Bar Girl Ch. 06

They arrived forty minutes late. Mama was quickly mollified when she heard the explanation, stern, but at least silent. Daddy was professionally grumpy. It was the depth of the low season, when costs exceed revenue, and the bar manager tried to minimise the attrition of his reserves.

"You come in when you like, and still expect to be paid for a full shift. We have to pay for fifty girls' salaries and hygiene checks, and most of you don't even earn your cost in bar shares on your sales. You make commission every time you make a sale, we don't make anything until your salary and hygiene fees and the drinks are covered by the bar share. You need to buck your ideas up or we'll be laying the lazy girls off. We don't need fifty girls at this time of year, we can get by with twenty. At the moment we're running at a big loss, so be warned. No customers, no jobs."

"But, Daddy, they have two hundred and fifty girls at Girls'R Us," said Amor, "and they have a nice new building with many stages inside, how can that be. Even with a 3000 peso bar-fine, if there is no customer, how can they pay the salaries?"

"Ha!" said Daddy, "We're an honest bar. These big new fuckers are just money laundering operations. They don't need to make money. If nothing's done about it they'll drive all the honest bars out of business. Those tossers who take a lease on a bar up Perimeter Road, and go bust, are under-capitalised. But they compete fair and square."

"Money laundering, what is that?" asked Blen.

"It's the way criminals come by money they can use for legitimate investment," Daddy explained. "If you spend money that you can't account for, and hasn't been taxed, the authorities will catch you for tax evasion, if nothing else. That's how they did Al Capone."

"Who?"

"Just one of our criminals. He ran illegal drinking joints. He made a bundle of illegal money and then spent it freely. When the taxman totalled up his expenditure and compared it to his tax return they were different, he'd spent hell of a lot more money that he'd paid tax on. They sent him down for non-payment of tax. Today the big money is in drugs, but also illegal gambling and half the world's politicians are taking bribes. If they want to enjoy the money, they must be able to show it comes from a legal source and has been taxed. Small amounts of money can be laundered by a bookmaker. If you place $100,000 in bets and win $50,000, the bookmaker gets $50,000 and you get $50,000 and you only have to account for your stake, say $2000. Your winnings are clean money, tax paid by the bookie, and you can show you won it. We would give the bookie $100,000 and he would give us $50,000. Instead of $100,000 we couldn't spend, we had £50,000 we could spend. That's laundering, clean money from dirty. You need a business which provides a strong flow of cash from small receipts, from untraceable customers. These bars are ideal."

"But if there is no customers there is no money, so they will go bust," said Blen.

"Blen, these bars aren't there to attract customers. They don't care if they have no customers. Criminal syndicates put up a small amount of legal money, small to them, a couple of hundred thousand dollars, to build and finance these clubs. If they launder money for other syndicates, for every $1,000,000 they launder, they get to keep $500,000. They easily recover their investment and they keep 100% of their own money that they launder."

"But how does that work, I do not understand?" said Blen.

"There are no customers in town. How many of their two hundred and fifty girls do you think they have out on bar-fine?" Daddy asked her.

"Maybe twenty," Blen guessed.

"Well, they keep two sets of books. One set, the real ones, shows twenty girls out on bar-fine, the other set, a made up set, shows one hundred and twenty out on bar-fine. They design the paperwork to be anonymous, just a record of a receipt of a certain amount on a certain date, so they can generate vouchers by computer, then just tick the right boxes. That way they can create a complete set of vouchers to match any sum of money they require, which is shown as profits in the false books. The difference between twenty girls on bar-fine at 600p bar share, and one hundred and twenty fictitious girls at 1500 bar share ... because they advertise a 3000 peso bar-fine ... is what?"

"I do not know Daddy," answered Blen.

"Well, it's one hundred and seventy thousand peso a day, or sixty million pesos a year."

The girls covered their mouths with their hands in amazement.

"Clubs like that will be cleaning one or two million dollars a year," he continued," that's why they keep increasing in number. There are no new customers, but there's a new big glitzy club with two hundred plus girls opening every year. That's what we are contending with. The NBI have cottoned on to that so, thankfully, most of their action is against the new money, that's where the big bribes are to be found. Girls'R Us is careful to be as clean as a whistle, all the girls are of full age, there is no nudity, everything is tasteful, but they get more raids and are given a harder time than the small Perimeter Road bars that put on a bold show."

