Tops & Tails

They gathered in a room of the hotel that served as a sort of dressing room for waitresses, who functioned essentially as entertainers. The girls weren't dressed in formal wear but in a showgirl ensemble that combined tops and tails with fishnet stockings. A few of the more imposing waitresses even wielded canes like Old Hollywood tap dancers.
 
Mrs Berkeley sailed into the room, all frontage and steerage. Her chest and rear were of proportions that the girls in her care could only have nightmares about. She wore her hair in the tortured bob of women her age and size. She was accompanied by her son, Daniel, a thoroughly inadequate-looking young man, tall and thin and expressing a perpetual strop.
 
'Alright, girls' she commanded, 'let's stop lollygagging and get into place, we've got a long night ahead and I'd like to get through it, as I'm sure you would too.' The girls formed a group. They were led by a statuesque blonde who looked like a Grecian sculpture come to life and altered to fit the proportions of a Playboy model.
 
'The men you'll be serving tonight are big players in the city,' she began, 'they've got cash and they don't mind chucking it about at events like this, so be friendly and you'll be picking it out of your tights for weeks.
 
'Just know that most of the men you'll meet are married, but aren't too keen on being reminded of the fact. They've come here to have a good time and you're being paid to give it to them. If one of them crosses the line, come and tell me and I'll deal with it discreetly. Cause a scene in there and you'll be out without pay. Understood?'
 
A burble of agreement came forth. Mrs Berkeley nodded, turned, and left the room. She was followed by Michael, who took a moment to chew gum and look at the girls like a slack-jawed bumpkin admiring the contents of a butcher's window.
 
Alone with her subjects, the buxom blonde leader turned to them and grinned. 'Cameras ready, ladies?' The girls in turn took their phones from the folds of their coats and undergarments. One particular innovator had used it to line her gusset. 'Remember now' the leader continued, 'we need them good and drunk, so don't start getting them out until I give the signal, and even then, don't shove it in their faces.'
 
The large gilt mirrors facing each other replicated the group over and over as they giggled among themselves, a never-ending portrait of young women with smartphones.
 
***
 
Monroe had taken just about all she could stand under normal circumstances, but she was a master of grinning and bearing for profit. The menfolk immediately sorted the girls into favourites, though none were left unmolested. Monroe was the prize, she knew without vanity, what with her long legs, strong thighs, flowing blonde hair, and chest that was pronounced but still alluringly modest.
 
Nonetheless, she had some competition from the one whose name tag identified her as Susie Q, a reference the girl was likely too young to get. She bested Monroe in the youth department by a good 15 years.
 
The ballroom was filled with round tables before a large stage and screen, on the latter of which was projected each celebrity as they came to the podium one after another. No reality stars from Leeds or cheap spray-tanned models, either. These were distinguished media personalities, writers for upscale men's magazines, TV presenters educated at Harrow, and a couple of old-school crooners. They wore charcoal suits, black jackets, dickie-bows, and the like.
 
A bar lined one wall and was racked with every kind of tonic, though none of the guests visited it, just waitresses going back and forth with silver trays. As Monroe weaved back to the table she was serving with a tray held aloft on one palm, someone slapped her rear, almost knocking her down.
 
She turned and saw a man, likely in his early forties, grinning at her. She almost glared at him before seeing Mrs Berkeley a short way away, against a wall, looking at her. Monroe forced her expression into a smile and winked at her assailant. He drew closer and slipped a hand beneath her coattails to cup one of her buttocks.
 
He swayed and held the pose of a drunk man, but his tone was considered. 'Come on, little girl' he said, as if telling a hilarious joke, 'off with the fucking knickers.'
 
***
 
Jacob Lerner had bunged his driver a wad of cash to tell Mrs Lerner that he'd travelled to the dinner alone. In truth, five of his old gang had piled into the car almost as the city was in sight. Later that night the driver would drop him at his flat, hopefully with a female companion, and then return the car to the homestead.
 
Where the old bitch would no doubt interrogate the poor sod. Was he drinking in the car? Did you make any stops? Did he talk to you at all?
 
Christ, it was like being married to your mother. She was in truth a year younger than him, but where he still felt twenty-five (eighteen on a good day) she'd sunk into a long and useless middle age. She'd gotten so bad he couldn't even screw her anymore, which is no doubt why she suspected him of playing away.
 
