As for the C, D, and the E list dancers, they didn’t want to do anything else, they liked the money, they liked the benefits,
but most of all they liked stripping. Pierre had a soft spot for the A and B list dancers, and always lent them a helping
hand. He kept an eye on the C-listers because some of them were actually A- and B-listers who had gotten lost in the shuffle
of women coming in and out of the establishment. And as to the D- and E-listers, he just made sure they were treated fairly,
took care of themselves, and were discreet with the behind-the-scenes arrangements they made with some of the customers. He
also made sure that they didn’t get hooked up with some of the dangerous men who came to the club from time to time. Those
women may have been some bona fide skeezers and hoochies, and some of them were a bit on the ugly side, but they deserved
protection and to be treated right.
Pierre could tell that a few of these men were on the cheap side and would not want to give up a decent tip. Two in particular—Kordell
Bivens and that negro with the fancy name—were real cheap. He knew just by looking at them that they still drank cheap liquor
because they were too stingy to spend money on something decent. Rumpshakers served only the best liquor. But Pierre sure
did wish he had enough time to run down to the nearest ABC store and get something befitting the two of them. Rosie O’Grady,
Mad Dog 20/20, and that scotch mess in a plastic bottle his wife bought to make her barbecue sauce with would have been perfect.
He had to remember that this group was made up solely of basketball coaches. They were all former basketball players. A few
had done a short stint in the NBA, and most of them felt that they were owed favors and goodies whenever they stepped in an
establishment like Rumpshakers. He didn’t know why, though.
Rumpshakers entertained some serious high rollers (some of them pro athletes), who felt it a privilege just to come in here
and spend their money. It was extremely rare that one of the high rollers didn’t drop down some good tip money for good service.
It was the broke negroes trying to be more than they were who were cheap with the dancers. And they always wanted somebody
who was on the A list or high on the B list.
Pierre led the group down the marbled hallway. He could tell the first-timers. All first-timers lagged behind the rest of
their party to take a few minutes to check out the digs. But he understood because he did the exact same thing the first time
he set foot in Rumpshakers. It was a beautiful place and Pierre had walked around for half an hour admiring the scenery—he
didn’t even remember seeing one woman, just the beautiful decor of the establishment.
Rumpshakers had been built with the highest-quality materials. There were marble floors in the entry area, top-of-the-line
and ebony wood floors in the main dance rooms, handmade area rugs Charles had found and shipped from Morocco and oil paintings
that had been purchased at fancy art auctions around the world were placed throughout the house.
The entire house was done in crimson and cream with black and gold accents to highlight the main color scheme. The interior
was painted a muted creamy yellow, with ivory trim on the molding. There were high ceilings and picture windows in the main
areas. The dance hall and private rooms had smaller windows and allowed for the kind of privacy needed for their patrons to
have a good time.
Black velvet, black suede, and black leather chairs, love seats, stools, and sofas were all over the house. The chrome-and-glass
tables were the perfect choice to help keep a masculine edge on the decorating style for the interior. It was a fabulous setup
that made most of the patrons feel so welcome they were inspired to dig deep into their pockets for the dancers.
The coaches finished their first round of drinks, put their glasses on a tray and followed Pierre to the main dance room.
The area was decorated in the same colors as the rest of the house, had a large conference-type table that was perfect for
the customary table dance, and eight chrome and black leather chairs placed around it.
Some of the most comfortable chairs Curtis had ever sat in were posted all over this room. Those chairs were so comfortable
that the last time he was here, he fell asleep right in the middle of what he was told had been the best part of the dance.
He avoided that big black suede chair and went and sat by the door in one of the less inviting velvet Queen Anne chairs.
The waitresses went around the room and pulled at the clusters of coaches to find a seat. Sonny Todd didn’t want to be in
the mix with the other coaches. So he went to the far side of the room and tried to make himself comfortable in one of the
window seats. He wanted to ask if there were any white or at least Latina dancers. He nixed that notion when the music came
over the sound system, and one of the songs his players used to listen to started playing. He didn’t know what was so fabulous
about the song “Walk It Out.” But it obviously held appeal to the majority of folks affiliated with SNAC.
