Star
"Have a seat wherever; he'll be with you in a minute."
This certainly wasn't what she'd had in mind. If anyone had asked her that morning if she would ever work in a place like this, she probably would have slapped them. But after a day full of slights and setbacks, Angela was willing to work anywhere if the pay was good and the work was honest.
There was no questioning the honesty of a place like this. The debauchery was right there in front of you, impossible to ignore. Angela looked away from the stripper's outthrust chest, just inches away from her.
"Aww, she's *shy*!" the stripper yelled out -- to whom, Angela couldn't tell. The stripper had a strong working-class accent from somewhere back East, but Angela couldn't identify it. Satisfied that Angela wasn't here for a dance and therefore freed of the early-afternoon obligation, the stripper bounced away; Angela watched the shameless thing giggle all the way over to the bar, where an open bottle of water sat; she took a long pull from it, then wiped her mouth with her forearm, eyeing Angela hungrily. The naive teen shuddered, remembering that the last female who'd looked at her that way had wanted to kill her. Well, kill Sapphire.
A fat-but-solid-looking man appeared from the back and ambled around the stage to the other side of the club where Angela sat. He stood at the side of the booth where she sat. If she'd wanted to leave, she would have had to scoot all the way around to the other side of the booth. It seemed to be a test of some kind, because he just stood there, expressionless for several seconds.
Finally: "Cherry said you wanted to see me."
"I'm here about the opening?"
He looked her up and down. It was not the usual lecherous gaze of most men; he seemed to be... *grading* her, as if she was the work of an art student.
"Ordinarily I'd tell you to come back Thursday like everybody else, but there's something different about you." His hand went up over his head, spinning his finger in the air. There was a loud Pop! from all around, and then her ears were assaulted by a booming drum and bass beat. "Hop up and let me see how you move," he said, his hand beckoning her to get up.
Angela was shocked. He thought she was here to audition as a stripper!
Well, what was he supposed to think? She was dressed like one... if only she hadn't ripped the sleeve of her blazer trying to squeeze into her car after that jerk in the giant SUV parked next to her...
She knew the satin halter was too small when she'd bought it, but the way Ricky's eyes had bulged, she knew she had to have it anyway. She never meant to wear it in public, and after trying it on at home not at all. Now she was sitting in a strip club with her boobs bulging out the sides and her nipples trying to poke through, and the manager was sizing her up for a position.
Surely Fate had planned this moment, and was now laughing hysterically at her expense.
Before she could speak, the man's hand flipped over, impressing "hold on, don't bite my head off." His head snapped up and around, looking across the club. He made a rapid throat-slashing "cut!" motion. After a moment, he shouted: "Chet! Cut the music! CHET!" He repeated the motion; the music stopped. He turned back to Angela, taking a step back and squatting to be closer to eye level with her.
"You're here about the bookkeeper position. Sorry, I should have known. Girls like you don't dance at a place like Hotties." Angela thought that both a compliment and an insult -- girls like her didn't "dance" *anywhere*.
"Hi, I'm Lou," he said, standing back up and extending his hand, palm up. Angela took it, noting his very gentle squeeze. It seemed a gentlemanly alternative to the rough up-and-down pumper she expected.
"I'm Angela," she replied, smiling as warmly as she could manage on this trying day.
"Nice to meet you, Angela." He moved around to the other side of the booth and sat down. "So, you saw the ad. I forgot it started today."
"Yeah. I didn't expect..."
"...a strip club? First time I needed a bookkeeper, I put the name of the joint in the ad, and all I got were perverts looking to score free lap dances -- or more. This way I probably lose a lot of applicants at the front door, but I need someone who can keep their eyes on the numbers, not the figures."
Angela smiled at the pun. "I thought you'd have another name for it."
"What do you mean?" Then Lou grinned. "Oh, 'strip club.' Nah, shit like 'gentleman's club' and 'adult entertainment' is for uptown joints like Ten. --Excuse the language."
Angela shrugged it off with a smile. "So, um, what's the job?"
"Pretty simple, just keep the books, write up the checks for signature, file the receipts and invoices and stuff. Also check the bartender's inventory -- I've had problems in the past with skimming bottles and selling them on the side. Me or the manager, we handle all the cash. You 21?"
