Shaking down the dealers is easier than you would think. It’s the tits. They almost always lose their minds. In my MMA days, if someone slipped out of their sports bra, the cheering would shake your teeth. Now I just squeeze my girls into tight t-shirts. The problem with Evgeni was that he never looked, not once. Most men eventually slip.
He was interested though. He and his crew tend to hang in the back of a dirty billiards and strip joint called Sloppy Balls. And it’s billiards not pool. They used to call them pool halls because of the betting pools, and I’m here for the game. Just balls slapping together downstairs and balls getting grinded on upstairs. Probably slap balls against someone’s backside in the back too.
My ass is in the air as I’m making shots That’s usually enough.
The first couple nights I took some games and some fool’s money. I didn’t hustle anybody. They saw me clearing tables over and over. On the third night, some idiot thought it would be a good idea to press his dick up against my ass while I was shooting. I’m tall enough; I don’t really need heels, but they make a well placed heel kick much more damaging.
I heel kicked his balls. He stumbled backward and I stuck him with a straight back kick. I took a breath, regained my stance, and sunk a split to the back corners.
The balls were taking a beating.
Thankfully the guy was just some punk, not part of Evgeni’s crew or I wouldn’t have made it up to his office. Usually when you get this high up the chain, the inner circle has some self control even if they have no style. The bouncer, a three hundred pound barrel of steroids, just tossed the guy out. Not quite a call-an-uber part of town. But, that’s how I met Evgeni initially. He came down and introduced himself. Apologized for the behavior of his patrons. Class motherfucker. Didn’t even acknowledge the tits.
A week later, I’m shooting pool, and Evgeni is hanging with his posse. He’s sinking balls, but he’s not clearing the table. When he approaches, he’s cordial and no I don’t want a drink. Close cropped hair and a lean muscularity, he boxes at a place down the street. I hear he’s the man when it comes to blow. He doesn’t even make the thirteen-year-old’s joke.
He’s leading me up to his office. Wants to make me an offer. When the door closes I press myself against him. Warm bodies pressing together, I can feel that he’s not thinking with his brain anymore. I push him toward the couch, but he resists. Wants to be the dominant one. The thirteen-year-old’s joke comes out.
I crouch and he reaches to unzip. He realizes something is wrong when I wrap my arms around his legs.
I take him down hard, and his skull thumps against carpet. Bad luck for me, but I’ve got his back and I’m pressing his face into the shag so he can’t scream. “Safe combo or your crew finds out what happens here. You can minimize the damage.”
He starts with the noise so I switch to an arm bar. It doesn’t stop, so I break his right arm. Stranger handys for a couple months, Buster.
The combo is his birthdate. Fucking amateurs.
He’s crying as I load his gym bag with money and the ammo from two ten millimeters I find in his desk. I leave the blow and the guns. I wet a towel at the small bar in the back of the cherry office and throw it to him. Gotta save him some shame. He’s gonna tell his crew we fell off the desk and he broke his arm. And I was a great lay.
I blow him a kiss with the gym bag over my shoulder. On the stairs outside Evgeni’s office I run into Mr. Steroid Barrel. I tell him about the Boss’s accident and his thick cock.
Downstairs I grab my cue case and jacket and walk into the street.
I think he’ll keep his mouth shut.