Daddy concluded his rant with, "Now, get your skinny asses out in the bar, earn your salary, and earn me some honest money."

Though very eager to boost their salaries, without footfall the girls were powerless. No matter how enthusiastically they danced to an empty bar they would earn no commission. Even a single customer worked a dramatic change in the atmosphere. He would give meaning to their motions and the girls would move with purpose, heads up, bodies erect, available to provide companionship.

A tubby man with cropped blonde hair, in T-shirt and shorts, wobbled in. As the line drew themselves up, Blen advanced to the front of the stage, waved, and made the blow-job sign. He smiled broadly, raised his eyebrows, and continued unsteadily towards the bar, where he eased himself onto a stool in front of Blen. He looked up at her, and she beamed back down at him. He looked slowly to left and right, raised his arms as if in a wide embrace.

"Hello lovely ladies," he announced, in strongly accented English.

The girls, anxious for interaction after a long period of customer starvation, returned his greeting and gathered closer, anticipating some amusement.

"My name is Olav," he declaimed. "What are your names? ... You?" He pointed at Blen.

"I am Blen, Siir."

He then proceeded to point to each girl in turn, saying a personal hello to each, when she responded.

The waitress managed to interrupt his progress to take his order. "Would you like to buy drinks for the ladies also?" she asked.

He paused and tapped his nose, then handed a 1000p note to the waitress. Turning to the girls he asked, "Would you like pizza?"

The girls squealed their delight at the suggestion, and he asked the waitress to convert the 1000p into pizza for the bar. "And ..." He paused for thought. "... three ladies drinks."

"For which ladies?" asked the waitress.

"Ahhh, I don't know yet. Just put them on the bar," he told her, then pulled a bag of boiled sweets out of his pocket, tore it open, and strewed the contents across the stage. "There's something to give you energy till the pizzas arrive."

The girls dived noisily to grab as many as they could, only to then divide the sweets equally amongst themselves.

"Where are you from, Sir?" asked Girlie.

He tapped his nose. "Ahhh."

"Where do you stay, Sir?" tried Precious.

Again, he tapped his nose, and repeated, "Ahhh."

Puzzled, the girls fell silent, but continued to jiggle in front of him, looking expectantly in his direction. He looked around admiringly, with a stupid grin on his face. Then he announced, "There will be a competition, " - he was tripping slightly on his words - "I will ask questions. You will give answers. The girl who gives the correct answer will win a ladies drink."

The girls drew in closer. The waitress arrived, and placed the three ladies drinks on the bar in front of him.

"OK, ladies. Question one. Where do I come from?" asked Olav.

There was a burst of rapid guesses – America – Australia - Germany.

The guesses slowed.

"Go to the north," he urged.

"Canada," suggested one girl.

"No, no, no," he said, "the north of Europe, not the north of America."

Holland, Russia and Sweden were various suggestions.

"Very close to Sweden," he prompted.

The girls muttered between themselves, the geography of Europe did not feature in the little education they had received.

Finally, "Norway?" suggested a girl, who resided in the front bedroom at the lady-house.

Olav jumped in his seat, and slapped the bar with delight. "Yes, I am Norwegian, come and get your drink," he shouted.

The waitress issued the girl with a chit, and she took her drink. Olav raised his bottle, chinked her glass, and shot-gunned his beer while the girl sipped her glass. He glanced at the waitress, and held up a finger. She hurried off to get another beer.

"Question two. Where am I staying? Which hotel?"

This produced a rapid-fire barrage of guesses, each girl working their way through the hotels in order of their preference. Early guesses centred around Balibago, then worked up Perimeter Road. As they hit Petron someone called out, "Sundown."

Again, Olav leapt in his seat, and slapped the bar, "Correct, correct, collect your drink." He was very noisy.

Again, he chinked his beer bottle against the ladies drink, shot-gunned it, and ordered another. "Final question. How old am I, to the nearest month?"

Some of the answers were flattering, some unflattering.

"42 yrs 7 months," guessed one girl.

He pointed at her. "Warm."

The girls focused in. "44 yrs 2 months," guessed another.

"Very warm," he indicated, and after a short flurry of guesses, one girl called out, "44 yrs 7mths."

He leaped, and clapped, and sank his beer, and ordered another. As he subsided, the waitress who had gone for the pizza arrived back, carrying seven boxes.

"Put four on the bar. Give those girls a couple..." He indicated the girls sitting in the bar watching the action, "... and take one out back."