"No, 18."
"I *thought* you looked young. That could be a problem with the inventory. I'll have to check. Honestly never came up before."
"Can I ask what happened to your last bookkeeper?"
"She retired. I think she coulda kept doin' it, but some of the customers were a little rude and I think it finally got to her."
"She was a stripper too?"
"They usually like to be called 'dancers,' Angela. Even in a dump like this." Angela's eyes darted about; the club was old and worn, but clean; she'd honestly expected much worse. "And yeah, she was a dancer. She went back to Kansas to live with her cousin or something." Lou read the look on the girl's face. "And no, you don't have to dance." Angela was visibly relieved. "So, tell me about your bookkeeping experience."
Angela's nerves tightened again. "I don't have any."
"Oh. Accounting in School?"
"No," Angela said, crestfallen.
"I'm sorry, Angela," Lou said, gentle disappointment in his voice. "I need someone with experience."
"I'm a fast learner," she said hopefully.
"I'm sure you are. You seem like a sweet kid, but I can't. If I had the time to teach someone, I could do the job myself." He studied her carefully as she took the news.
"Well, I'm sorry I wasted your time." Angela stood up to leave. Lou met her in the aisle.
"It wasn't a waste. Listen, it was nice meeting you."
"Thank you," Angela said, dipping her head demurely. "I hope you find someone soon."
"Me too. And I'm sorry about before, you know, assuming..."
"That's all right. I'm flattered, really." Even if she hadn't been at the time, she was now.
He started to step aside to let her leave, but stopped short. "Well, then I hope I'm not about to completely undo the sentiment, but I'd be an idiot if I didn't mention it." Angela knew what he was about to suggest, but he held up his hand again; she cooled her heels.
"Look, a girl just starting out is going to have a tough time without any practical experience or education. What'd you study in school?"
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly. I take it this isn't your first interview today. Having any luck?"
Angela looked at her shoes. "No."
"You'll be lucky to find anything but fast food or retail clerk, which ain't gonna pay the bills, and unless I miss my guess, you're not cut out for sales."
"I don't want to be a dancer," Angela headed off his conclusion.
"I know, it's not exactly a great career, and there are sacrifices, but-" Lou could see her attention was drifting. "Six hundred bucks a night." Angela woke up. "No, that's not typical here, but really good dancers make that much and more at the upscale joints. But it got your attention, didn't it? Point is you can make enough to go to school, get some real skills, maybe get a degree. The hours are flexible, too."
Angela found she had to clear her throat. "I just know I couldn't ever do that. Take my clothes off in front of a bunch of strange men." Not as Angela, anyway. "Ricky hasn't even seen..." she trailed off in a blush, realizing she was sharing too much.
"Okay, I'm not here to pressure you. Of course, with that outfit, you're practically halfway there. A bunch of strange men have already imagined you naked, I can tell you that." Angela blushed even more deeply. "Okay, I can see I've offended you, and I'm sorry. But you can't blame me for trying. You're a very beautiful young lady."
Lady -- Angela's eyelashes batted at that. Lou smiled. "All right, well, good luck, and if you ever think you might change your mind, come on back and check it out -- I'll let you in free."
"Thank you," Angela purred. Not that she'd *ever* come back, but it was the first sign of appreciation or respect she'd gotten all day.
Well, that was pleasant, Angela thought. Too bad he wanted someone with experience. Though she admitted it did absolve her of the dilemma of whether to work in a strip club. It seemed just a little too close to things she didn't want to live again. If he'd offered her the job, she didn't know if she could actually do it.
The afternoon shadows were getting long, but it was still warm and bright outside.
Angela threw her head back, enjoying the fresh air as she reached the sidewalk...
...and slammed right into someone.
Angela felt him grab onto her for support; they took a moment to hold each other up.
"Oh, my!"
"Oh, gosh! I'm sorry, mister!"
"That's okay, no harm done..." he wore dark sunglasses and a worn but clean olive canvas jacket. His hand seemed to linger on her arm a little longer than would be acceptable for momentary accidental contact. Angela shrugged it off gently.
"Sorry about that," he apologized. "Didn't mean to freak you out there. I'm not some kind of letch, honest. I'm blind, and for some reason I got a little dizzy..."