What Sonny Todd didn’t know (and really didn’t care to know) was that before Rumpshakers, there had been nothing like this
for the brothers in Durham. Oh, there were several strip clubs catering to a predominantly black clientele. But there had
never been anything on this order. Rumpshakers was elegant, comfortable, tasteful (at least as far as the decor was concerned),
and had the finest women working in this industry in the Triangle on the payroll.
Any man who had paid a visit to Rumpshakers could tell you that the women employed by the club were fine. And those fine women
loved working for Charles Robinson, who they all said was as fine and sexy as any brother could be. A bona fide light-skinned
man, Charles Robinson didn’t have a problem finding all of those good-looking sisters.
There were women in Durham County who couldn’t dance a lick but wished they had the kind of skills that qualified them to
swing around a pole for him. That long, slender, and muscular body, wavy brown hair with a sprinkling of silver running through
it, and hazel eyes, made women drool over the brother and slip their panties in his breast pocket. Charles Robinson was fine,
single, rich, smart, educated, and sexy. He was the kind of brother every gold-diggin’ and stuck-up skoochie would do anything
to make her man.
The only group of women not chasing Charles Robinson was what he referred to as the “Kingdom Women”—sisters who were genuine,
humble, sweet, fine, smart, saved, Word-filled, and obedient to the Lord. This group, even the ones who found him attractive,
could care less about chasing a man like Charles Robinson. As Veronica Washington had once put it, “Why would I want a man
who was so comfortable with the world? What could I possibly say or do that would be of interest to him?”
When Denzelle Flowers told Charles what that fine Veronica had said about him, all he did was laugh. What he wanted to tell
Miss Veronica was that even though there wasn’t anything she could say to his worldly self, he’d be more than happy to tell
her what all she could do for him.
And as worldly as Charles knew he was, the one thing he wouldn’t have done was leave a brand-new custom-built, 3,800-square-foot
home in Durham’s Carillon Forest for a 976.5-square-foot “bachelor’s pad” with the brand new linoleum in the kitchen at Bismarck
Ridge, as Veronica’s ex-husband Robert had done. Who in his right mind would want to leave a fine woman like that, move out
of a beautiful neighborhood like Carillon Forest, and go and live in Bismarck Ridge of all places? Bismarck Ridge was a decent
neighborhood. And it was a good choice for many folk. But for a negro with an ego bigger than the Triangle? That was tantamount
to trading in your Lexus to go and buy a Ford Focus because you were desperate to beef up your image as mack daddy.
He knew that the man’s leaving a woman like that wasn’t about anything but some tail. And it couldn’t have been tail worth
anything. Because Charles had learned about that a long time ago, the hard way, when he let go of a good woman he could have
spent the rest of his life with over some cheap and worthless tail. He’d been just like Robert Washington, and he knew that
when you throw away a beautiful treasure, the Lord may not ever let you have another one.
Charles had more women than he knew what to do with but he didn’t have any that were remotely close to being a treasure—not
the kind of treasure the Bible talked about, or like the one he let get away. Charles shook off that thought by remembering
what one of the movers, who also did his landscaping, had told him about Robert moving out of Veronica’s house.
He’d said, “Boss, that lady packed that man right up. She put his suits and shirts in wardrobe boxes, and then”—the man started
laughing—“and then she went and stuffed all of old boy’s funky draws down in that box with all of his good clothes.”
“Mookie, how did you know his draws were in the wardrobe boxes?”
Mookie just looked at Charles like he was crazy, and then said, “Dawg, dawg. You know what your draws smell like when you
take ’em off and drop ’em in the hamper, right?”
Charles didn’t say anything. It wasn’t exactly something that you had a whole lot to say about, even if that crazy boy was
right. The longer Charles remained silent, the more certain Mookie became that his boss knew exactly what his draws smelled
like when they were real funky and lying in the clothes hamper just drawing in even more funk.