Well, why the fuck should he not be? Just because she was too dried up to be interested didn’t mean nobody else wanted him. He took care of himself, went to the gym, dressed well, and made time to make sure that he looked how much he was worth. He didn't stay home getting fat-arsed with all the other old bitches of Norfolk.
 
Tonight was his, and he deserved it. Fatty Arbuckle, as was the nickname of his prep school sidekick and best friend Michael Peters, came with his specially-tailored dinner jacket that was lined with flasks. 'You're not going to need that, Fatty' Jacob had said on seeing the wall of silver as, like a flasher, Fatty flung open the jacket.
 
'No' said Fatty, 'but the girls might.'
 
'If you end up getting lucky the poor girl'll need every flask.' They chuckled. 'Tis quite a lady-killer, this' said Fatty, patting his stomach.
 
They pulled up outside a swanky hotel and were led through a gilt-and-velvet lobby to a lift large enough to house a family. The small group of men in their suits could have been off to a business meeting, but for the raucous banter which was just about held in at their respective offices. The lift operator wore a red waistcoat and white shirt; this aspect of his dress was the only thing which distinguished him from the others.
 
Yet the disparity yawned like a canyon. Jacob noticed him only because he seemed familiar, and then he realised. The man had a crucifix tattooed on his neck, just like the teenager he and his cronies had encountered sleeping rough. How long ago was that now? More than twenty years.
 
How on earth did he even still remember the tattoo? Certainly, the incident had been memorable. He was eighteen, a newly fledged member of the Rowdy Boys, an unofficial club of prep school graduates arrived at university. One of the rites for new Boys was a game in which you approached a vagrant as if to offer him a £20.00 note, then slipped it back up your sleeve when he reached for it.
 
On rare occasions, they got violent, which is why the other Boys were always nearby, but Jacob's first was a shivering junkie who couldn't have bested a child in a fair fight. It was a blisteringly cold 01:00 AM, by a canal that ran under a railway bridge, the street lined with crabgrass and burnt-out buildings. He saw the shaking hand reach for the note and the pathetic, thickly accented voice (the Boys had gone to a concert in Liverpool before hitting the clubs) croaking out a 'cheers, mate' from within a wet and filthy sleeping bag. The gaunt face was lit by a street lamp. Flesh clung to bone like goatskin stretched tight across an African drum, and the eyes had a greasy, grey quality. The face above all was what had startled Jacob, causing him to run away as opposed to sauntering off in victory.
 
A few years ago he had attended another charity dinner at which the game was discussed as an example of appalling behaviour by privileged types. That dinner, of course, was attended by actual women and not just tarts in tailcoats serving champagne. It was an event at which one was expected to appear appropriately contrite about one's wealth.
 
A video filmed by a passerby with a smartphone was shown, depicting the game being played by a young man dressed much as Jacob had been all those years ago, in a tailored dinner suit. He reflected on how fortunate he was to have come of age before smartphones.
 
The dinner tonight, in aid of disaster victims in some country he'd never heard of, was sponsored by a gentleman's club and was therefore a knees-up. The gang were ushered into a ballroom stuffed with fellow city boys. Stockbrokers, bankers, TV producers, and their ilk came together at their respective tables, where starters were just being served. A gigantic chandelier hovered above them, stalactites in a cave undisturbed since the Ice Age, and suddenly the thought came to Jacob that if it fell it would kill a good many of the guests. He shook his head and blinked, unable to account for the thought, and grabbed a waitress by the arm.
 
For a moment he was startled by her. She was as tall as him, and her perfectly carved face was framed by falling locks of radiant blonde hair. He looked at her name tag. 'Monroe' he read. 'Be a darling, would you, and fetch us some champagne?'
 
***
 
The last celebrity had left the podium, nose flecked with cocaine and eyes on the green room, where the other media personalities were gathered. The ballroom itself was left to the guests and their entertainers. Mrs Berkeley, her son Daniel, and even the two barmen had left, leaving the girls to help themselves to the liquor constantly being demanded. Berkeley was in the dressing room doing her accounts while Daniel skulked about doing God knows what.
 
Probably sniffing the gussets, thought Monroe as her own was being felt for. She managed to pull away from Jacob by guiding his hand towards her waist. Another girl pushed up against and distracted him, noticing Monroe's discomfort.
 