"Oh," Angela said, feeling bad, "that's okay. You need any help getting somewhere?"
"No, I can get around by myself."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"
"It's all right." He turned toward her, and suddenly his hand went up to his face... At first Angela wondered why he thought she would be trying to hit him... and then she realized he was shielding his eyes.
"Are you okay?" she asked. His arm lowered slightly, experimentally, but raised up again. After a moment, he turned away, as if it hurt to look at her...
"Mister?" Angela said, walking around to be in front of him, bending down a bit to look up at his glasses; he turned his head away. "What is it?"
"Nothing, nothing. I just... I musta got somethin' in my eye," he said unconvincingly. "I can still feel them, you know."
"You sure you don't need any help? I can go inside the st-... this place here and get you some water or something. Or I'm sure they'll let you use the restroom."
"Yes, I could use a restroom," he said, as if something had just occurred to him.
"Let me help you-"
"No!" he barked. He quickly apologized. "Jeez, I didn't mean to bite yer head off. It's just that I'm used to being independent. Leave a man his pride, will you sweetie?" He still wouldn't "look" at her...
"All right. I'm really sorry, I didn't mean anything by it."
"I know you didn't. And... Thank you." His thanks seemed profound. But she hadn't really done anything...?
"But I didn't really do anything."
"That's not the way I see it." Interesting choice of words...
"Okay, well, I've gotta go."
"Wait," he called after her, still strangely looking away. "Before you go, tell me something. Is there a tall intense-looking guy across the street?"
Tall? Intense looking? Was this guy really blind? She turned and looked. There *was* a man who looked out of place across the street. There was something familiar about him...
"Yeah," she said slowly. "Why?"
Angela caught the man looking her way; he quickly averted his eyes.
"I think I know him. And not in a good way," the blind man added.
"He just looked this way," Angela said, doing a little bit of looking-without-looking herself. Something was bugging her. She'd seen him before somewhere. But where?
"Shit." The blind man spat the word.
"Waitaminute," Angela updated, "he's on his cell."
The blind man froze in place, holding his breath.
"He seems angry. Wait a minute... That's where-!" Angela cut herself off. It was the guy who'd driven the Ferrari into the chop shop that first night!
"What?" the blind man asked nervously. "What's happening?"
Angela watched the man across the street put his phone away, curse for a minute, then get up off the bench and walk briskly up the street.
"He's off the phone, he's leaving, it looks like somebody chewed him out or something, he's in a hurry."
"Do you think he saw me?"
"I don't think so. I think he was looking at me." Angela got an idea. "Hey, I gotta go." And with that, she left the blind man in front of the strip club, and started hustling up the street as fast as she could manage in her skirt and heels.
That's him, I know it!
Something about the way he walked. A certain confidence.
The same confidence she'd seen when a lanky young man slid gracefully out of a jet-black sports car in that warehouse on Saturday night. Like he'd owned it -- the car *and* the warehouse. Of course, if he'd owned the car, he wouldn't have stood there smiling and swigging bottled water as the car was dismantled before his eyes. As to whether he owned the warehouse, that had been her initial impression. But thinking about it now, she wasn't so sure. He didn't move like she imagined a boss would move. There was a casual stalking -- no, *strutting* -- to his movements. This guy didn't carry the weight of a man in charge.
He wasn't the responsible type, not the owner, or the coach of a team.
He was the *star*.
She remembered it now, the way the others in the warehouse had behaved around him. Coming off the bench to crowd around him. Like they worshipped him. Clearing out of his path as he crossed the floor toward a small office, only to be stopped halfway when someone rushed out to hand him something to drink. They deferred to him, like he was somehow inexplicably better than them. And he knew it.
Just as strangers on the sidewalk were subconsciously deferring to him now, subtly clearing out of his path.
It was him all right.
The Ferrari Thief.
Angela had gained some ground on him, though he was still on the other side of the street. She wasn't sure why she was following him -- to see where he was going, obviously, but then what? Well, she'd figure that out when she got there. If nothing else, maybe she could learn something about who he was, maybe where he lived or where he worked...
