The Lights of Tenth Street (53 page)

But no—it could never work with her. Could it? Whatever Sherry had done, she had never been a stripper, never a prostitute. Besides, Ronnie admitted to herself, she liked the money, the acclaim, the glitz and glamour. After being so poor so much of her life, she didn’t want to give that up.

“I don’t suppose,” she said in a flippant voice, “that you could have Jesus and stripping, too?”

“Jesus befriended the prostitutes, you know. But once they met Him, they didn’t want to stay that way. It’s impossible to really meet Jesus and stay the way you are. God will change your heart, and you’ll change your life.”

“That’s what I thought,” Ronnie muttered under her breath. She looked up and stuck out a hand. “Well, thanks for the ride, Sherry. It was very illuminating.”

Sherry returned the handshake. “If I might suggest … can we invite you over for dinner next week sometime, after the Christmas rush? Do you work most nights?”

“Mostly weekends now. I might work a few weeknights since I don’t have classes over the holidays.”

“Well, would you be up for that? Up for a home-cooked meal with us and the Woodwards? A nice family dinner—say, a week from Monday?”

“Uh—okay, I guess.”

“Great. We’ll look forward to having you. And remember, Ronnie … the other offer stands.” She scribbled her name, address, and phone number on a piece of paper and handed it over.

Ronnie took it and escaped the minivan as quickly as she could.

R
onnie barged into the club half an hour early. She still felt ill, but she had to come. She would give Marco a piece of her mind and demand extra pay—a
lot
of extra pay—for the previous night’s debacle. Reluctantly, she had brought her stage clothes with her. Although she might set a slower pace for herself that night, she didn’t want to forgo work entirely. During this holiday season, Sunday night patrons were in a cheery mood and accustomed to throwing away a lot of cash.

She banged into the break room, the kitchen, the dancer’s dressing room—no Marco. She tried his office door, but it was locked and there was no answer to her pounding. He wasn’t on the floor or in one of the private rooms. The club was lazy and slow in the late afternoon, and the few staff on duty didn’t know where to find him.

“I think he’s at a meeting or something.” One cook yawned, lazily kneading a batch of dough. “I guess it must be off-site. I’m sure he’ll be back before dinner starts.”

She turned away, frustrated, and stepped out into the deserted hallway. She heard a door closing and spun around in time to see Marco’s office door close with a click.

She hurried down the hallway, gave the most perfunctory of knocks, and barged into the room, her voice raised.

“Marco, you are such a—”

The room was still darkened and the person in it wasn’t Marco. Maris stood by the desk, hands on her hips, smacking some gum.

“Oh please, finish the sentence.” Getting no response, she cocked an eyebrow. “Need something, honey?”

“Yeah … Marco.” Ronnie made an exasperated noise. “I thought you were him.”

“Sorry to disappoint ya.” The gum smacked as Maris made her way around the desk and began fiddling with Marco’s computer. She held a Palm Pilot in one hand. “I’m just entering something into his schedule for him.”

“How’d you get in? He’s here, then?”

“Nah. At a meeting or something. Should be back soon.” Maris slipped her
Palm Pilot back into her apron. “You want me to tell him something? Or are you working tonight?”

Ronnie swayed from a wave of weariness and leaned against a bookshelf. “I’m supposed to be working. I just don’t know if I can.”

“Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

“I don’t feel so good.”

Maris stood still and stared at her for a long minute. “It happened again, didn’t it?”

Ronnie closed her eyes and nodded.

“When?”

“Last night.”

“At Marco’s private party?”

“Yeah.”

Maris punched a last few buttons on the computer, came around the desk, and took Ronnie’s arm. With surprising gentleness, she guided her out of the office, locking and closing the door behind her.

Ronnie allowed herself to be guided down the hallway and into the break room, where Maris eased her down onto one of the couches. Maris vanished out the door without a word, and less than a minute later returned with a glass of ice water and two unlabeled pills.

“Like aspirin.” She handed them to Ronnie, who obediently swallowed the tablets. “They’ll make you feel better. Here, put your feet up.”

She got a stool to prop up Ronnie’s legs, and then just stood there looking down at her, her expression uncharacteristically soft, concerned.

