Notice
Angela woke up. Mostly.
Damn, who was hammering at this hour?
She opened the blinds and was nearly blasted back on her butt by the bright sunlight.
What time is it?
Bleary eyes registered one-thirty. That couldn't be right, could it?
She'd worked closing before and not slept this late.
The dizziness of sudden rising caught up to her; she nearly fell over, grabbing the corner bedpost.
"Would you quit that hammering?!" she shouted to no one... and then realized from the sonic booming of her own voice that the hammering was happening *inside* her head.
And then she heard drilling.
No, not drilling. The phone. She staggered out to the living room, half-laying, half-falling to the couch, reaching around the arm to the floor, groping for the receiver.
Mmm, the couch is comfy. I should rest here a minute. I'm so tired. I need a nap.
The drilling again. Phone ringing. Right. Get the phone.
"Hello?"
"Hi." Dino Sinclair. The jerk.
The *cute* jerk.
The *gorgeous* expert lover jerk.
She'd had a dream about him last night... Mmm. He'd come to see her in the school play or something.
Angela closed her eyes and remembered, falling back under its sweet spell to escape the hammering and the drilling and the bright light...
Yeah, Dino came to see her in the school play. No, he'd come to see someone else; Angela was just an usher. But then the star of the show broke her leg, and her drama teacher asked *her* to take the girl's place. She knew all the lines, but there was this scene where she had to be naked. Wasn't that why she hadn't tried out for the part in the first place? No, she did try out, and the drama teacher -- Dino was the drama teacher -- said she was good, but then he gave the part to someone else. Why? Didn't he like her? Wasn't she pretty enough? But then the girl he did pick got hurt, and the show must go on... She was a little scared, but through the lights she saw how happy the crowd was. They just wanted a good show. So she let go. It wasn't her that was naked, it was the character. She was an actress; her body was just a vessel, right? She let go, and it was *wonderful*. Everyone cheered. When it was over, they threw confetti. And the big director from Broadway, Dino Sinclair, he was there, and he came up to her after the show, and gave her his card, and he said he had a part for her... Wow, Dino Sinclair wanted *her*, Angela! And then he *called* her. "Angela, I have a role for you..."
"Angela? Are you there?"
"Hmmm?"
"I have a big roll of cash here with your name on it."
"What?" Angela's eyes suddenly opened. It wasn't a dream -- Dino really was calling her. Something about money? Was it payday? God, why did her whole body feel like dried-out rubber bands?
"I said, I have a big roll of cash here with your name on it."
Angela felt a sudden shrinking in parts of her abdomen that weren't supposed to shrink. Was it something she ate?
At the same time, a viscous memory seeped into the cotton of her brain, pulling it tight around a terrifying thought.
Oh, gawd, I'm gonna throw up.
"Be right back," she said as she dropped the phone.
Limbs moved quickly if imprecisely, sending the slender young woman bounding sickly across the apartment toward the bathroom. She got to the bedroom door before it occurred to her that the kitchen sink would have been closer, but she was already starting to double over. One hand steadied her past the bedpost as the other caught what turned out to be just a cough. But the burn in the back of her throat said the next heave wouldn't be dry.
She threw herself at the toilet, just getting the lid up past her chin before the first big convulsion twisted her like a toothpaste tube and hot vile wet burning scarred mouth, teeth, tongue, and lips.
It took a moment before she could breathe; the smell singed her nostrils.
It gave her time to think about last night.
No no no no no no I didn't... I didn't...
Dino said he had a big roll of cash with my name on it.
I did. It wasn't a dream. I danced. I... stripped.
And I liked it.
Her insides knotted again, involuntarily pulling her against the cold porcelain as more fiery ejaculate sprayed the bowl.
Angela remembered the last thing she ate.
Roach coach chili dog. Yuck.
She also remembered what she'd done before the hot dog.
Strutting up and down the stage.
Shrugging off her jacket. Feeling the air on her naked chest.
Twisting and churning. Bending and kneeling.
Stripping her skirt. Waving it like a flag.
Kicking and sliding. Crawling and rolling.
The slack-jawed, the tight-lipped, the big-grinned, the rail-grippers, the lip-lickers.
The eyes, like a thousand feathers brushing over every inch of her, every curve, every crevice.
The coarse feel of money under the waistband of her thong.
