As I drove Tami home, we barely spoke. Finally, she said, "All your first dates are this shitty?"
I sadly bobbed my head in agreement.
After a moment's pause, she said, "I fell like I owe you an obligatory blowjob."
"That's OK," I sighed. "I couldn't get it up tonight anyway. All I want to do is throw all my clothes into the washer, take a long hot soak in the tub and forget this night ever happened."
"Can you ever forget?"
"No," I admitted. "It's been branded into my brain forever. Still, a little self-delusion is good for the soul."
When I stopped my car in front of her apartment complex, Tami leaned over and gave me a soulful kiss, heavy on the tongue. "That was nice," I commented.
"Mark, you're a good guy. Know how rare those are?"
"I'd rather be a bad boy," I smirked.
"It isn't in you," she patted me on the chest. "Now, as for being a grouch..."
"Don't go there," I playfully warned.
Tami let herself out of my car. "I'll be back from my vacation in two weeks. Catch you then. And what I'll do to you after I catch you," she suggestively giggled as she closed the car door. "I'll let you turn me into a Twinkie."
"Excuse me?"
"A sweet treat with a cream filled center," she giggled. "You supply the cream."
"Get out of here," I jested.
"Now that I'm in your life, you'll never get rid of me," she smiled.
As she pranced up to her apartment door, I told myself how wonderful it would be to finally have sex with Tami.

Little did I know then it would never happen. Dr. Morpheus would soon accept Tami into his shrouded domain. Not that Tami stayed put. She was right. Tami was going to be linked to me forever. Some spirits are like that.

The next day, I returned to the North Las Vegas Police Station to sign that typed-up fabrication of lies. Naturally, I had to first read the report. It made the deceased look like a puritan and myself a saint. Anthony and Moose came off as stalwarts of the community when they volunteered their assistance. Tami wasn't even mentioned. All in all, good citizens acting honorable in a bad situation. The Little Monopoly Man's exit from this worldly stage was summed up in three sanitized paragraphs on one page. I scribbled my signature at the bottom of the sheet and was in & out of there in ten minutes.

That logically should have been the end of it. But reality and logic are rarely on speaking terms so we had an unexpected epilogue.

The following Tuesday night/Wednesday morning, things at the club were equally slow. Only Suzy had the gall to proclaim "Business is dead." Artie pointedly told her that her chutzpah was coming out of a whiskey bottle. Suzy replied that at least she found some brazenness to face the world and maybe we all could use a swig or two. We couldn't argue with her, not in the depressed mood we were all still in. On that rare occasion, Moose poured us each a stiff one on the house.

Artie was right. Booze doesn't make you feel better. It numbs you. Liquor is a form of anesthetic, the most primitive of pain-killers. Not only does it work but sometimes numb is very, very good.

Redheaded Suzy was in the last song of her strip act. Her bra had vanished during her previous tune and now her G-string was atop her clothing pile behind her. Flaming red high heels, a leg garter to hold the few folded bills from the scant audience members, a touch of make-up and her long false eyelashes (which she nicknamed The Spiders) were all she wore. Everything else was natural, including the freshly trimmed red bush between her legs. Alabaster flesh, burning red lipstick & hair, pink pebbly nipples & nether lips, all open and exposed for the viewing audience. Suzy was down on her knees, massaging herself for their pleasure... as well as her own. Suzy loved the idea that she could make men so hot and horny that they would explode in their pants... and that none of them could lay a finger on her without being thrown out of the club. So she masturbated herself to a climax, her face and chest becoming flush with arousal.

It was at that inopportune moment when the matronly woman entered the club.