As the pizza boxes were opened, another customer entered. He also appeared a little unsteady. Returning Blen's greeting with a blank face, he made his way to the bar and climbed onto a stool one or two seats from Olav. Seeing the open boxes of pizza, he picked a slice, and turned to Olav. "All freebies accepted gratefully." He bit into it.

The girls recognised an American accent. He was of a similar age to Olav, with medium length, dark hair, and a couple of day's growth of stubble. His shirt was colourful and loud, and his shorts long and baggy. Olav raised his beer, and nodded in a good-natured way, and he and the American fell into conversation.

Seeing them both lifting their beer bottles high to drain them, Mama signalled to Blen, who took station between the customers, removed her camisole and began to adjust her thong provocatively. She rolled it down to the tops of her thighs, shimmied her hips a foot in front of Olav, and then the American. She then turned her back to them and spreading her booted legs, bent forward stiff backed, to take the weight of her body onto her hands. Bending completely forward with her torso hanging between her splayed legs she looked back between her boots, first at Olav, then at the American, making the blow-job sign and nodding invitingly. She then rose, hitched her rolled up thong over each shoulder, then snapped back towards them, revealing her breasts, squeezed provocatively between the two stretched skeins of her thong. Taking hold of the skeins at her waist she pulled them together and jerked upwards. At her crotch, the taut, string thin thong, disappeared into the fold of her outer labia. She pulled it back and forth, and her inner labia peeped down on either side of the gusset.

By the end of the number, to Mama's relief, the customers had ordered another beer.

Olav expressed his delight at Blen's dance by clapping his hands, then pulling out a 100 peso note and, leaning forward, tucking it into Blen's thong.

"Thank you Siir," she lilted in appreciation.

Olav turned to the American and commented, "That was worth 100 pesos. Where else in the world can you get a show like that for 100 pesos?"

In a drunken, slightly surly tone, the American responded, "I don't give them tips for doing what they're paid to do; they're paid to dance and we pay for the beer; the dancing's included with the price of the beer."

"Oh, it's just a little extra for performance above and beyond the call of duty," said Olav.

"They should be doing a dance worth watching all the time," slurred the American, "look at the others. You couldn't call that dancing. They're not worth the price of the beer. Just because one girl does her job properly isn't a reason to give a tip. If they all danced decently, the bar wouldn't be empty, they'd be selling beer, that's their job, not hitting customers up for tips."

"I just like to share my good fortune with the girls," said Olav, "... to give them a little treat to show my appreciation ... like with the pizza."

"That was your pizza?" queried the American.

"Yes."

"All four? I thought it was supplied by the bar."

"All seven," corrected Olav.

"Shit. How much have you spent on these girls?" The American was astounded.

Olav picked up his tabs and riffled through them. "That's one thousand four hundred and sixty pesos," he confirmed.

"Jesus!" exclaimed the American. He turned to Blen. "Excuse me Miss, how much do you charge for ..." he made the blow-job sign.

"600 pesos ONLY, Siir."

He looked back at Olav. "So, you could have had two treatments from this eager young fellatrice; she's been touting for work all evening, and still have enough left over for a good dinner or a beer or three in another bar."

"I like to make the girls happy ... it makes me happy ... and I can afford it. I shall have my girl tonight, believe me I won' miss out on anything," said Olav with amiable equanimity.

"I don't mean to be offensive," continued the American, "but spending like that spoils it for other people. The girls get used to easy money. They feel they don't need to make an effort. Some of them seem to expect a tip on top of their bar-fine. I don't give tips, I've paid to fuck and I don't pay twice."

"Well, at least you give them their trike fare, I hope? You don't make them walk home do you?" countered Olav.

"No way. That's their employment. I'm expected to pay my travel to and from work out of my salary, and they should pay their trike fares out of their bar-fine. By over-tipping, you just raise the expectations of the girls, and bid up the costs for everyone else. Too much money corrupts them. They used to be very happy with 600 pesos for a fuck, and they had plenty of customers. They could earn 4000 pesos a week. Now their customers are afraid to bar-fine them because they'll be hit for a tip, so they've killed the golden goose. Tipping is a disaster for them, and a disaster for us."

An uneasy silence descended between them. The American handed his tab to the waitress together with a few notes. She returned with his change, about thirty pesos, on a saucer. He drained his beer, scooped the change from the saucer, nodded to Olav and said, "See'Ya," then wobbled from his stool and out of the bar.