“Uh-huh. You know, don’t you, Mr. Robinson? It’s the kind of funk that comes when you wear your draws way too long and they
practically walk to the hamper on their own accord.”
Charles couldn’t do anything but laugh. That is the very reason he kept a decent supply of clean draws in his office. He hated
that feeling—funky draws he’d been wearing way too long.
“Well, that box was ‘wearing your draws too long’ funky. I was glad I was helping with the other stuff because I didn’t want
to handle that particular box. Know what I’m sayin’, playah?”
“Yeah, I know exactly what you are sayin’, Mookie, man,” Charles told him.
“But it gets better, Mr. Robinson. While old boy was out in the driveway, sitting in his car looking stupid, Miss Thang started
playing Beyoncé’s
you must not know ’bout me
song over and over again. Every time that negro thought the song had ended, Beyoncé started singing, ‘To the left, to the
left … everything you own is in a box to the left,’ all over again. I know it liked to drove that man crazy— especially
whenever he came up to the front door, trying to get in the house, and his wife started dancing and singing, ‘You must not
know ’bout me, you must not know ’bout me.’”
Charles loved that story about what had to be the stupidest negro in all of Durham County, North Carolina. He was a true player,
and would have never been ignorant enough to let Veronica go free. That’s how he knew how to hook up Rumpshakers—he was a
playah and a very good one at that.
He had designed the club to be the black man’s boob-and-booty paradise. Only thing, Charles, unlike many of his patrons, didn’t
even need his own paradise to get what he wanted. Brothers on the prowl in the Triangle complained about Charles Robinson
and all of the women who had taken it upon themselves to pledge their loyalty to him. They maintained that he had all of the
free booty on lockdown, and was rather selfish and unwilling to share the goods.
Charles Robinson could have cared less about what the brothers in Durham County thought he should do. Maybe those negroes
just needed to bone up on their skills and leave him the heck alone. That was one of the main reasons he was so reluctant
to get saved and make Jesus Lord of his life—having too much fun with the fleeting pleasures of sin, and obviously oblivious
to the fact that the
wages of sin was death
.
He reasoned that God had blessed him with his first cousin, Marquita, and her mother, his Aunt Margarita, who were super-saved
as far as he was concerned. And between the two there had to be enough Holy Ghost going around to cover a multitude of his
transgressions through intercessory prayer.
But as smooth and worldly as Charles Robinson was, he was honest about who he was and what a woman could expect from him.
Charles didn’t cheat on anybody because he didn’t believe in cheating. He didn’t believe in monogamy, either. But he didn’t
cheat. He was honest, straightforward, and fair. While his women grumbled about his candid, stubborn honesty, his employees
adored him for it. Charles Robinson was straightforward. It was this virtue that helped to keep him in bondage to sin. On
the one hand, Charles could pride himself on treating the folks who worked for him right. Then on the other hand, he was extending
an invitation to employees and patrons alike to travel down the wide and easy highway that carried his folks right up to the
gates of Hell.
T
he coaches started filling out the order forms for their private dances and getting cash off their debit cards. Sonny Todd
pulled out a money clip holding a wad of twenties in place and ordered a beer. His assistant coaches acted as if they didn’t
see him and went and sat with the other brothers.
Curtis kept his seat. He’d been happy to follow his colleagues out here for some R & R. But right now he was regretting the
decision to come. Maybe he should have just led them out here and then gone back to the office. Or better yet, maybe he should
have just gone home and gotten some much-needed rest. Or, even better than that, maybe he should have opted to spend some
quality time with Maurice, Dave Whitmore, Reverend Quincey, and Reverend Flowers.
Charles, who had known Curtis for a long time, didn’t like it that he was here at the strip club. When it was time for the
dancing to begin, Charles made a decision to pull him out of all of this. Rumpshakers’ prized dancer, Sweet Red, sashayed
all the way over to where Curtis was sitting and turned around so that he could see how well her black thong complimented
her black-and-red tattoo that read SPANK ME DADDY across her right cheek.