"There's no rush, man," Cooper said. "You know where to find me."
Treston sent him one last smile and climbed out of the truck. When most of the men he knew dropped him off at his door, they pulled away before he even had a chance to get his key out of his pocket. But he didn't have his keys. They'd been in the pocket of the jeans Harlan had stolen from him. He had to reach up to where he kept an extra key hidden above the door frame. Cooper sat there waiting the entire time. He didn't pull away until he saw Treston's door was open and Treston turned back to wave.
The first thing Treston did when inside his apartment was check out Harlan's side of the small closet they shared. The few things he'd had when Treston had met him were still hanging there. But Treston knew this didn't mean he was coming back and this had all been a huge misunderstanding. The things Harlan had left in the closet were not worth much and could be replaced easily. He didn't own socks or underwear; he'd been borrowing Treston's since he'd move in. The one thing Harlan owned he'd cared the most about, the leather jacket, he'd taken with him. Now Treston knew why he'd been wearing the heavy jacket on such a warm day. It was evident Harlan must have been planning this for a while. Treston remembered him mentioning he'd researched Lake Mead on the Internet on the way to Hoover Dam that morning. He said he'd been searching for quiet, out-of-the-way places to have sex outdoors, when he'd really been searching for a place to dump Treston and take all his money. And Treston hadn't noticed anything different about him and he hadn't seen it coming. He'd dropped his pants and removed his shirt without thinking. He felt so colossally dumb that he punched the bedroom wall and hurt his knuckles.
After he searched the apartment, the only comfort he found was when he saw his cell phone on his nightstand. He'd forgotten to bring it with him that morning to the bank. If he had taken the phone, it would have been in his pants and would be lost now.He went to work that night, as usual, and danced in a string thong in a cage above the bar. He smiled at the men below him, wiggled his hips, and bucked his pelvis for tips. He even let one guy with gray hair reach up and feel his ass for a second or two, and he wound up getting a twenty-dollar-bill for this one simple gesture.
At three in the morning, he climbed out of the cage and went back to the dressing room so he could get dressed and go home. He felt as if he were moving in slow motion and he knew he wouldn't realize he was still in shock until much later. But when he walked into the dressing room he found his boss and the gray-haired guy who'd given him the twenty-dollar tip. They were standing next to the door, speaking in low voices and talking with their hands.
When Treston's boss saw him, he winked and said, "You up for a private encore tonight?" Chickey handled situations like this with care and discretion. Although these situations were legal in some cases in Nevada, in places that were licensed for that sort of thing, they weren't in most others.
Treston stopped and glanced between the two men. He knew what his boss meant by "encore." In this club the guys who stripped were not expected to perform any extra duties-not unless they wanted to perform them. Treston's boss was an older gay man with long silver hair and too much chunky gold jewelry. He wore thick gold chains around his neck with his shirts open to his waist, gold nugget rings that seemed to weigh his bony fingers down, and shiny double-breasted suits with exaggerated lapels. All the younger guys joked he'd been caught in a time warp and his sense of style had stopped moving forward around 1976. He still drove the same white Lincoln Town Car he'd had for the past thirty-six years. When he talked about the car he laughed and told people he'd been smart enough to think ahead in 1976. He always said, "I saw the writing on the wall back then when they started coming out with these little foreign cars and all those funny foreign names, so I bought up two big white Lincolns." He drove one and kept the other in the garage for parts.
The guy with the gray hair seemed nice enough, so Treston shrugged at his boss and said, "Sure. I'm up for it, Chickey." He could use the extra money, now that he'd emptied his saving account. His boss's name was Chickey Levine. If he had a real first name Treston had never heard it. He'd only known him as Chickey. And he didn't pronounce his last name Lah-veen like most people. He pronounced it Lah-Vyne, with the emphasis on the first syllable.
Chickey smiled at the man with the gray hair and he nodded at Treston. "See me before you leave," he said.
Treston smiled. "Okay, Chickey." He knew this meant Chickey would pay him extra for giving the gray-haired guy a private show that night. They didn't have to speak about these things aloud, especially in front of a customer. Discretion was the most important word in Treston's line of work.