Monroe winked at her and made the A-okay signal to a girl by the stage. The dim-lit Bacchanalia of sauced high rollers was quieted for a moment by a female voice, young and pure East London, rolling across the room. 'Gentlemen!’ it cried, 'we have one more surprise for you this evening...'
 
***
 
Images flashed across the large screen and as if by divine intervention a whole room of drunken men became sober. This wedding-ringed hand on a waitress' rump, that one squeezing a breast... each photograph was carefully taken to include the man's face. The girl, a short brunette with more stick than lip, smiled broadly while delivering the verdict.
 
'All night your waitresses have been recording the fun you've been having, and now I've got it stored in here.' She held up her smartphone, linked by a long wire to a laptop, by which the large screen's display was fed. The screen now depicted an in-progress Facebook post. 'One click of this button and the Facebook group for tonight will see just how much fun you've been having. So fair warning, boys, get rowdy and by morning you’ll all have explaining to do.’
 
'Berkeley!' someone called.
 
'Your pimp can't save you now, I'm afraid' said Monroe, having taken a sack from behind the bar.
 
The gathering of about fifty men divided their reactions between tentative mirth, fear, and anger. Jacob fell into the anger division and was already imagining the dreadful things he'd have his lawyer do to these bitches in court. For now, however, he knew his position. He didn't need the old bitch seeing that Facebook post and she inevitably would see it.
 
Fatty was trying to smirk, though one hand went by instinct to the rows of flasks in his jacket. He wasn't married, but he was patron of a girls' charity, which would likely not be impressed by photographs of him grabbing a waitress twenty years his junior by the crotch.
 
At Monroe's gentle urging the men started emptying their wallets into the sack. When she came to Jacob he made eye contact with her. 'Do you think you and these other slags are going to walk away from this?'
 
Monroe smiled almost maternally at the older man. 'I think that if we don't you'll be having an awkward conversation with the missus.’
 
'Maybe I don't give a shit what my missus thinks.'
 
'Up on that screen' said Monroe, 'is a picture of you with little Susie Q over there.' She gestured at the girl to Jacob's left, whose head barely reached his shoulders. 'I don't suppose you know just how "little" she is?' Jacob turned towards the girl with the dark hair, looking down at and finally seeing her. She grinned and wiggled her hips at him, hands behind her back. 'Don't worry, mister' she said in her best Year Eleven voice, 'I'm sixteen! In about a week...'
 
Jacob dry heaved for a moment, then looked back at Monroe with more naked hate on his face than he'd ever shown anyone. He was about to say something when a strangled cry disturbed the moment and all heads turned to see Fatty clutch his chest and go down with a clanging of metal. Susie knelt beside him and felt for a pulse. She gasped. 'I think he's dead...' She started to cry. Wide-eyed, Jacob said, 'You've fucked up now...'
 
Monroe laughed. 'Have we?' she said. She shouted to the girl on stage to stay where she was. 'Explaining what happened tonight's your business' she told Jacob and instructed Susie to search the corpse. 'I can't...' she whimpered. 'He looks just like my dad.'
 
Monroe rolled her eyes. 'Your dad' she said, 'died spending his dole at the bookies.' She gave Susie the stuffed potato sack and knelt beside Fatty. His finger joints were swollen and purple, trapping a large, gold Masonic ring. With the butt of a pint glass Monroe started hacking at the joint above the ring. 'This fat pig' she said, finally cracking the bone with much manipulation of glass and her own hands, working like a skilled butcher, 'Would have bought and sold your dad a hundred times before even knowing his name, let alone that he had a daughter who'd end up in foster care.'
 
Jacob vomited a little down his front on hearing the tear of skin and crack of bone. Monroe slipped the bloody ring from its moorings and dropped it in the sack, letting the dead man's mangled hand fall to his chest, where it made a thunk.
 
Noticing this, Monroe opened his jacket and found the flasks. 'Say' she said, eyes widening. She took one out and bit it. 'This is pure silver!' She stood up and winked at Jacob, whose white shirt was now stained with vomit. 'Your mate just keeps on giving, doesn't he?'
 
That was it. Fuck his reputation, fuck the old bitch, he'd happily live under a bridge like that teenage junkie from two decades ago... he couldn't just let this cunt leave. Jacob moved to hit her, but however determined he was, the drink had made him sluggish. Before he could raise a fist she'd pulled a switchblade from her jacket and pressed it against his throat.
 
