It's The Politics Of Contraband

This party has probably been one of the more crucial events in my involvement in the business to date. I have agonized for two days over the details, and everything was as perfect as I could make it. Now it's 2 AM, last call in all the bars, and it's time for me to do a walk through.
HB helps me down the stairs from our room and into J's living room on the second floor, the former master bedroom. J is several towns away for the night, and there are still five people sacked out on the futon and beanbags watching my cable in goggle-eyed concentration. I pass through and head down the hall to the head of the stairs; as I do, the guest of honor and one of the local girls working the party exit Nick's bedroom. The guest flashes me a huge smile and a 'thumbs up.' The local girl catches my arm, breathes moistly in my ear 'You're the best, baby,' while pressing several damp bills into my hand. Rather than paying her, she gives me a cut of her take for being allowed to work my house. In this case, win-win.
In the living room at the bottom of the stairs is a miniature dance floor. The boys rigged up a very nice sound system for me, and I played the guest's favorites all night long - fortunately for me, he's about my age and has similar taste in music. There are still a few couples swaying drunkenly to the sounds of Ami Stewart singing 'Knock On Wood' but I expect them to make their goodbyes in the next half hour. Through the archway into the dining room I find Duff surveying the wreckage of my buffet.
"This went down better than I could ever have hoped," he tells me, and slips me a discreet roll of cash. "You made out like a bandit, dude." I nod. "You gettin' the door tip, too?"
"Of course." I look in the kitchen, where the girls are frantically doing dishes. Eryka smiles nervously at me. "Me and my crew are splitting down the middle. One for all and all for one, you know."
Duff laughs knowingly. "Whatever, my man. I'm gonna roll out." He looks over my shoulder and sees the guest of honor seating his ball cap securely on his head, bill turned backwards. "Looks like I'll be taking him with me."
I chuckle quietly, and murmur to Duff: "I got his money. You can take him outta here now."
When Duff and the others have made their exit, I call Robbie and Brad to me - they've been working the door as bouncers, collecting head charges and sending riffraff on their way - and tell them it's closing time. Together they follow me through the many rooms of my house. To each person we find that doesn't live here, we say: 'Closing Time,' and they gather their possessions and meager wits and begin shuffling for the door. Nick is out in the driveway directing traffic, overseeing the orderly exodus of cars and trucks as my party disbands. Amber sashays by me with a tray of glasses, fishing in her cleavage to extract a roll of cash that she flashes me with a leer. In the family room, Aaron is wiping down the tables with a damp cloth. I hear feet thundering on the steps, and J ushers one of my guest's entourage rather roughly past me. Time to go home.
When I am sure that everyone has gone, I call everyone together and begin adding up the take: my envelope from Duff, the cover charge from the door, my tips from the girls who worked, Amber's roll, the servers' tips, even the cream I skimmed from the various small deals transacted with invitees. When we have the whole amount in front of us, I begin dividing it up according to the agreed upon formula: twenty percent for the house (me), the cost of food and liquor (me again), and then an even split of what's left, with a share also going to me. Even with my democratic policy of sharing the wealth, I made more than enough for the electric and cable bills.
"That was fun," Amber sighs from the couch as Ricky faithfully kneads her feet.
Aaron echoes her sentiment, and so do the others - with, I note, varying degrees of enthusiasm.
"So who was that guy?" HB asks me, and suddenly everyone's attention is exaggeratedly focused on me.
I look around. What to say? "Let me just put it this way," I spread my hands. "We just set the stage to make a killing in the business without getting our own hands dirty." I wait, and see both looks of incomprehension and nods of agreement. "Enough said?"
Amber stands beside me. "You look tired, dad. You should hit the hay now."
I know she's right, and I will. But first I have to post how very well this went, especially because I invested so very much energy and force of will in making it all go correctly. This will mean money in my pocket, and in my childrens' pockets when I'm gone. This is a triumph greater than I can safely explain. I just had to share it with you all, even as cryptically as this.
Good night, all.

Title lyric from "Smuggler's Blues" by Glenn Frey.