Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(54)
I scratched the back of my neck, studying them, looking for signs of discontent and finding none. “Are you—Kilby, hold on a sec. Get in the car, will ya?”
“Sure thing. I’ll show you where to park. Charlotte’s got a system.” She opened the door, hesitating when she spotted the leather seat. Her bikini was soaked.
“It’s fine. They got that coating on them, water won’t hurt.”
Piper stepped back and waved with both hands, then turned and jogged back to where most of the action took place. Eight automobiles were parked side-by-side, all being worked on by one of the dancers. I saw some of the chairs and tables from inside the club had been lined up near each car, and a few fellas were sitting at them, watching each of the ladies soap up and spray down, Solo cups on the surface of the tables.
Despite the short distance between where we were and where she pointed, Kilby buckled up. “Just there, behind Grady’s truck. That’s the end of the line.”
I shifted in my seat and frowned at her. “You said Charlotte has a system?”
“That’s right.” She turned a cheerful grin my way. “Each person in line can either drive up to the next available dancer’s spot or they can wait until their preferred girl is ready. See Hannah’s line?” Kilby pointed to a row of about three cars behind where Hannah, wearing a gold bikini, was currently working on detailing a motorcycle.
“But . . . how are y’all getting paid?” I scowled at the smiling faces of the dancers and the folks getting their cars washed as I pulled up behind Grady’s truck.
“Charlotte is using her phone to accept credit card payments through an online payment system. I guess the club has an account? Anyway, customers pay her direct. The cost of three minutes of car washing equals one minute of a lap dance, and the guys are tipping us in cash.”
“She—” I choked on my words, then laughed. “She’s charging one-third the rate of a lap dance per car?”
“No. It takes me thirty minutes to wash a car, so it’s the same rate as a ten-minute lap dance—which, if you’re doing the math, is a lot of money. We’ve been busy since we opened. Charlotte told everyone to call their friends to come by now since we’ll be closed tonight. Can’t wash cars in the dark.”
Holy shit. “This is . . . brilliant.”
“Right? And I’ve already made my quota in tips for a Sunday.” Kilby unclicked her seatbelt as I stopped the car, her hand already on the door handle. “Anyone in particular you want washing your car? I have two guys in my lane, but—”
“No. No one needs to wash my car. I can wash my own car.”
She shrugged, chuckling as she opened the door. “Okay, boss. Suit yourself. But go see Charlotte if you change your mind. She can give you an idea of how long the wait will be.”
“Wait—Kilby.”
“Yep?” She turned and bent to peer in the car again.
“What’s in the Solo cups?” Lifting my hand, I pointed to the two guys in her area, sipping from their red cups.
“Oh. That’s lemonade. Charlotte had her momma bring over her kids and they set up a lemonade stand.” Kilby gestured to somewhere behind me and she laughed, shaking her head. “Hank, you should seriously think about hiring some kids as bouncers. Just them being here, nearby, is enough to keep all these guys in line. I’m hearing more pleases and thank-yous from customers than I ever have before.”
Confusion was soon followed by a spike of trepidation, worry making my heart beat double. Charlotte brought her kids? Here?
Kilby shut the door, leaving me to process, and strolled over to the two men sipping their lemonade at her table.
Cutting the engine, I took a moment to stare out my windshield, trying to think through all the ways this creative approach might backfire on my business. We could, technically, host a car wash if we wanted. We weren’t serving alcohol outside, so no problems there. All the ladies were dressed in bathing suits, no lap dances, no one could complain about public indecency or nudity. Apparently, all the dancers were making bank, getting paid for their time, and all the customers looked pleased.
And the presence of four little kids was keeping everyone in line . . .?
Four little kids. I appreciated her bringing her kids by to keep my patrons from getting handsy, but was that wise? What would the Buckleys say?
My attention shifted to the rearview mirror and I inspected the lemonade stand behind me. A folding table with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth, three pitchers of yellowish liquid set to one side and a stack of red Solo cups on the other, and a sign announcing lemonade for sale in two sizes—large and extra-large. Ice, apparently, was extra.
Joshua and Sonya stood in front of the table, smiling up at Grady as he said something. A woman I suspected was Charlotte’s momma held a little boy on her lap where she sat behind the table, and an older girl—older than Joshua, in any case—lifted one of the pitchers to pour liquid into a waiting cup. This one looked like a Buckley rather than like Charlotte. Same curly blond hair, same fair skin, same wide face shape and wee little nose. She must’ve been Charlotte’s oldest.
A knock against my window had me glancing to my left. Beau smiled down at me through the glass for a tick, then reached for and opened my door.
“How you holdin’ up, buddy?” My best friend looked like he wanted to laugh.