“Don’t reward bad behavior,” Kingsley said, wagging his finger at her. “If they think they’ll see your breasts again, we’ll never get rid of them.”
“We won’t get rid of them. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They’re trying to take over the city. The guy who runs it is a piece of shit. He’s this big fire-and-brimstone preacher, and he wants to make sodomy a federal crime, outlaw strip clubs and pornography in every form, ban public schools from teaching evolution, and make having an abortion punishable by jail time. Also, they hate Catholics. They think the pope is the Antichrist.”
“What does that have to do with us?” Kingsley asked. “I mean, other than you’re a feminist, he’s a Catholic priest and sodomy’s my favorite hobby?”
“You are not listening to me,” Blaise said, snapping her fingers to get his attention. “The governor of New York is Reverend Fuller’s best friend. His wife and the mayor’s wife go shopping together. This guy even says the opening prayer at all the state functions in Albany. The church is rich, it’s powerful and it wants to take all our freedoms away. Reverend Fuller’s like an evil Billy Graham on acid, and we have to stop him.”
“I met Reverend Graham once,” Søren said, putting his feet up on Kingsley’s desk. “A good man. I’m currently trying to imagine him on acid. Makes for quite a thought experiment.”
But Kingsley wasn’t listening. He was staring...studying...gazing...seeing...
There it was. Right there.
Kingsley reached into his desk and pulled out a bundle of cash bound with a paper band.
“Here,” he said, handing the money to Blaise and removing his glasses.
Blaise threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.
“Merci, monsieur,” she said. “I promise I will earn every penny of this in bed tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after...”
“Consider it a finder’s fee,” Kingsley said.
“For what?”
“For this.” He held up the newspaper to display the black-and-white photograph. “I found our club.”
Kingsley was gratified to see Søren’s eyes widen.
“What is it?” Blaise asked.
“This church bought a five-story condemned hotel from the city,” Kingsley said. “The paper says they’re turning it into their new church headquarters. It has a ballroom, a bar and fifty hotel rooms. Complete with attached parking garage. This is our club.”
“You intend to buy that building for your club?” Søren asked, sounding dubious.
“Fuck, yes, I do,” Kingsley said.
“Are you serious?” Blaise asked. She sounded awed and aroused. He could probably talk Blaise into submitting to anal sex tonight—lots of it. He should go on anti-church crusades more often.
“Deadly serious,” Kingsley said. He couldn’t stop staring at the picture in the paper. It looked like everything he’d dreamed right before his eyes. He hadn’t felt this sense of destiny, this rightness about what he was doing since the day he first laid eyes on seventeen-year-old Søren sitting behind a piano in a chapel in Maine twelve years ago. The hotel was his. It belonged to him. And he could shut down a toxic church in the bargain—killing two birds with one flogger.
“But the sale already went through,” Blaise said. “The church owns the building now.”
“I don’t care. I’ll buy it from them or steal it from them. But I need to know more about this church before I try either. You know them?” he asked Søren.
“I have heard of them,” Søren said. “What I’ve heard certainly gives me pause. The church is politically active—a full-fledged member of the Religious Right. I’m a firm believer in the separation of church and state. Better for the state. Better for the church. Better for everyone. This particular ministry seems determined to turn America into an evangelical Christian theocracy, which, as you can imagine, doesn’t sit any better with Catholics than it does with heathens like yourself.”
“You should ask Sam about the church,” Blaise said. “She’s the one who showed me the article in the paper. She knows all about them.”
“Sam? Who’s Sam?” Kingsley asked.
“Sam works at the club,” Blaise said. “At the Möbius. Your Möbius?”
“Sam. Is she new?” He couldn’t picture a bartender named Sam.
“She started a month ago.”
“How do you know this and I don’t?” Kingsley asked.
“Because you don’t pay any attention to the club except when you want to sleep with one of the dancers.”
“You may have a point. So, who is Sam?”
“Sam’s the new head bartender. And she’s amazing. Really smart and funny. She has history with Fuller’s church—bad history.”
“How bad?”
“She didn’t tell me much, just that if Fuller’s church moves in, she’s moving out. Which would be sad, because she gives me free drinks whenever I go in.”
“Because you’re my girlfriend?” Kingsley asked. “Submissive? Whatever you are?”
“No, silly.” Blaise rolled her eyes. “Because she likes me.”
“Likes you?”
