bitchy.
"Will do," he said. I could tell he was a little hurt by my attitude.
Still, as I locked the door behind me and headed for bed, I remember thinking how glad I was for Malkie; it was good that he was getting out of Las Vegas.
When Hannah called a few hours later to tell me Malkie had killed himself, I didn't believe it. She was incoherent, hysterical—all I could understand was that she kept saying it was her fault.
I was still drowsy, trying to wake up. I told her she was totally wrong—I had just seen Malkie. Just spoken to him. I told her that Malkie might not be dead; he could just be in Philadelphia. But Hannah said there was no doubt: The roommate found the body and called the police. Malkie had made use of the entire cache of pills Hannah had begged him to score for Danny. I was still trying to wake up.
"The police think it's suicide, because he took so many. But it wasn't. It is my entire fault. It wasn't suicide. He didn't leave a note! Malkie didn't know anything about drugs. He took everything because he didn't know any better. He probably just wanted to relax and try something different or get high one time or something. He didn't know dosages or what not to mix, or anything like that. He didn't know what he was doing. He overdosed by mistake, an accident. He would never have killed himself. It is my fault he had drugs there. I killed him," she said. "It's all my fault."
"He is a computer guy," I said. "He knows, I mean, knew, I mean, he knew, damn it. Even teenagers know how to look pills up on the Internet. I am sure he knew what he was doing, and I don't think it was an accident. Really I don't." I told Hannah about the envelope from Malkie, and said we should take it to the police right away. But she begged me not to do that until she saw it.
We met at the same Starbucks we had been going to since our days at the Sahara. Hannah was waiting when I got there. She had a book with her: Living Life for Those Who Suck at Life. "Malkie gave it to me to read right after we met," she said. "I never even started it. Isn't that horrible? I still can't bring myself to read it. Do you want it?"
I shook my head. Hannah stared at the cover with a look of deep concentration, as if it were an abstract painting instead of just the title, presented in boxy black text set against a plain white background. She turned the book over, and, if possible, examined the back cover with even greater interest. It was simply a quote from a trendy therapist who appeared regularly on Oprah. She put the book on the table next to us. A moment later a busboy picked it up. "This belong to you guys?" he asked.
"No," Hannah said.
He put the book under one arm with a laughably obvious attempt to keep his tattooed bicep flexed. He looked at us with a smirk. "Are you two sisters?" I could almost hear that he was really thinking "strippers."
"Yes" I said. To his credit, he seemed to know what I really meant by that answer was that he should get back to his table-cleaning responsibilities. I was in no mood to be hit on.
"Thank you, that was sweet," Hannah said. It took me a moment to realize what she was referring to.
"I am proud to call you my sister," I said. That gave me an idea, too. I imagined us working as a sister act, wearing matching outfits. I knew we could bank that way. Obviously, I made plenty without her. But Hannah was still a better flirt than me, better at making people feel a connection to her. I was the one who could close the sale and make them keep spending. We were well matched. I had seen other girls work as a team and I knew Hannah and I would be perfect together.
I was about to talk to Hannah about what I was thinking when she surprised me. "I don't want to dance anymore," Hannah said. "I am 34 years old." When we'd ordered our coffee, Hannah was far calmer than I had expected. But now she broke down completely. "Danny dumped me when I told him that I needed to take some time off from stripping. He doesn't care that his drugs killed someone. The only thing that matters to Danny is that he didn't get to take them. Can I stay with you for a few days?"
"Of course" I said. "In fact, I could use your help. How about I give you a room in my house in exchange for you taking care of things at my other house. I am exhausted all the time trying to keep an eye on everything."
Hannah smiled and agreed at once. There was nothing else to say, so I gave her the envelope. I hugged her while she opened it. But there was no letter. Inside was the title for the junker Ford Escort Hannah drove: Malkie's final gift to the great love of his life. Hannah had no reaction.
The next months worked out great. Hannah turned out to be a fantastic apartment manager: a one-man crew. The parental neglect of her childhood had left her with skills in plumbing and electricity, and she knew every trick a tenant could use to avoid rent. When we lost a girl, Hannah screened the applicants and filled the vacancy. So, maybe in part remembering my final conversation with Malkie, but also because it seemed like a good match, when I found another house at a great price, I told Hannah I wanted her to be my business partner. I suggested we strip as a team and start a special account to save for the down payment. After some fretting, Hannah went back to stripping with me, and, the plan worked. We were irresistible as a team. Within 60 days, with barely a day off, we raised the money we needed for the down payment on the house, almost $25,000.
One night, we saw the busboy from Starbucks, and Hannah wanted us to give a free dance to Jim. I didn't want to. "You know his name!" I screamed, not so much because I was angry, but because the music in the club was loud. "Why do you know his name?"
She waved at him again and he waved back. "They wear name tags at Starbucks, you know."
"Are you dating Jim?"
"Of course, not," she said. I knew she was lying, though I didn't put any thought into why.
I found out a week later. We were supposed to meet the Realtor to sign the papers for our new house. Hannah never showed. Instead, she emptied our joint checking account and probably headed to the airport with Jim. I never saw her again. As for Malkie's Ford Escort, Hannah simply abandoned it in my driveway. I waited a few months, then had it towed to the junkyard.