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Skin Game
Lawrence Ross
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 1
Without leaps of imagination, or dreaming, we lose the excitement of possibilities. Dreaming, after all, is a form of planning.
—Gloria Steinem
As Ray made a left turn onto Crenshaw Boulevard, he knew that just like clockwork, Marty would start bitching. And he was right. Right as rain.
“I’m so fucking tired of working this stretch of L.A.,” Marty said while puffing on his sixth Marlboro of the night. Marty was a tiny muthafucka who had a Napoleonic complex worthy of Jermaine Dupri.
Ray, on the other hand, was a little different. Tall and skinny, he was a bit more thoughtful and more self-assured, but knew both of them were floating through life. That’s what happens when you take shortcuts.
“We need to find a new place, because this shit is getting tired, like quick,” Marty continued. “Steven is fucking himself by limiting Pimp to this same old shit.”
He looked out the window at the endless body shops and liquor store buildings, then turned back to Ray.
“You know, we could work some of the spots in the Valley or at the downtown clubs. All of the bitches down at the Chi Chi Room look the fucking same, and I think people are getting tired of watching them. Shit, I’m getting tired of watching them. I wouldn’t mind seeing some white girls with big titties rather than all of these big black asses.”
Ray tried to ignore him and kept driving. He’d heard Marty say the same thing each week for the past year, but they always found themselves going to the same clubs. It had to be that way.
“Look, if you want big asses, then you go where big asses are,” Ray replied, pulling into the parking lot of the Chi Chi Room. “Steven wants big asses, our readers want big asses, and the Chi Chi Room has big asses. So quit complaining and come help me find some more big asses. Besides, what type of nigga are you when you talk about not liking a nice big black ass?”
“Muthafucka, all I’m trying to say is that we have other options,” Marty said. He unbuckled himself and stepped out of the car. He took a long drag of his cigarette, then flicked it to the gravel.
“You see,” he continued as they walked to the club entrance, “that’s the problem with niggas. Just like way back in slavery, they only want to live on the plantation and then can’t see anything else but that plantation. Never wanting to escape, they just stay fat and happy eating collard greens and pigs feet. I say that we could move off the big-ass plantation and you instantly tell me we need to stick with big asses. Narrow-minded muthafucka.”
Ray stopped.
“One of the things I learned in college—”
“Ah, now you gotta pull out all of that college-boy bullshit!”
Ray had spent three semesters at Cal State Northridge before dropping out to get in the biz, and Marty hated it when he would start talking about something he’d read or been taught. It made him feel like he was dumb, and Marty didn’t like feeling dumb.
“—is that you have to give the customer what they want. I read it in a book. I think the cat’s name was Dale Carnegie.”
“Dale who?”
“Carnegie, you simple muthafucka.”
They got to the front door, where Blackie Whiteside, Chi Chi Room’s doorman, met them. Blackie was named “Blackie” because he was as dark as a moonless night. And since he was damn near seven feet tall and three hundred pounds, the blackness seemed to encompass everything around him, like a black hole gobbling up galaxies. To say that Blackie was intimidating was an insult to him. Intimidating is what a local tough man is. Blackie was beyond intimidating. He had a stare that made tough men sober. Instantly.
“What up, you two?” Blackie said, pulling out the red stamp. He stamped Ray’s and Marty’s hands like he was squishing ants.
“Nothing much. Where’s Sean?” Ray asked, sliding past Blackie’s massive frame.
“He’ll be out in about ten minutes,” Blackie answered. “Go have a drink.”
“Thanks, Blackie.”
The two walked over to their usual bar stools as the music blared from the speakers. Destiny was on the pole, and the pervert pit around the stage was lightly filled. They were early.
“Okay, so who the fuck is Dale Carnegie?” Marty asked, sipping his Heineken. “You might as well tell me some of your college bullshit.”
“I read his book in a business class. He wrote some shit called How to Make Friends and Influence People or some shit like that. I can’t remember the exact title. Anyway, he talks about how he went fishing and how he liked strawberries and cream—”
“Who the fuck eats strawberries and cream while fishing?”
The woman on the stage began shaking her tits, so that they bounced up and down, almost hitting her in the face. Ray liked that. He had a glazed look on his face, the same as when a child gets a twenty-dollar bill in a candy store.
Ray was annoyed.
“I don’t know, muthafucka, but Dale Carnegie says that he likes strawberries and cream. But that’s beside the point. He went fishing and said that he likes strawberries and cream, while the fish liked worms.”
Ray pulled a handful of dollar bills from his pocket and threw them in the air. The dollar bills hovered, and then fell all around the stripper. She dropped and started putting bills into her g-string.
“That’s right, bitch, I made it rain,” Ray said, with a silly smirk on his face. He turned back to Marty, his face pinched, as though thinking really hard.
“Okay, maybe I’m missing something, but what the fuck does strawberries, cream, fishing, and some goddamn worms have to do with big black asses?”
Ray