She blew him one final kiss—and he knew it was a kiss with no feelings behind it—before sauntering out of that dimly lit room. Several minutes later, the real Oliver appeared, practically foaming at the mouth with anger. Jeffrey greeted him with an affable grin, a wink, and a reminder to keep the whole affair secret from dear old dad.
That Oliver was the one who pushed him—and that Jeffrey knew it—went unsaid.
Jeffrey was happy to play along with any one of his client’s demands. So long as his insurance covered it, of course. The strip club he had to attend today…well, that was pushing it, wasn’t it?
The club was located just outside Manhattan on the border of Brooklyn and Queens. The residents of the neighborhood lived in the shadow of the boroughs’ more urban cousin alongside rows of ramshackle shops. Back when Jeffrey was in boarding school, his insurance company had issued him a list of bad neighborhoods to avoid while on extended vacations overseas. The list ran through his mind now as he said, “Mr. Gable, are you sure this is the place? I wouldn’t be opposed to something a bit more, well, on the classy side.”
“All the girls in those joints have the same goddamn body type. I like my chicks with a little meat on ’em.”
“Fair’s fair.”
“You sleep with one skinny chick, you’ve slept with them all.”
“Sure.”
Jeffrey’s fake grin stretched wide as he kept up the conversation with his client and seatmate. The club was supposed to serve Moët & Chandon, but the client preferred Bollinger. Time for an upgrade.
He was on the verge of offering his client his pick of the menu when the curtains opened. It wasn’t time for the main show yet. An opener, then? A woman dressed like Marilyn Monroe sauntered onstage and drawled, so slowly Jeffrey wondered if there was something wrong with her mouth, her way through the club’s basic rules. No photos. No videos. No touching the dancers.
Behind her, a figure began to dance. Ropes of large stones—pearl, from the look of them—were cinched around their waist and chest, but beyond that, their only other article of clothing was a pair of hot pants that just barely covered their unmentionables. Their ash-grey hair was swept back in a modish ponytail. An extraordinary stature. No visible breasts. The dancer punctuated “Marilyn’s” monologue with pantomime, now modestly averting their eyes from the flashes of imaginary cameras, now slapping away the phantom hands of rowdy patrons. Every move had the elegance of a choreographed dance.
And Jeffrey recognized this dancer.
Their eyes roved over the room, constantly conscious of the patrons’ attention as they cycled through a series of ever-changing expressions, like a kaleidoscope—flirtatious one moment, frigid the next—before vanishing back behind the curtains at the end of the act.
As the patrons’ applause washed over him, Jeffrey registered a tongue click from his neighbor.
“Why’d they put a man up there?” the client grumbled. “What’s wrong with a girl? Phah. I’m not gonna get up in arms over an opener… Jeff? You there?”
“Hm? Oh, excuse me.”
“You surprised to see a man dancing? Betcha never seen that growing up in your daddy’s house. Hey, is that rumor true? Are you seein’ that environmental activist F—?”
“Some rumors are just rumors, my friend. Oh, would you look at that? The show’s starting.”
“Oh ho!”
Girl after girl came out onstage, but, judging by the underwhelmed reaction, Jeffrey’s client—the only reason Jeffrey was here—didn’t like what he was seeing. Sure, the lack of projection mapping and LEDs made the show feel outdated, but that was where the differences from the high-end clubs ended. All the girls were young and gorgeous. Identical, even. They could have been androids produced from the same factory mold.
“She’s had work done,” the client pointed out. “Her, too. And her.”
Two hours later, the curtain closed on the finale and Jeffrey’s client vanished into the blue. Alarmed, Jeffrey began to panic when his client reappeared as suddenly as he’d left with a paper bag and an absurd request: “Here. Give this to the dancer.”
He brandished the bag in Jeffrey’s face. Chocolates—the leftovers from the candy dishes on all the tables.
Jeffrey was confused. “Which dancer?”
“That beanpole of a man. The one who did the opener, guy with the pearls.”
“Well, this is a surprise. I thought he wasn’t your type.”
“He’s not. That’s why I threw the candies down the toilet first. Man comes down with a stomach bug, he won’t be able to dance. Come on, who comes to a strip club to see a fella?”
Jeffrey was aghast.
“’Course, if you’re too hoity-toity to get your hands dirty…”
“Not at all. This sort of thing’s right up my alley.”
“Good. I always knew you were a man after my own heart.”
“I’ll send photos when I’m done.”
“Good man.”
The client flashed Jeffrey a grin as he climbed into a waiting cab that set off in the direction of Queens. Jeffrey saw him off with a smile of his own and then got to work. The cabs were still running, but this late at night, all the department stores were closed. Instead, he found a kitschy souvenir shop, bought a brand-new box of chocolates, popped over to the florist next door, and added a bundle of roses to his purchases. The toilet-water chocolates were unceremoniously dumped in a bin next to the umbrella stand outside the souvenir shop.
By the time he got back, the club was already closed, but a bundle of cash convinced the bouncer to help him in his time of need. He wove his way through the throng of staffers packing up to go home until he found the dancers’ dressing room. The space was an untidy mess of mirrors and stools—it was clearly a communal room—but, as luck would have it, there was only one figure in a black bathrobe seated before a mirror.
“Is that you, boss?” the dancer said. His voice was exaggerated, theatrical. “Don’t kill the lights yet. My fake lashes are a fright.”
“Sorry, it’s just me.”
The owner of this dramatic voice squeaked and visibly jumped like a character in a manga. Jeffrey had to bite back laughter. Now here, he thought, was someone with acting chops.
“…You,” the dancer repeated.
“Told you I’m persistent.”
The naked light bulbs ringing the mirror scoured all the shadows from “Joanna’s” face as he sat, shocked, in front of the vanity. Jeffrey placed the box of chocolates and the roses on either side of him. “These are for you. Great show tonight.”
“…What are you doing here?”
“Fate led me here.”
Joanna laced his fingers together in a Christian praying gesture, grinned, and said, “Amen to that, brother.” When there was no sarcasm in Joanna’s voice, Jeffrey knew all his prayers had been answered.
“All right,” Joanna said. “Tell me how you found me.”
“Actually, I wasn’t even looking. I just happened to stumble across you. Isn’t it funny how these things happen? Guess it’s a good reminder to never stop giving life a chance.”
“…I’m surprised you remember me so well.”
“What, did you think I’d forget? Did I seem that ungrateful?”
“I took you for the type who’d block out unpleasant memories as soon as he could.”
“Unpleasant? I mean, maybe. But I couldn’t tell you—I don’t have any unpleasant memories. Good ones, on the other hand… Speaking of which, I see you left the Chanel at home tonight.”
“…That wasn’t mine. I was working, and one of the customers left their…cicada shell, shall we say. I admit I got a little carried away and tried it on, but I put it back right where I found it. I didn’t steal it.”
“A cicada shell…?”
“After I saved you, and put you in my bathrobe, I had nothing else to wear. Stroke of luck that I found the Chanel suit. While I’m ’fessing up, I should let you know that bathrobe was, ahem, part of my ‘work uniform.’ Sorry for making you wear something like that. But,” he added, like an excuse, “what else was I to do? I didn’t have any towels, and I wasn’t going to let you catch a cold.”