Tony is doubtful

Tony looks at you, shaking his head, slumping down in a chair as he looks up at you.

"Look sweetheart, let me do you a favour. I'll explain how this business works. The girls, they don't get paid, see. They're independent contractors, the term is. They make their money on tips, the guys throw money up on the stage, stick bills in their panties, whatever. I make mine off the cover and the drinks, which are overpriced, I'll admit, considering the paint we serve here, but fair is fair, no one comes here for the fine bartending. Good girl, working hard, working the crowd and her goodies, could make forty, fifty a set. Three, four sets a night, maybe two bills. Now the real money comes after she's off stage, mingles around, y'know. What'd ya call, solicits a lap dance from a guy. Deal is fifty bucks a song for a lap dance, hundred for three songs. I touch half, the girl gets the rest, plus any tips. From there, we got VIP rooms. Get a guy back there, dance for him, do whatever you want, I don't care. I get a picture of Benjamin for every half hour you're back there, whatever else you get is yours." He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his suit and lights one, looking at you through the smoke. "Problem is, if you don't get the customers worked up when you're up there dancing for tips, no one's wanting a lap dance, and my drink sales go to shit. Word gets out that I got some uptight college girl up here, my customers go somewhere else. That's no good for me. Fact is, sweetheart, I don't think you're cut out for the work."