Death Orchid

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Paris

Somewhere off in the distance a police siren brought her back to the moment, just as the other things she loved in her life came whacking up the stairs from down below where her club was located.

Grinning she smiled as:

“Yelp, Yelp, Yelp” and “clickety clack, clickety clack” noises grew closer and, then there SHE was.

Angel, the once frightened puppy she had rescued from the Cox nuthouse, now a brown and white Border Collie made the turn around the opening to the stairs, skidded on her polished pine floors and now with nails clicking was scampering full bore towards her.

Grinning, Mandal laughed as her girl became air-born crashing into her arms sending her giggling sprawling onto her back onto her down comforter.

With tail wagging wildly and her pink tongue covering her with wet kisses, Mandal’s heart felt happy. For a moment she felt simply like a girl playing with her dog, instead of an ex w***e and killer never far from suicide.

“Hey girl, hey. Good morning…You been guarding the place all night. Come here.”

Lifting the vibrating fur-ball of pure love before her, she kissed her on her wet nose. She righted herself, placing Angel on the bed next to her.

“Yelp, Yelp, Yelp.”

“Okay, okay, you’re hungry…got it.”

Her voice did nothing to calm her dog, as Angel leaped from the bed, lowered before her and began to growl and yelp at her feet and ankles.

“Down now. Let me get dressed. Now, down.”

Angel, being a Border Collie, and perhaps one of the smartest dogs on earth immediately laid prone on the pine slats, her brown liquid eyes gleaming as she stared lovingly at the woman that had saved her life. Mandal had trained her well, for having a dog, no matter how precious it was not well trained, met having no dog at all.

Mandal walked naked to a floor to ceiling pine amour. Opening the door, she glanced at several pairs of black, skinny Levi’s nicely aligned on hangers. Next to them were their cousins, old, faded blue Levi’s, all her usual uniform of the day and night.

Grabbing a pair of faded blue jeans, she snuggled them up her long legs, around her hips, fastening the brass circular snaps as she did.

Giving them a final tug, she groaned, for her hips were so small it seemed that at times it was impossible for her to keep her pants from falling down along her ankles.

She peeked at Angel who looked like a rocket ready to ignite.

“Stay girl.”

She walked to an antique chest of pine drawers, withdrew an old black T-shirt and slipped it over her small breasts. Leaving it un tucked because that’s how casual and comfortable she liked to be, she opened another drawer, grabbed a pair of cotton socks, walked over to her bed and sat.

Giving Angel another look, telling her to be patient with that look, she pulled on her cotton socks, leaned over, grabbed her heavy black work, steel toed boots, she pulled on her small feet.

Liking the look of the boots, she laced them up, stood and was an inch taller than she was before.

Grumbling, her stomach made her wince. Again she had forgotten to eat dinner and if she got any thinner her wish that she might one day cease to exist might just come to fruition.

Being a semi-athlete now, she knew that she needed proper nutrition and not for the last time she reminded herself that she had to start eating regularly.

“One thing at a time.” She whispered, as she looked down at her pooch.

“Okay girl, let’s get some eats.”

Angel yelped and leading the way ran towards the stairs and with tail wagging waited for her sister, so they could go down into the clubs kitchen and see what eats were available for breakfast.

ONCE DOWN the stairs, Mandal hesitated, as Angel vibrated next to her. As she looked into the darkness of the dance and bar area of her very, low key, very cool and elegant club, she felt a sense of pride wash over her. It was Sunday morning and the club was closed on Sundays.

Having named the place, “JASON’S” for the obvious reasons, it was a well-kept secret, 40’s, film-noir, smoky kinda of low profile, classic place. It was frequented by an eclectic bunch of artists, freaks, odd balls and locals and was a private members club, where the members and their selected guests could get away from the cosmetic, soulless world of Las Vegas.

After buying and then renovating the run down dump, which was located between the slums of Washington and Fremont Street, she had turned it into a haven for the bewildered.

It had not taken long for it to become “thee” place for locals to read their poetry, dance, drink honest drinks, eat great food and feel peace and safety, for her staff was a loyal and tough crew of girls and men.

The place was lit with soft golden balls, throwing down a luminescence that seemed to calm every ones jangled nerves. To her left was a long, sweeping bar with a brass railing where folks could rest their weary feet on. Edging above the bar were racks of twinkling glasses and behind the pine bar were bottles and decanters of the best liquors available.

A single neon sign was nailed into the back of the bar and it read;

“JASON’S”.

