The Magpie's nest

Chapter 2

It was Friday, which meant the busiest night of the week. Alfie enjoyed the build up to the arrival of the punters, the stock take of the bar, the welfare check of the women in the dressing rooms, and then the visual of the practice they performed on the dance floor and stages. He liked that especially. Alfie couldn't put a finger on his admiration for dancing, if he ever tried himself he would end up arse over tit crumpled in a heap on the fucking floorboards, but watching ladies do it had always enticed him. After the war, recreation became withdrawn, people were brow beaten and solemn and he was proud that he had injected his small corner of London with a sense of pleasure again, even if it was mostly for the men. He had dreams of opening a more conventional club eventually, one where couples could dance, and people could meet their future spouse. One where ladies could meet up with their friends and colleagues and drink gin and get loose. He'd enjoy that too.

"Alfie" a meek voice came from behind the bar he had propped a stool up against, whilst he got lost in his head. It was Ollie, his apprentice, a tall Jewish man with a mop of brown curls on his head and a spattering of freckles across his proud nose. He was from a good family. Half useless, but a decent chap with promise well hidden.
"What?" He answered with agitation, turning to look at him, he'd been dreaming about his future club and loose ladies, and didn't appreciate being brought back to earth on any account.

"The white rum is low, do you want Abe to get the crates from the bakery or is there more in the cellar?" Ollie asked, a bar towel over his shoulder and his shirt sleeves rolled up. In the thick of a job as a usual. Not noticing Alfie's annoyance, or ignoring it, again as usual.

"Fuck should I know? if we're low it's a problem and someone thinks for themselves and solves the problem, don't they Ollie? Cos I don't need to be wasting my head on stock supplies, it's a heavy night with the Regan lot coming in and I've got shit to attend to, the bar is what i fucking pay you for mate", Alfie huffed, getting down from the stool and adjusting his long coat.
He shook his head as he bounded across the floor using his stick, the Sciatica wasn't half bad this week and he probably didn't need the thing, he figured as he realised his agitation with Ollie didn't lie with the lad at his beckoning, and more with the solid fact he hadn't emptied his nut sack in a week and a half. He was horny and high on his nerves and he needed to solve that problem himself. It wasn't to be solved here tonight, he didn't sleep with staff, not ever, the lines were never blurred and so the girls down in the den getting ready were off limits and it probably wasn't wise to go down there and watch them knee deep in painting rouge on their lips and dabbing sparkly powder across their cleavage when he felt like a damn mare in his seed-sowing prime. But of course that's where his feet were taking him, behind the beaded curtain down to the ladies dressing rooms with the intention of a welfare check.
Alfie employed around 15-20 women at one time. The punters liked change as much as he did and so he regularly interviewed more ladies from out of town and swapped them about on different weekends. If there was one thing he was proud of it was his standards, employing ladies with fair faces and generous bosoms, ones with little personal baggage and exquisite moves on the floor. Most didn't have children, or husbands with vengeance in mind, he kept things simple, less headache that way. He made sure that he was solely in charge of the women's welfare and personally made sure they were happy before dancing, paid decently and left alone after work hours by the men he filled the club with. If a woman was uncomfortable, Winston Churchill himself would be removed by his ear lug and thrown out the back door on his fat arse. The only rule for the girls he employed, the only thing he wanted no mention of in his club was Jewish women. They were fully off the fucking menu. No man would disrespect his race and eye-fuck a Jewish woman whilst he still had blood pumping towards his ice cold heart, it just wouldn't happen. His community held him in high regard, despite his illegal livelihood because he kept them afloat. He generously gave to the poor, and to the synagogue, the Raabi having a bigger fortune than the Lord Mayor of London due to Alfies interference. His people would never suffer like his mother did, they would never feel poverty and discrimination whilst he roamed the cobbles and the practice of respectable women who remained safe at home with their families remained steadfast. Jewish women, off limits, even for him. He would never tarnish them.
He'd laid next to more Christian women than he had ever employed, all eager, participating ladies who probably wanted more from him than the one night of hurried passion he had on offer, but he had never made love to a Jewish woman. They were goddesses, and he wasn't nearly pure enough to touch a hair on their heads. He had sisters, and nieces and if anyone of those were corrupted by a chancer he'd nail the culprit to a duckboard.