The money. She'd just left it there on stage. One of the other girls had to go out and collect it for her, before too much of it got pulled back off stage and stuffed back into tented pants. And then she'd still left it in the dressing room.
How the heck could she have been so careless? Leaving all that money -- a couple hundred ones, she guessed, as well as some fives and even a ten or two -- just sitting there on the dressing room counter.
She knew how. It didn't look real. A roll like that didn't feel like money. It was cash register paper, or industrial toilet paper, or masking tape.
And she'd been in a weird fog since leaving the stage. Moments burned through crystal clear -- her head buzzing, her skin hot to the touch, hands helping her dress; Sasha making her drink a whole bottle of water; primping in the mirror; the steam coming off the chili dog in the cool night air; the guy at the end of the stage who looked like Noel Aquino -- but she could only guess at putting together a sequence of events.
Somehow she'd gotten home. Taxi? If she'd left the money at the club, how'd she pay for it? No, someone gave her a ride home. Someone who kept stealing glances at her in the rear-view mirror, until the passenger in the front seat caught him and jabbed him rudely in the ribs. She'd kissed... the driver or the passenger? well, someone. On the lips. Onion breath and all. She hoped she hadn't gotten anyone in trouble.
And she remembered what she'd done after. Thrashing on the bed, hand ablur between her legs, the cool-blue glow casting jittery shadows as her limbs jerked and shuddered.
Her body curled again, but there was nothing left to expel.
At least, nothing so easily purged as a bad meal.
Angela sat on the cold linoleum floor, one arm clutching round the toilet bowl like it was a close friend, the other joining the limp heap of legs beside her. For a while she just listened to herself breathe, pacing her breaths to half her heartbeat, utterly exhausted and yet feeling a trembling energy just beneath the surface. The Anxiousness. She felt it creep into her breathing, little jagged steps to her deep inhales and exhales. No. She couldn't let it catch her here. She had to get up. Move. Do something.
She stood unsteadily, hands gripping the sides of the sink.
Her mouth was parched. And she felt... sticky. Body makeup. She should have showered but didn't.
Angela stumbled to the bathroom, filling and draining a water glass.
The glass shook beneath the faucet as she refilled it. Trembling fingers found the bottle of ameeto-... acetomeef-... acetomenopo-... Tylenol that wasn't really Tylenol anymore. She thanked whoever decided drugs could be sold without a child-safety cap as a sparkling-purple pill landed in her cupped shivering palm. The anxiety was coming up fast and hard, but she steeled herself with the knowledge that the pill she was swallowing would smack it down just as hard and almost as fast.
As the water glass came back down, Angela caught sight of something.
Who was the wicked witch in the window?
Oh, mirror. That's me.
The sight of herself jolted the significance of last night's activity through her brain again.
Woah. I danced in front of a crowd of strangers last night.
*Naked*.
Angela looked down at laddered stockings below a funky old T-shirt twisted sideways on her torso.
Well, half-naked.
How could anyone have wanted to see the zombie in the mirror naked?
And thrown cash at her for the privilege?
Something Zora once said interrupted the hammers in her head. "It's all about presentation."
Damn. All that makeup. Why didn't I clean up last night?
Stumbling back into the bedroom looking for a towel among the piles of clothes, Angela stepped on something sharp.
"Ow!"
Her tiara. What was it doing next to the bed?
Oh, right. She'd... *finished* last night. That's why she hadn't showered.
She looked around the room. She hadn't done a lot of things lately. Her mom would have said it looked like a bomb had gone off.
She'd done nothing but sit around, sleep, or go to work for the last several days. Trying so hard not to use up her Perfectua.
Well, now that she was dancing, maybe she should try a little less hard to save pills, and try a little harder to tidy up.
What would happen if Dino came over?
Like that's gonna happen.
Don't you remember last night?
I remember. What a jerk.
That's a good thing. It'll make it easier to stay focused on the mission.
It'll make it harder to be convincing.
You sound like you'd rather him be a nice guy. Don't get any ideas; it can't work between you two.
Of course not. He's a jerk.
He's also cute.
Shut up. It's not like he's coming over any time soon.
You underestimate your feminine wiles. Or you overestimate his chivalry.
We'll see.
Angela finally found a towel. Clean, or dirty? Well, it didn't really smell, so it'd do.
Angela resolved to clean up her place just as soon as she cleaned up herself.
