Read Online Peep Show by Joshua Braff - Free Book Online

happy for ya. Tell Ruth that I hope she feels better soon. I wish I was goin’ with ya. Where in Boca exactly?”
    â€œYou didn’t see the magazines yet?”
    â€œDon’t need to, Larry.”
    â€œJust let him show us,” Leo says.
    â€œCome back with Ira. I’m done here.”
    We follow my father back toward the exit down a different aisle. ANAL BEADS, BALLS, BULLETS AND EGGS .
    Larry jogs up to my dad and puts his arm around his shoulder. “Martin, I’m in a little bit of a jam. I got to sell the store. Ruth is very, very sick.”
    â€œI know. I know, Larry. You told me. But the thing is this, ya see—”
    â€œI’ll give it to you for
half
the asking. Half, Martin. A
steal
. But only if you take it off me this week.”
    My father steps out of the store and onto the sidewalk. I can’t tell if he’s considering the offer or trying to get away. He starts down Broadway and without looking back lifts his hand, waves and yells, “I’ll call you!” We follow him.
    It’s not the friendliest area in the world so I’m sort of pleased to be with Leo. We keep passing quivering bodies in doorways and people with bruised, outstretched hands. At one point Leo is approached by a man in a skirt with tennis-ball boobs who’s lifting his white miniskirt to show us his panties. He flickers his fat, brown tongue at us. Leo bumps the guy, who stumbles hard, nearly tasting the curb.
    â€œFuckin’ bitch!” the tranny screams, then reaches into a trash can, winds up his arm, and throws a bottle in a brown paper bag. He hurls it like I throw lefty and it breaks without drama on the sidewalk. Leo runs at him and the guy takes off into the street.
    When we catch up to my dad, he’s talking as if we’ve been with him the whole time.
    â€œâ€˜Keep up with the Joneses,’ Ira says. ‘When in Rome,’ Brandi says. All they really want to do is kill everything beautiful and sensual and bring scumbags in to jack off in my theater with their pants at their ankles. Fuck that!”
    â€œThen don’t buy it,” I say. “Keep it the way you want it. Don’t have a heart attack over this. Right, Leo?”
    Leo doesn’t answer. My father waits and waits and then faces him. “Leo?” he finally says.
    â€œWe need ’em,” he says. “Film peeps and live peeps. If we want to stay open near the strip.”
    â€œBullshit,” my father says.
    â€œWho’s gonna come, boss? There are better spots around the corner. You said it yourself, people buying up leases on the strip for what? Five grand or more for six hundred square feet? If we don’t pull our weight in the spot then—”
    â€œFunny, Leo. I thought you were one of the holdouts. You been talking to Ira? Or Brandi?”
    â€œThe thing is, boss, we’re losing money. Forget Ira for a second. Tokens and the peeps are where it’s at. Burlesque? Burlesque is dead.”
    â€œOh it is? It is, Leo? I can name three spots in Atlantic City that run purely on burlesque.”
    â€œBut this is here. We’re talking about here.”
    My father says nothing for the rest of the walk back to the Imperial. When we get inside, there’s a silver-haired man with an orange tan standing in the lobby with Brandi and two other men. It’s Ira. Ira Saltzman. I saw him the other night but he didn’t see me. He has lips the color of veal for some reason and they’re puffy, like he’s been sucking on a lozenge. He shakes my father’s hand but not Leo’s.
    â€œYou’re interrupting a good story. Where was I?”
    One of the men reminds him. “You said the state . . .”
    â€œThat’s right, it’s the state who says that by
law
a theater presenting a drama or a comedy has to charge sales tax oneach ticket. The loophole for us: musical performances are exempt. At stake is a quarter million