The waitress looked into the empty saucer, shook her open hand upright in the air, and loudly called out, "Wala."

The girls laughed.

While the customers had chatted, the sets had changed a couple of times. Set A was again replaced by Set B, and, for some reason, Olav's humour now began to return. "I have a problem," he announced.

"What's your problem, Sir?" called the girls.

"I took a girl to my hotel last night ... I was very drunk ... but I remember she gave me very good boom-boom..." He paused. "... but, when I woke up this morning ... she was gone ... and I can't remember where I met her."

Some of the girls sympathised. Several claimed it had been them.

"The only way I can trace her is with this," he reached into his pocket, "... she must have dropped it as she was leaving."

He held up a bundled garment and let it drop. It was a lacy, rather deep, quarter cup bra.

"I'll know I've found my girl if this fits her, and I will bar-fine her for more boom-boom tonight."

The girls cheered. They took the bra and examined it. Clearly, to fill it becomingly, a rather full bust would be required. As fate would have it, there were two full-figured ladies in Set B. The other girls pushed them forward.

Olav pointed at one. "She looked a little like you ... could I see how it fits?"

The girl quickly removed her top and slipped on and adjusted the bra. Her breasts were squeezed in and thrust forward in a most appealing display.

"Let me check the fit," said Olav.

She bent forward, and Olav cupped her breasts, inserted his fingers into the cups and ran them around. "Well, it's a very good fit," he teased, "... but maybe it will fit your friend better." He nodded at the other full-figured girl. "Could you try it?"

In a trice, the girl's tits were out of her top, and into the bra. Again, Olav closely inspected the fit. He then sat back. "Thank you ladies for your co-operation, but I cannot say for sure that it's either of you girls."

The stage resounded with groans bordering on boos.

"So ... I'll have to bar-fine you both," he blurted out dramatically. "Come and get your ladies drinks."

The groans morphed into celebratory cheers, and four happy bosoms bounced down the steps of the stage, and up onto the stools either side of Olav, to compress him in a fleshy embrace.

When Olav left an hour later, a girl on either arm, the few customers who now populated the bar failed to maintain the bonhomie. Girls were bought drinks, and bounced on knees, but the fun was private and not shared as Olav had shared, with the entire bar.

On the fifteenth and final day of the rotation, a Friday, their salary and commission were totalled up and paid in cash. Blen received 19,050p, Precious 9,060p, Girlie 5,850p and Amor 2,550p.

Amor had not met any of her targets, so her salary and commission were all paid at the lowest rate. Although she could expect 5,100p for the month, which would have been a satisfactory income under other circumstances, she would have interest and rent of 4,800p to pay, and even if she used the remaining 300p to reducing the principal debt, she would still owe well over 18,000p, and still have no money for food, certainly none to remit home.

Before they left for the lady-house, Mama told them she would call to see them at about midday.

This would be their first day-off since arriving in Angeles, and the girls excitedly planned what they would do - Go to the cinema! - Go shopping! - Go swimming! - Go to the disco! - Buy cell phones! - all, except Amor, who was very quiet.

Precious had now moved into the lady-house, since Klaus had returned home having given her four 100 Euro notes as a parting gift. Her plan was to go to Norma's Money Changer in St Maria, first thing, and change them. She did not know how many pesos it would be, but she was sure it would be a great many.

There were five curled up on the bed that night, and as they settled to sleep Blen put a comforting arm around Amor and whispered, "We have more than enough, do not worry."

In a wakeful interlude at dawn, as she lay between Girlie and Amor, listening to their gentle breathing over the fighting cocks responding noisily to first light, she devised her plan. She was excited most by the prospect of remitting money to her sister and foster parents. That would vindicate her decision to go to Angeles, and relieve the tense expectation that settled on the families at home when girls went to seek their fortune. She felt for Amor and her terrible situation. She, Girlie and Precious could send money home; Amor could not. As soon as the remittances arrived, word would ripple through the barangay. The remitters would be the subject of family boasts and neighbourly praise. Blen's sister, Jesusa, would go to school. Amor's little sisters and brothers would not. There would be fish and pork on the table of Blen's family, Amor's would subsist on rice and vegetable. Amor's family would be bitterly disappointed, and think she had forgotten them. She would be dubbed the feckless daughter who abandoned her familial obligations. Blen decided she would share with Amor. Fate had been unfair. But for the fact that Blen remained a cherry, she could have shared the same shame.