Time was Mac entered Billy's Topless like a moody conqueror. He would greet the bouncer, bartender and dancers with a wave, pull up a table ringside, and call for a full-throated bottle of Hennessey. He was having an affair with Tigress, a favorite dancer, and had been given the run of the house.

Pause. Fast forward 14 years: past his marriage/divorce, Tigress; past his marriage/divorce, Suzette; and you'd find him in his present, much reduced, nearly love-starved state.

This night he'd swept into the club on the back of a bitter December wind that shook the beaded curtain at the entrance to the VIP rooms and stirred a couple of cocktail napkins on the bar.

It was late Monday night and not only were there few patrons, but few fixtures. The place was being renovated. One side of the runway was ripped up; the mirror behind the stage half dismantled; and five or six tables in a corner draped with draw cloths because the ceiling above them was being plastered.

Still, the show must go on, and, as luck would have it, the very woman he'd come to see, Femy, a Filipina dancer, was doing her thing centerstage. She was already topless, swaying to a love song. Each bass thump got the shot-put of her tiny rump.

Mac bought a drink at the bar to avoid the carrying charge you got when you ordered from a waitress, then piloted his beer to a table. Femy alighted from the silver pole she'd been shimmying around and gave Mac a wink as she sashayed over to a fat guy who was waggling a creased dollar her way. She stuck two fingers under the waistband of her red panties, pulling it out so he could shove the money into her crotch. The joker made sure his knuckles slowly rubbed up her pubes as he slid his hand out.

She danced back, keeping her hand in her panties and began to strip them, turning so her ass would be the first thing exposed. Mac looked on with wolfish admiration. She had a compact body, stout legs, and petite, pouty breasts, ending in large, creosote nipples. When he could take his eyes off her shape, he noticed her highly made-up face with its penciled-in eyes, lacquered eyelashes, and a mouth red as persimmons. A shock of straight black hair ran down her back in a muddy, ebony column.

When the song ended, she collected her negligible clothes to make way for the next girl. She carefully retrieved the bills that lay crumpled on the stage like origami swans. Bouncing from the platform, robing, and nodding offhandedly to Mac, Femy started toward the bar. Mac caught her wrist and asked her to sit down for a moment. She did so ruefully, though with a big smile.