I was twenty-three years old on the day that I died. I had been working as a bouncer at Club Electra after failing to make any meaningful headway with my writing.

The gig wasn't easy, there were plenty of headaches, but the bullshit was worth it for the tips... and the floor show. On any given night, I got to watch five to ten attractive young women demonstrate their many talents on and off the center stage.

There was Devon, a light-skinned black girl with the longest legs I've ever seen and a mouth that could power wash a deck. There was Sally, a muscular Italian chick with big naturals who could catch a wad of twenties between her tits. And there was Ruby Wrinkle, the resident dancer whose burlesque act  harked back to the golden age of Lili St. Cyr and Gypsy Rose. She could do things with a ping pong ball that would put Timo Boll to shame.

They were all gorgeous in their way, but none of them held a candle to my mom. Chloe Porter was a natural beauty and a fierce talent. She had been born in Montreal to a Polish mother and a French-Canadian father. When you consider that combination it's no wonder she was a knockout.

Mom had become the youngest fashion designer in American history, with a level of brand recognition shared only by Louis Vuitton and Versace. But her mesmerizing eyes, which glimmered icy gray and sparkling blue in the right light, could have made her a goddess of the silver screen.

Still, the dancers at Club Electra were easy enough on the eyes and they were good women. I was all too happy to do my part to keep them safe.

For their part, the girls would share the spin money with me in exchange for my keeping a watchful eye on the champagne room. At the end of the night, I would walk them to their cars before taking the till to the bank drop-off.

They were smart girls in the main, smart and attractive ladies with more ambition than just about anyone else I'd ever met. Anyone except Chloe. Guarding the girls was always a pleasure... until it wasn't.

I always thought I was going to get juked in a fight over the till. Every night at close, I would review the exterior surveillance cameras and scan the parking lot for bad actors before hurrying to my truck with the canvas zipper bags full of small bills.

Despite my worst fears, nothing ever popped off. Not until that little worm started working for the family.

His name was Louie Schifone and he was every bit as nasty as his last name would suggest. He was a short, nasally kid with biceps that said he was overcompensating. He smelled so bad the girls took to calling him Louie Smegma behind his back.

Club Electra was co-owned by the two biggest crime families on the East coast. For whatever reason, the Jersey family insisted the club hire their little goonie to be the club's new bookkeeper.

Louie might have been a fine bookie, but he wasn't a tough guy. Of course, that didn't stop him from acting hard in front of the girls. He wasn't working there more than two weeks when he started ordering me around, telling me to mop the champagne room.

“That's above my pay grade,” I told him.

“Did you hear what I just said?” he asked.

“I heard you,” I said, “but I don't work for you. I work for the club.”

Apparently, he didn't like that too much. Next thing I know, I'm getting a call from an associate of the club manager, telling me to show up to this diner in Long Island City for a sit-down.

If you've seen even one Scorsese movie, you probably figure this is where I bite it, with two in the back of my head, but no. It didn't work like that.

I went to the diner expecting to get clipped, but instead I was sat in a booth with the heads of the two families and their consiglieri, and on God, these gangsters wanted me to talk about my feelings. It was like someone had dressed up a support group meeting in velour jumpsuits and wingtip shoes.

I expressed my grievance about being bossed around by some weasely punk and I was told that my feelings were valid. But then they told me he represented the family and that I should do as he says if I want to keep them happy. So I quit.

Two weeks went by without incident. Then I got a call from one of the girls. Lucy was a mousy thing, sweeter than sweet tea, but she had a body on her and Louie Smegma liked what he saw a little too much.

She told me he'd been a problem since he started—always skeeving the girls out by taking a front row seat beside the rail. She said he'd gotten handsy with her and she was afraid he might try something worse now that she, too, had quit her job.