“Stinking rednecks on table nine,” Oksana said. She spoke in English. Vicky didn’t like it when the girls spoke Ukrainian. “They think they should get hand jobs with their drinks.”
Even though dawn was less than four hours away, the Pussy Cat Palace was still half full.
Redneck. Before coming to Florida, Karina hadn’t known that word, and after hearing it for the first time, she asked her countrywomen what it meant. They told her that redneck pretty much meant the same thing as asshole, unless it was used in a joking way, in which case it meant “good old boy.” Karina hadn’t known what that was either, but had come to learn that good old boys weren’t typically good, or old, but neither were they complete assholes.
“Mudak,” Oksana said, breaking Vicky’s rule about speaking Ukrainian.
There was no question about the meaning of that. Mudak meant asshole in Ukrainian.
Karina suspected Oksana was much more upset about getting a small tip than she was with the table’s suggestion that she be their very own sex toy. Since Vicky appropriated almost all their tip money anyway, Karina wondered why Oksana even cared. She ignored the other woman’s complaints. Karina knew if she agreed with Oksana, word would get back to Vicky of what she had said. Oksana was all about money, complaining, causing trouble, and tattling to Vicky. Behind her back, the other women called her “the vulture,” because she was always waiting for something bad to happen to someone else.
The bartender finished making Karina’s drinks. After she put them on a tray and gathered cocktail napkins and straws, Karina went to deliver the cocktails to two men sitting at the tip rail at the club stage, or what the girls referred to as “pervert’s row.”
Sofia was finishing up her set to a Cardi B song, moving up and down suggestively on the dance pole. The two men were staring at her, and ignored Karina as she delivered their drinks. It was just as well, she thought. The men were running a tab, which allowed her an easy escape. For once, she wasn’t required to smile and laugh and pretend what they said was clever.
The Pussy Cat Palace was located on the outskirts of Panama City, which was halfway between Pensacola and Tallahassee. Karina had heard people refer to Panama City as the capital of the Redneck Riviera.
Sofia finished with her gyrating, and her efforts were greeted with some applause. Karina was glad that she wouldn’t be dancing any more that night on the stage. Faking happiness, and feigning sexiness, wasn’t something she was good at. She had heard the men describe her performances as “McDance.” Karina didn’t know what they meant, but knew it wasn’t a compliment.
“Last call,” announced the bar manager.
The announcement was more for the dancers than it was for the patrons, a signal to hustle the customers not only for drinks, but for a last private dance. It was 3:30 a.m., and the city’s ordinance allowed alcohol to be sold until 4:00 a.m.
Whenever last call was announced, the Pussy Cat Palace played the Donna Summer song “Last Dance.” There was no disco ball at the so-called gentlemen’s club, but the lighting system allowed for reflective lights to shimmer along the surface of the stage and the surrounding walls beyond. Now was the time for Karina and the other dancers to begin suggestively singing the song’s lyrics in the ears of their marks.
As usual, Karina didn’t rush to participate in the frantic manhunt. If she was lucky, maybe the man she targeted would be content ending his night doing what Americans called a “dry hump” in one of the private rooms downstairs.
By that time of night, most of the dancers were as tipsy as the patrons. Vicky allowed all the girls to run a bar tab. That was one of her traps. Much of the money the dancers made went to booze. It was just one of many ways in which Vicky controlled them. She was the company store for the girls to buy their “four Cs” of clothing, cosmetics, chocolate, and cigarettes. At the end of every month, Vicky sent money back to their families in Ukraine, but it never seemed to amount to much.
The drinks were expensive, but they also seemed like a necessity. “Cope rhyme with hope.” That was what Nataliya would always say when she got buzzed. And after she made that declaration, a sad smile always came to her face, and she would add, “But it really don’t.”
Karina could feel her own lips transforming into that same sad smile.
By this time of night, Nataliya would always be shit-faced. That was a favorite expression of hers. “I need to get shit-faced,” she would say.
Shit-faced, thought Karina. That was another strange American word. There were plenty of words for getting drunk in Ukrainian, but there was no equivalent to shit-faced. Still, Karina could understand Nataliya’s need to drink herself senseless.
Karina wished her friend were here. None of the others even mentioned Nataliya’s name anymore. It was almost as if they were afraid to acknowledge her existence. They even seemed annoyed that Karina persisted in asking about Nataliya, and made it clear they thought she should leave things be. But that wasn’t something Karina could do. Only three months ago she had disappeared on a night just like this. Karina heard that Vicky had called her into the office to talk. And then she was never seen again. Without Nataliya around, Karina felt lonelier than ever.
Over the speakers, Donna Summer sang her last dance anthem.
Most of the dancers had already disappeared downstairs. By now they were settling into a small room with their john for a so-called private dance. Karina continued to put off finding a mark. She didn’t want to abandon the memory of Nataliya; this was her chance to spend time with her once more.
Seeing the American earlier in the day had brought back all sorts of memories. It wasn’t only that they had the same eyes. At her core, Karina sensed that the American was feisty like Nataliya. Now that she was coming off the drugs, Karina suspected the girl’s spirit would begin to show itself more and more.
Lily had said some man had sold her. If that was true, it must have been Vicky who had bought her. But why? Vicky’s only motivation was money. How could she profit from Lily? They were bringing good food to the American and weaning her off drugs. Vicky wanted her out in the sun, to look fit and healthy. There had to be a reason for that, even if Karina didn’t yet know why.
The American wanted her help, but Karina knew that sticking out her neck could be dangerous. Still, maybe she could do something for her. But Karina didn’t have a cell phone. Vicky had taken all their cell phones away when they’d arrived in America. She said it was for their safekeeping, but everyone knew better. Once a month, Vicky allowed them to make calls back home. There was a script they had to follow, and Vicky listened in on what was being said. Deviating from what was allowed meant suspension of future phone privileges, so they willingly spoke in lies, that they might hear the voices of their loved ones.
Before Nataliya had disappeared, she had discovered a secret way in which they might make a call. The two of them had even discussed calling the police, but they were too afraid because Vicky frequently dropped hints that she had friends in law enforcement who looked out for her. They were scared of the authorities and knew of no one else who might help them.
The lights continued to flash, and the disco beat went on. Disco had come and gone before she was born, thought Karina. It was supposed to be long dead, but its ghost continued to haunt all these years later. In the absence of Nataliya, and in the presence of all these mudaky, she couldn’t help but feel lost.
As Donna Summer sang, Karina wondered if the singer was still alive. She seemed to recall that the Queen of Disco was now dead, but her song still played in this room of despair. It hadn’t seemed so bad when Nataliya was there, though. Sometimes the two of them danced to this song. Usually Nataliya would be drunk and would yell out, “Last dance, Karina!”
They didn’t dance for the men, offering them some parody of sex in the hopes of payment. They danced for fun. When the song ended, they would usually go in search of a man to go downstairs, but not always. Sometimes Nataliya would insist that the two of them just keep dancing. Each of them wanted to think that the choice of who they shared their bodies with was their own. But was that ever really the case?
“Last dance, Nataliya,” she whispered.