“Thanks.” Ronnie sipped the water, her head clearing a bit. “Sorry. Again.”

They heard banging out in the hallway, and both women looked toward the door. They heard Tiffany talking to someone outside, swearing like a sailor.

“Where is she?
Where is she?
”

Tiffany swept into the room, spied them, and ran to Ronnie’s side. She fell onto the couch beside her roommate, and took her hand.

“I got your voice mail on my cell phone.” She was breathless and there were tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I’m so sorry!”

She gave her roommate a hug, then pulled back and gazed into Ronnie’s face. “Are you okay?” When Ronnie nodded, Tiffany blinked the tears from her eyes. “I’m going to kill him! I’m going to
kill
Marco for letting you go through that and then dumping you off to take the
train!
That—that—There are no words to describe him. I don’t think any of us can ever trust him again!”

“So what else is new?” Maris said. She looked at her watch, then back at Ronnie. “I’ve got to start my shift. You going to be okay?”

“Yeah.” Ronnie let go of Tiffany’s hand and reached out for Maris’s. “Seriously, thanks for your help.”

“Yeah, well, what else am I gonna do? Just protecting our star performer.” With an ironic nod at Tiffany, she corrected herself. “One of them anyway.” She swept out of the room as quickly as Tiffany had swept in.

Tiffany watched her go. “She’s nicer than I thought.”

“Yeah, I think there’s a heart down there under all that bluster.” Ronnie sagged back against the couch. “I don’t know if I should work tonight.”

“I guess it depends on whether you can handle the pace. Can you slow it down a bit?”

“Guess I should. Won’t make as much money, though.”

Tiffany grinned. “Great idea. Do that.”

Ronnie found herself laughing with genuine mirth at her friend and constant competitor. “You jerk. And here I thought you were all worried about me.”

“I was worried about you. I still am. All these bad things keep happening to
you
. It makes me nervous. Did you get home okay last night?”

“Uh … actually, you’re not going to believe this.”

“What?

“I ran into some … friends from school. They let me crash at their house.”

“Well, thank goodness. I was just crazy with worry when I finally listened to your voice mail this morning. And then I couldn’t reach you.”

“Sorry.” Ronnie maneuvered to the edge of the couch and forced herself to stand, creaking and stretching like an old lady. “If I’m going to dance tonight, I’d better do some warm-ups.”

“Yeah, it looks like it. Well, I’m going to go get ready. You okay, for real?”

“Yeah. I’ll come along in a bit. I’ll wait here until Marco gets back. And then I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”

Marco clenched his teeth, trying with all his might not to fly across the room and punch Tyson in the face. He knew the self-satisfied, Ivy League snob would have him terminated in a second, and then—to preempt Proxy’s anger over losing a star player—trump up a compelling reason why the action had to be taken. Disloyalty, perhaps, or double-dealing. Marco, of course, wouldn’t be around to defend himself.

So he sat and seethed. Tyson had not only refused to admit that doing the girl
was a serious mistake—he had laughed, blowing the episode off as a necessary diversion. After all, he told Marco,
you
recruited them to be used in whatever way we deemed fit.

Tyson had elbowed one of the other men, his eyes still glassy from a hangover, and made a crude joke about the valuable use of that particular girl.

That particular girl
. As the conversation turned to the next topic on the agenda, Marco wondered why he was responding so violently to these attacks on Macy. After all, a month from now any of the girls might be history if they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But he
liked
Macy. Even amid the small team of special girls he had raised up, she stuck out. She looked like the others, danced like the others, had served the same general purpose—but still, she was different. He admitted to himself that he had planned to keep his team—especially Macy—out of harm’s way somehow on Super Bowl Sunday. Giving them just a little warning couldn’t hurt, could it? By the next day, he’d be gone, and they’d be out of a job. But at least they’d be safe. Unlike Tyson, he didn’t view them as disposable.

Disposable
.

As he listened to Tyson coldly predict the massive human impact of the impending action, Marco’s instincts suddenly told him that Tyson would never leave potential witnesses in place. One way or another, he somehow knew, his girls would be eliminated.