Angela caught a break when the crosswalk turned in her favor. She crossed toward him as he waited to continue up the street. She stood just a few feet away from him. She tried to be cool, but her heart skipped a beat when she caught him checking her out.
The crosswalk changed. The man hesitated a moment. Shoot! Had he spotted her following him? She would have to go on ahead. She stepped off the curb, slowing her pace a bit. She listened carefully through the noise of the city; he was matching her pace, staying a few steps directly behind her, as she saw from a building window's reflection.
Crap! Is he following me? He's following me. What am I going to do? Does he just recognize me from in front of the strip club? Maybe he's just wondering why I'm going the same way he is. Or maybe he recognizes me from the other night? Angela hoped that wasn't the case... she suddenly felt very foolish and very naked without her sapphires. I knew I should have brought them with me!
She heard a cell phone ring. Another building reflection revealed he was on the phone again. "I'm coming!" he hissed. She heard his pace quicken; he slid around to her right, *licking* his *lips* as he passed her! Then he pressed on, seeming to forget her as he hustled to whatever it was that was so important.
Angela kept a little more distance between them now; she didn't want to be so close that he could grab her if he suddenly turned around and made a move. She tried not to think about how far she'd get in her four-inch pumps before he'd catch her...
Block after block she followed him. Her calves were starting to burn. Why didn't he take a cab? Be glad he didn't, or you couldn't follow him. Maybe that would have been a good thing...
Foot traffic was thinning in this part of town. If he turned around, surely he would notice her. And there wasn't any excuse for a young woman to walk twelve blocks in high heels in the middle of the afternoon...
She studied him as they continued their brisk pace. Maybe six feet tall, maybe a little taller, with narrow shoulders but a tightly-corded musculature visible, even under his baggy track suit. She was surprised he hadn't started running... but the more she watched his gait, the less he seemed to be hurried. Maybe he was just a naturally fast walker.
Suddenly the man took a sharp right around the corner of a building. Angela's heart leaped into her throat. Had he spotted her? Was he waiting around the corner to pounce on her as she walked by? She dared not stop; if he was suspicious, her stopping would be a dead giveaway. She sucked it up and kept walking, turning the corner with a confident-looking stride even as her face tightened up, expecting the worst...
He wasn't waiting to grab her. He was going into the building. Did she dare follow? Well, she couldn't turn up the walk without going inside...
Angela had to give the heavy glass door a mighty tug to get it to open, nearly knocking her off balance. She half-stumbled inside, her eyes quickly adjusting to the difference in light. There was her man by the elevators. He started to turn around...
Crap! Angela suddenly changed course toward the stairwell, realizing too late how stupid it would be for a girl in four-inch heels to take the stairs...
...but he turned back toward the elevator doors, waiting patiently. The doors opened; Angela looked back surreptitiously as she reached the restroom door; he stepped inside the elevator. She quickly doubled back, pressing the elevator button and pretending to wait for it a moment, then, pretending to check a non-existent watch -- not that there was anyone in the lobby to appreciate the performance -- she turned away and walked back toward the main entrance, slowing and turning halfway there, as if contemplating something.
All the while, her eyes never completely left the elevator's floor indicator. She watched the numbers light up one after the other in a steady rhythm, never pausing, all the way up to "P" -- the penthouse.
I wonder who's up there, Angela wondered. She sidled over to the building directory, scanning the "Floor" column for a "P" but finding none. Hmm. Angela briefly considered taking a ride up to see for herself, but thought better of it. I should quit while I'm ahead, she thought, and scurried out of the building. She took quick note of the address before looking for the nearest bus stop. I'm not about to walk twelve blocks back to the strip club. If I had the sapphires it'd be a cinch... now Angela, that's not what they're for. Well, I am fighting crime here...
No, you're just following suspicious and dangerous looking men. Men who work or live in a penthouse in one of the taller buildings in the city. Or know people who do...
I bet my new partner will know who's up there...
A bank sign further up the street showed the time in a backwoods-dentistry lightbulb font: 4:18. 56 degrees.
Four eighteen? Shoot. Angela hoped the time was as wrong as the temperature. If not, she'd missed the only interview that really mattered -- the one Noel had set up for her.
Oh well, it was probably a crummy job anyway.
And I'm through taking handouts from *him*...