The sign never failed to make her heart feel soft, and often after the crowds had vanished when the club had closed usually around 3AM, she sat and sipped Wild Turkey crying as she stared at what her man had given her, through the heroics of his own death.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs she looked to her right where forest green, over stuffed long couches were tucked neatly against the walls. Long chrome and smoked glass tables were placed low and friendly like in front of the couches.

The walls were a deep muted chocolate colored cloth, making everything almost gentle in appearance. How many times had she stood in the kitchen and seen her clientele drinking, chatting and eating and so relaxed enjoying themselves, she could not remember. In front of the couches and low to the floor dining tables was a pine, small oval dance floor. Tacked on the walls were the best speakers money could buy. Off to the side was a D-J’s booth, filled with vinyl and cassettes and thousands of C-D’S.

JASON’S was known for its music as well as the impeccable ambiance and food it served up. It was her music, Placido Domingo, Dylan, Rock’n’Roll, Soul, R&B, Prince, a little Rap at times, never any Fusion Jazz. She disliked that and sometimes a bit of Classical thrown into boot. If you didn’t like her selection of music, simply stay home, was her way of seeing things.

There was one way and one way only for one to become a member in her exclusive, yet so UN pretentious club and that was to go through her. If she didn’t like you, it didn’t matter how rich you were or where you lived or what you drove. If the b***h didn’t dig your vibe, you didn’t have a chance; everybody knew it and had no choice but to respect it.

Therefore the place, with its hand-picked staff of gorgeous girls, a manager she trusted, tough loyal bouncers and watchers, was an oasis in a desert. The fact that she had gone through over a hundred employees when she first began the place and before settling on the revolving twenty or so folks she now employed had amazed her.

Her “No Drug Policy” quickly and harshly weeded out whole legions of pretty bodies and faces from working for her.

Though she was very aware that drugs were killing entire generations of youth full brains, nothing could have ever prepared her for that reality.

The fact that she had stuck to her guns, was the very reason the place was so unique.

She was known as a hard-nosed, extremely tough and yet fair and generous employer. The list of folks wanting to work for her as bartenders, cooks, waiters and bouncers was as long as her slender arms were. Literally, everyone respected her, loved her and wouldn’t think of working anyplace else.

It was not uncommon for a bartender or a waitress to find a couple of hundred dollars in their pockets at the end of each shift.

The fact that she had hired a most marvelous Italian chef as well as some of his entourage away from the Venetian Hotel was legendary.

Her no drug policy, though thought of at the time to be old fashioned, for her staff and her clientele once through the doors of “JASON’S” had been eventually seen by everyone concerned as pure genius. With a policy that you could do anything you wanted outside her club, as long as it did not affect your doing your duty or marring your behavior as a member, made everyone respect her more.

Having an actual closing hour and a staff of large men enforcing all the rules made even the cops love her. No one could remember the last time there had been a problem with her club. Simply said, any potential problems that might show their ugly faces were simply nipped at the bud by her bouncers at the door.

Allowing any cop who could not be a cop for the night free membership made her a local favorite of the police, a group of cynical head cases themselves who found their anonymity at her place a very welcome thing indeed.

Occasionally she had asked a favor from time to time from her cop buddies and not once did they ever say, “NO.”

Several of them had asked her out, she had politely declined, telling them it was a simple policy of hers not to date clientele, no matter how handsome they were or how shiny their handcuffs were.

The cops worshiped her sense of humor and would do anything for her, like the time she took Lise DeCaprio to the coroner vaults for a little show and tell of eye popping reality of how drugs can kill head strong girls in Vegas.

After that the beautiful girl quickly changed and started college, which pleased her powerful father, Mafia Don Mario, a man that had come to KILL her one night, plenty.

Still standing at bottom of the stairs, she thought of the beautiful and so very young Lise DeCaprio for a moment and wondered why she had missed her bartender shift the night before.

Then her stomach growled and she knew a little chat with the young girl that had saved her life a year earlier was in order later on in the evening.

Glancing down at her military watch on her tiny wrist, she saw it was 6 AM.

Remembering her appointment with Carol Bows at 8 Am, Mandal decided to get a move on it.

Though it was Sunday her “Witch Doctor” that is what Mandal called her, would make time for her. Not wanting to jeopardize her own membership at “JASON’S”, the world class psychiatrist always made time for the very strange gal who owned the club and being spoiled as she was, Mandal new it.

“Sorry, girl. Come on let’s eat.”

Turning, she and a tail wagging they moved through the opening between bar and restaurant to see what was on for breakfast.

As for Lise DeCaprio, she was Dead already, though neither Mandal, nor did the gorgeous twenty-one year old girl Lise know it as of yet.