He tried not to care, tried to turn his attention back to the matter at hand, but the image of Macy’s face—and Sasha’s, and the other girls’—rose up in his mind. Somehow, he had to find a way to protect them.

“So how’s the distribution going?”

Tyson looked over at Glenn as he asked the question. The man had been sullen ever since his disciplinary action—he had told Marco he blamed that stripper girl for getting him into trouble—but had proved unwilling to relinquish his part in the lucrative action. Tyson smiled to himself. Especially since Glenn
had
to know that bowing out of the deal meant a quick trip to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Glenn cleared his throat, not quite looking Tyson in the eye.

“The distribution is better than expected. As you know, the product has become
the
must-have item on everyone’s Christmas lists. I’m sure you’ve seen the commercials. And despite the economic climate, sales have been brisk since our product requires no fancy adaptation; you just plug it in. We’ve already exceeded our Christmas sales projections, and we still have four more shopping days. After the holiday, of course, we’ll be offering the promotion to convince any latecomers
to buy the thing ‘just in time for the Super Bowl.’ ”

“Any word yet on the market penetration or demographics?” one of the other men asked. “Our clients will be asking.”

Glenn shuffled through some papers and found what he was looking for. “As of last week, more than 75 percent of all relevant retail outlets are carrying the product, and the rest plan to pick it up quickly. Apparently, the early adopters are those you’d expect—upper-middle-class singles and families with more disposable income, who value convenience and enjoy buying new toys. By Christmas, we expect almost 8 percent market penetration—by D-Day, a bit more.”

“Good work!” The questioner sat back, surprised. “That’s higher than expected—truly amazing.”

“Well, it’s a well-designed product that meets a real need.” Glenn did not smile, stuffing his papers back into their folder. “But thank you.”

The other man looked at Tyson. “Our client will be pleased that the targets are so overwhelmingly upper-middle-class. From their point of view, it couldn’t be better.”

Tyson allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. He had, of course, thought of that right up front, even if these yokels hadn’t. “I know.”

As the participants filed out of the meeting, Tyson pulled aside several of the S-Group. He spoke in a low voice and did not look across the room to where Glenn was collecting his folders and preparing to depart.

“So, gentlemen, once this after-Christmas promotion starts, it’ll essentially run on its own, correct?”

“Yes.” Several of the men nodded, then seemed to catch Tyson’s drift. Their eyes gleamed.

Tyson leaned forward and dropped his voice even more. “Am I to assume then, that at that point our friend Glenn becomes no longer necessary?”

Waggoner waited as Glenn brushed past the little huddle, leaving the room without a backward glance. “That’s accurate, chief.”

“Make the plans, then,” Tyson said. “He’s too much of a wild card, too disgruntled to trust once he gets his money. We’ll have to make plans for him—and any other potential witnesses—shortly after the holidays.”

“Hey, honey! I’m home!” Doug pushed his way through the garage door, slamming it shut with his foot. He carried two large festive shopping bags into the kitchen and set them on the island.

Sherry turned from the stove, spatula in hand. “Hmm, what’d you get me?” She wiggled her fingers as if she were going to peek inside the bag.

Doug slapped her hand, eyes twinkling. “None of that! You’ll find out in two days.”

“Don’t tempt me, then!” She put on a mock-pout and waved the messy spatula in his face. “Off with you! Skedaddle! Take your mysterious packages away!”

Doug hastened up the stairs, chuckling to himself, and managed to make it into their room without being accosted by two more sets of curious eyes. He closed the door behind him and dumped the goods on the bed.

A little nightshirt—a
very
little nightshirt—for Sherry. The latest electronic game gizmo for Brandon. A set of books for Genna … socks … perfume … He pawed through the bags and placed each item in its appropriate pile, ready for wrapping.

He pulled out the last item, a fairly heavy box that had taken up half the large bag. He’d gotten the last one on the shelf. Within minutes, three more people had come looking and had had to put their names on a waiting list. He would call this a “family gift” but knew it was really his present to himself. He liked the latest toys and gadgets, and had finally given into the barrage of commercials for the thing. It was a great idea, the perfect thing to have during the relaxed week between Christmas and New Year’s. Lots of games on. And of course, the New Year’s celebration itself.