The dignified woman was in her sixties, with salt & pepper hair, a lavender business suit with matching pillbox hat and a purse the size of a small suitcase. She was probably a looker in her day but age and an aristocratic lifestyle had stiffened her. The moment she walked through the main doors, everyone glancing in her direction did a double-take. Anthony hopped off his stool as if there was a spring in his butt. "Madam, can I help..."
"Return to your perch, young man," she culturally brushed him aside. "I have a duty to perform."
The woman marched towards the stage. With Artie and I on our regular stools, Moose leaning over the bar and whispered, "If she's here for the amateur nude dance contest, I'm turning in my bartender's diploma."
"Hush," Artie advised. "Let's see how this plays out."
The woman walked up the runway's steps to stand directly over the prone stripper. At first, all Suzy cared about was the sensation of pinching and twirling her own nipples. Only when the audience's hooting and hollering became a collective 'Uh-oh' did she open her eyes to see the matron hovering over her.
The music was abruptly switched off. The quiet had a palpable sense of cold and everyone could feel the chill.
Suzy barked, "Hey! I'm in the middle of a show here!"
The woman stared down at the naked Suzy with a glare that could bore a hole through tempered steel.
Suzy, knowing a losing battle when she saw one, slunk backwards to the stage. There she gathered up her discard attire and scurried behind the curtain.
Some male members of the audience became red-faced. Others paled. It was as if their mothers had caught them masturbating in the bathroom with a dirty magazine. When one guy tried to stand, the woman snapped her fingers at him. He immediately took his seat again.
With clear concise tones, the woman addressed the captive audience. "Last week, my husband, Charles Darrow, passed away of natural causes. He was eighty-seven years old. Supposedly, he died outside this club. Hogwash."
The way she said 'Hogwash' caused the word to reverberate off the walls. The glasses on the bar tinkled with the vibration. She not only had our complete undivided attention, we males were afraid to blink.
She continued her speech. "Charles considered this place a home away from home. And I understood why. Age takes its toll on men. The flesh becomes unwilling and weak. Yet, despite a man's age, a naughty little ageless boy forever resides within. If a man can no longer do, he'll watch. And you all gave my husband an eyeful." She scrutinized us at the bar. "Charles had many children... and grand children... from his three marriages. None of them would understand that he felt the same passions as they did. Me, I knew better. Charles was a voyeuristic old bastard that tipped the top heavy ladies too well... as most of you know. But he never cheated on me. Never raised a hand to me. Never denied me anything."
After a dramatic pause, she spoke, "You spared his children the knowledge of his one peccadillo and, for that, I know he would want me to thank you. As for any reward for your services, however, guess again." She then stepped off the runway.
As she marched to the front doors, Artie said to her, "That took guts."
She stopped to tell us, "Saturday is the general estate sale. I doubt if any of you could afford what will be auctioned then. Sunday, Charles' private erotic memorabilia will be sold to a select knowledgeable few. His magazine and film collections... along with other devices... should not only be of interest to you but affordable as well. After that, anything left over will be thrown into the trash so the house can go on the market Monday."
"House or mansion?" Artie wondered.
"It has four chandeliers and twelve fireplaces," she snapped back. "You make the call."
I piped in with, "Why are you selling your home?"
"Too many memories. Besides, I always wanted to travel but Charles didn't. In his will, he instructed me to dump what I didn't want and journey beyond all the horizons I desired. From now on, my address will be a cruise ship cabin."
I simply said, "He loved you."
She didn't verbally respond. She gave a single curt nod but, for that moment, her eyes softened.
Artie wondered as he pointed towards the runway, "Did he instruct you to that?"
"No. We Darrows always repay our obligations."
Anthony opened the door for her. "We're sorry we missed the funeral."
"There wasn't one. Charles hated falderal and, with the family scattered across the globe, there was no way we could get together in time. So, by his request, he was cremated and I scattered his ashes near the place he found most dear. You'll find about two more pounds of grit in your parking lot." She then exited with a flourish.

None of us attended that second auction. The news of Tami's death took precedence over that.

But, as I've written before, that's another set of stories... some of which that are still unfolding today. How is that possible? Do you believe in ghosts that go bump in the night? Or, in Tami's case, bump and grind in the night? (Her joke, not mine.) Instant Karma cuts both ways. Being good on those previously discussed occasions gained me a friend for my life... and her afterlife.

As for The Little Monopoly Man, I hope that Dr. Morpheus took that pleasant old gent to a place where topless angels and big breasted demonesses dance forevermore. It's a shame that material wealth is not available in the Great Beyond. Now how will that fine gentleman be able to tip the ladies?