'We've already killed one of you tonight' she hissed, 'wanna make it two?'
 
'Michael had a heart attack.'
 
'You think I won't do it?' She pushed the blade a little deeper and a spot of blood coloured its tip. A tear gathered itself in one of Jacob's eyes as he grimaced. 'Why don't we ask the last man who called me "little girl" and told me to take off my knickers? We could go see him now if you like. He's in Nuneaton Cemetery.' With her free hand, she grabbed his crotch and squeezed. ‘I say, old bean! You’re not half as hard as you were earlier!’ She pushed the blade even further and Jacob let out a cry of pain and fear.
 
'Don't...' The voice belonged to Susie, who still held the sack. She touched Monroe's wrist. Some of the other girls had gathered around them, to stave off potential saviours among the menfolk. 'I'm not going to kill him, Susie. I only want to hurt him a little.' Monroe, who was perhaps a quarter inch shorter than Jacob, felt like a gladiator caught just before the coup de grace.
 
'So what do you say?'  
 
Jacob closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, trying to calm himself.
 
'I didn't think so. Come on then, big boy. Off with the fucking Rolex.'
 
***
 
By noon the next day, the papers had been splashed with the events of that evening. The charity Love London, which the dinner was in aid of, had never seen such revenue in support of its goal to reduce knife crime and gang culture. Editorials declared the Christian spirit of philanthropy alive, describing how fifty of the capital’s elite had given all the money they had, pledging even the gold in their wedding bands.
 
The event was also notable, of course, for the sad passing of Michael Peters. Corporate attorney for Peters & Watkins, he'd pledged his Masonic ring before succumbing to a heart attack. By evening Peters' sister had been reached for comment, and said that though his death was a debilitating shock, he died in the act of helping others. Which is what he would have wanted.
 
The cash and jewellery pledged reached an immense total value, which banker and philanthropist Jacob Wickman Lerner deposited by way of a cheque made out to Love London's CEO. Edith Berkeley, whose company was hired to organise the dinner, declared in an interview that the event's success proved wrong the feminists who'd criticised her "saucy waitress" theme.
 
Mrs Berkeley's events in the city tended to include a troop of scantily clad waitresses, and last year a photograph emerged of a minor royal dancing provocatively with a young woman in a bunny outfit. 'The men we entertain are eminent and respectable, as is the entertainment we provide' she said. 'Last night's success just goes to show that.'
 
The interviewer noted that she was wearing a large pair of sunglasses that she didn't take off at any point.
 
***
 
It was a rainy afternoon in Central London, and the clean angles of the buildings were slicked so that they seemed even duller and sharper than usual. Jacob emerged from a cavernous lobby to see a gaggle of press in the forecourt. He flashed his teeth at them, knowing that his smiling face would be waiting for him in the pile of papers on his desk when he returned to the office tomorrow. The scratch on his throat flared a little and his eyes narrowed as he tried not to wince.
 
He'd told his wife that before going to the dinner he'd stopped at his apartment and given himself a quick shave. 'Your driver said you went straight there.'
 
'He's mistaken.'
 
They'd had a bit of an argument, and though she'd sulk for days, there was nothing she'd find out. At least he'd given that stupid old cow Berkeley what for.
 
When Berkeley and her idiot son finally got the ballroom doors open he'd taken her aside and given her a purple eyepatch to remember him by. If Daniel wasn't a coward and had tried to intervene, Jacob might have put him in the hospital. As it was, he held himself together long enough to form a plan with Berkeley and a couple of the others. Money meant that you could have a corpse whisked away by a private ambulance, no questions asked, at least when the corpse had been your best friend and everyone who'd seen him die felt obliged to back you up.
 
The monetary hit he'd taken was, ultimately, nothing. What was it, even? He'd make it back ten times over before the month was out. But something impinged on his consciousness, actualised by the flare of the scar on his neck.
 
As he said a few words to the press and made for the waiting car, a tubby middle-aged woman in a cheap jumper flung herself at him. He almost baulked but, realising that she meant to hug him, accepted the embrace. Really, he thought, he should be happy. The event had only improved his standing in this city.
 
Still, as the woman squeezed him, he saw across her shoulder a squat grey car pass by the scene. The driver was a woman with blonde hair, which seemed like a shaft of miraculous light in the depressing concrete jungle. The scar on his neck blazed like a house fire.