Russell Banks - A Permanent Member of the Family

I whack the shaker once and fill the glass from it, making sure there’s a signature touch of fizz at the top, and plant a lemon wedge on the edge and set it in front of him. “Depends,” I say.

“On what, pray tell.” He takes a sip of his drink, closes his eyes and smiles appreciatively, like he’s a connoisseur of Long Island iced teas and this one’s a ten.

“Depends on how much you want to spend. And whether you have a car and are willing to drive down to South Beach or over to Fort Lauderdale or need to stay here on the rez. You bedding down at the Hard Rock?” I ask him.

He says yes, he’s at the Hard Rock on business, but he has a rental car and can drive to wherever the women are. He calls them “ladies of the night.” I can’t tell if he’s being funny or is just a total cracker asshole. I’m in my sixties, and it’s the first time I’ve heard the expression.

“Also it depends on what sort of action you’re looking for,” I say.

He sips his drink with his eyes closed again. “I wouldn’t mind a variety of activities. Something a little de trop, if you know what I mean.”

I don’t speak French but I get his drift. I explain that if he wants something other than the two or three more popular items on the menu he’ll probably have to leave the rez, because the Seminoles run a pretty tight ship. “They’re first and foremost in the gaming industry, you understand. They don’t mind a working girl or two trolling the casino or the strip malls, so long as the girls are discreet and do their transacting in private, but the Seminoles are businesspeople and need to look squeaky clean. Even if they’re not, exactly.” I can add that because, although I’m told I look like a Seminole, I’m Jewish and am paid by the Piano, which is independently owned by Brits from Hong Kong.

“That’s why I’m here!” he says. “To do business with the Seminoles! I’m hoping to open a chapel and meditation center at the resort. My partners and I are franchising prayer and meditation centers at Indian casinos all across the country. We’ve got over sixty up and running and another twenty-seven under contract.”

“Sort of like fast food franchises?”

“In a sense, yes. The Indians really get it. They’re a very spiritual people, you know, the Indians. The true genius of America, however, is marketing,” he goes on. “We use Starbucks as a template. And the Hard Rock Cafe itself. The only difference is that our product is not coffee or food and alcohol or musical acts, and it’s certainly not gambling. Our product is nondenominational spiritual space.”

“A product that’s invisible. Very cool. Any complaints, you can blame the customer. Better than selling bottled tap water,” I say, kidding him a little. Although I’m an observant Jew in some ways, I’m very secular in others and don’t believe in anything that’s invisible, except atoms and molecules, and even about them I’m agnostic.

“Let’s go back to our previous conversation,” he says. “Concerning the ladies of the night.”

“Okay. But first tell me how you actually make money from these spiritual spaces. Do people have to pay to pray?”

“The casino pays us, naturally. It’s the same as if we rented them an attractive fountain for the lobby or a big tropical fish tank. It embellishes the environment. It elevates the ambience. The design and arrangement of the furnishings, the altars and wall decorations all follow the ancient principles of feng shui. Which is good for luck, you know. Gamblers need luck. It’s a pop-up structure, so we own and maintain the space. There’s also a donation box for the users of the space, the beneficiaries, to express their appreciation.”

“Like a gratuity?”

“You could say that. We have a regional team that comes around every week to empty the donation boxes, and it does add up, yes, indeed. Casinos are full of troubled people looking for spiritual relief and uplift, and when they find it they are grateful and like to express their gratitude. But our main source of income is the monthly rental fee for the space itself. Now, my friend, back to our previous subject.”

I’m actually more interested in these pop-up nondenominational chapels than our previous subject, but he’s the customer. I ask him again what on the sexual menu interests him. Is he into meat loaf, mac and cheese, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? Or does he want something more exotic?

A tall, wiry kid in his mid-twenties with a storm cloud in front of his face has settled into a stool three down from my guy and is half listening to our conversation with what looks like disapproval. He has one of those five-day beards designed to demonstrate the high volume of his testosterone flow. I know the kid slightly, name’s Enrique. Dominican, I think. Speaks good English with only a slight accent. Comes into the Piano once every ten days or so and stops off for a drink or two before heading into the casino. Doesn’t talk much. I believe he’s into low-ball roulette. Owns a string of car washes, he told me once, a small-time businessman on the rise, not the type who’d work for someone else. I’ve never seen him crack a smile. Authority issues, probably. Can’t say I’m drawn to him.

I toss him a nod to let him know I’ll take his order in a second, but also to cue my guy that if he wants to talk about ladies of the night he should keep it down or else talk in code. For all I know, Enrique’s actually an undercover cop. Because of the casino and hotel there’s all kinds of plainclothes and undercover cops lurking around, private security guys, local and state, even feds.

Bowtie glances over at Enrique, seems to catch my point and tells me in a low voice that he’s interested in some real hot Thai food. “Spicy and burning hot!” he empasizes. Then he turns on his stool 180 degrees, grins at Enrique, winks and says, “Know any place nearby, friend, where a white man can eat Thai or maybe Polynesian?”

Enrique snorts and slips him a slim smile. “You talking Thai men or Thai women? Maybe you’re talking fat Polynesian boys,” he says and barks a laugh without smiling and shakes his head like he can’t believe my guy is a serious person. I’m not sure he’s a serious person myself, but his personality sticks to me like Velcro. I’m a bartender, I take people as they come. I don’t believe anything they tell me, and I forget them when they go. But something about this guy appeals to me and at the same time turns me totally off. Makes me want to help and hurt him simultaneously. Something about him confuses me.

“White man,” Enrique says to himself and snorts again. He turns and shows his back to us. On his neck he’s got the tattooed top of a porpoise done in Japanese woodcut style leaping out of his gray silk T-shirt. His shiny black hair is pulled tight into a short ponytail that tickles the porpoise’s nose. I go over and take his order, which he gives without looking at me. Vodka martini. Straight up. Ketel One. Extra dry. Three olives.

Enrique knows what he likes.

Bowtie says to him, “What’s your name, friend?”

He pulls out his iPhone, makes like he’s checking his e-mail. “Enrique,” he says. “What do peoples call you, man?” He doesn’t look up from his phone. “Whitey?”

“Heck, no! Allyn. Spelled A-L–L-Y-N, pronounced Allen, as in…,” he says and looks at the ceiling. “I can’t think of any famous Allens. Woody Allen? Anyhow, if spelled with a Y it’s a Gaelic name and means ‘precious one.’ From that you could surmise that I was an only child, Enrique, and you’d be right.”

Enrique looks at me and says, “Tell Precious about the Green Door.”

“You think?”

“Sure. He want a sexual buffet, he should go to the Green Door. Precious, you can get off any way you want at the Green Door.”