Blaise gave him a wide-eyed and pointed look. “She. Likes. Me.”
“We won’t get rid of them. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They’re trying to take over the city. The guy who runs it is a piece of shit. He’s this big fire-and-brimstone preacher, and he wants to make sodomy a federal crime, outlaw strip clubs and pornography in every form, ban public schools from teaching evolution, and make having an abortion punishable by jail time. Also, they hate Catholics. They think the pope is the Antichrist.”
“What does that have to do with us?” Kingsley asked. “I mean, other than you’re a feminist, he’s a Catholic priest and sodomy’s my favorite hobby?”
“You are not listening to me,” Blaise said, snapping her fingers to get his attention. “The governor of New York is Reverend Fuller’s best friend. His wife and the mayor’s wife go shopping together. This guy even says the opening prayer at all the state functions in Albany. The church is rich, it’s powerful and it wants to take all our freedoms away. Reverend Fuller’s like an evil Billy Graham on acid, and we have to stop him.”
“I met Reverend Graham once,” Søren said, putting his feet up on Kingsley’s desk. “A good man. I’m currently trying to imagine him on acid. Makes for quite a thought experiment.”
But Kingsley wasn’t listening. He was staring...studying...gazing...seeing...
There it was. Right there.
Kingsley reached into his desk and pulled out a bundle of cash bound with a paper band.
“Here,” he said, handing the money to Blaise and removing his glasses.
Blaise threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.
“Merci, monsieur,” she said. “I promise I will earn every penny of this in bed tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after...”
“Consider it a finder’s fee,” Kingsley said.
“For what?”
“For this.” He held up the newspaper to display the black-and-white photograph. “I found our club.”
Kingsley was gratified to see Søren’s eyes widen.
“What is it?” Blaise asked.
“This church bought a five-story condemned hotel from the city,” Kingsley said. “The paper says they’re turning it into their new church headquarters. It has a ballroom, a bar and fifty hotel rooms. Complete with attached parking garage. This is our club.”
“You intend to buy that building for your club?” Søren asked, sounding dubious.
“Fuck, yes, I do,” Kingsley said.
“Are you serious?” Blaise asked. She sounded awed and aroused. He could probably talk Blaise into submitting to anal sex tonight—lots of it. He should go on anti-church crusades more often.
“Deadly serious,” Kingsley said. He couldn’t stop staring at the picture in the paper. It looked like everything he’d dreamed right before his eyes. He hadn’t felt this sense of destiny, this rightness about what he was doing since the day he first laid eyes on seventeen-year-old Søren sitting behind a piano in a chapel in Maine twelve years ago. The hotel was his. It belonged to him. And he could shut down a toxic church in the bargain—killing two birds with one flogger.
“But the sale already went through,” Blaise said. “The church owns the building now.”
“I don’t care. I’ll buy it from them or steal it from them. But I need to know more about this church before I try either. You know them?” he asked Søren.
“I have heard of them,” Søren said. “What I’ve heard certainly gives me pause. The church is politically active—a full-fledged member of the Religious Right. I’m a firm believer in the separation of church and state. Better for the state. Better for the church. Better for everyone. This particular ministry seems determined to turn America into an evangelical Christian theocracy, which, as you can imagine, doesn’t sit any better with Catholics than it does with heathens like yourself.”
“You should ask Sam about the church,” Blaise said. “She’s the one who showed me the article in the paper. She knows all about them.”
“Sam? Who’s Sam?” Kingsley asked.
“Sam works at the club,” Blaise said. “At the Möbius. Your Möbius?”
“Sam. Is she new?” He couldn’t picture a bartender named Sam.
“She started a month ago.”
“How do you know this and I don’t?” Kingsley asked.
“Because you don’t pay any attention to the club except when you want to sleep with one of the dancers.”
“You may have a point. So, who is Sam?”
“Sam’s the new head bartender. And she’s amazing. Really smart and funny. She has history with Fuller’s church—bad history.”
“How bad?”
“She didn’t tell me much, just that if Fuller’s church moves in, she’s moving out. Which would be sad, because she gives me free drinks whenever I go in.”
“Because you’re my girlfriend?” Kingsley asked. “Submissive? Whatever you are?”
“No, silly.” Blaise rolled her eyes. “Because she likes me.”
“Likes you?”
Blaise gave him a wide-eyed and pointed look. “She. Likes. Me.”