And as soon as the hammering stopped...
And the buzz-buzz-buzzing...
Oh, shoot. The phone. Dino was on the phone.
The off-the-hook sound seemed loud enough to peel the paint. She cradled the handset. It rang almost immediately, sending a jolt through Angela's already-racing heart. She realized she was breathing fast. A hundred images vied for her attention. She didn't really want to talk to Dino right now, but it might keep her focused until the Perfectua kicked in.
"Hi."
"Hi again. You okay?"
"Yeah."
"Did I wake you?"
"Mostly."
"Sorry."
"I'll get over it."
"You sound... winded."
She was breathing into the phone too hard. "Sorry. I was just..." He probably didn't want to hear that she was just un-eating a chili dog. "I was just in the bathroom." Like that was any better.
"Oh. You sure?"
What kind of question was that? "Um, yeah."
"Okay. I thought maybe you were, um, having, um..."
"What?"
"I thought maybe you were having an attack."
For someone who'd been acting like she'd fallen off the face of the Earth lately, he sounded almost concerned.
"I am. But it's okay. It's a small one. I'm just waiting." Her candor surprised her as much as it did him.
"Oh." Dino was clearly in unfamiliar territory. But he seemed to take his cues from her, staying calm. "Okay. You want me to call back later?"
"No. Keep talking. Hearing your voice helps me, until the meds kick in."
"Um, okay." Suddenly, when it didn't matter what he said, when all she wanted was a stream of calming sound, he had trouble speaking. "Um, so... last night... um-- is it okay to mention about...? Um... I mean, are you...?"
Angela remembered instants like flash photography, a strobed collage.
A fantasy realized.
Whose fantasy?
Dino Sinclair's. After all, he'd called her the next morning. Afternoon. Whatever.
Who else's?
Every guy she'd ever known. Except maybe Ricky.
What about you? Was it your fantasy too?
The thought was like a needle-prick to her brain -- intense feeling, but too tiny to effect much recoil.
"Keep talking."
"Um, okay. Oh, right. You left your money from last night. In my office. I mean, you didn't leave it *in* my office, but that's where it is now. Sasha put it there. So it wouldn't get taken. You can pick it up when you come in."
"Okay."
Dino was silent almost long enough for Angela to ask him to keep talking again, then: "So, um... thanks for last night."
Thanks?
"You got us out of a fix last night."
Oh.
"Though I got the impression it was a set-up."
Uh-oh.
"Sasha said Monique made a bunch of phone calls on her break, and then suddenly the club was full of horny guys -- and not all the usual clientele."
"Oh."
"And I heard a lot of the guys who showed up were told we had a new girl."
"Oh."
"Do you know why Monique would do something like that?"
"No." Angela was half playing dumb, half just listening to the rhythm of her body and mind. Thoughts becoming more ordered. Heartbeat slowing. Breaths coming and going smoothly. Limbs becoming more liquid. Hands steadying. Tension becoming attention.
"And then you..."
"Danced." The memory of the night before became more filmlike, a narrative she could follow. She remembered the crowd. Sasha's frustration. Her bold offer. The girls getting her prepped. The one minute and eleven seconds she spent waiting for Monique to give her the cue to take the stage. The moment she burst onto the stage and the whole world seemed to stand up and take notice. Being the center of everyone's attention, and for the first time in her life, reveling in it. Pointing right at Dino Sinclair and mouthing the words, "I'm a Slave 4 U." Feeling absolute certainty that by the end of the song, the reverse would be true. Seeing him standing there at the edge of the stage when she'd finished. Steeping herself in that moment of triumph for the rest of the night.
That she'd also taken off most of her clothes seemed insignificant now.
"I wish you hadn't done that, Angela. It... complicates things."
Shoot. So it was all for nothing.
No, that wasn't true. His tone of voice wasn't dismissal. It was... resignation. He knew it wasn't up to him anymore.
He was hers for the taking.
Woah, Angela. Remember the mission.
I remember it. He's a criminal. A very sophisticated criminal.
And he doesn't stand a chance against me.
"I know what I'm doing. I saw an opportunity, and I took it."
Dino Sinclair coughed and cleared his throat. "Well, um... what did you think?" Said in a walking-on-eggshells voice.
"I liked it." Did I just say that? I guess I did. And it's true.
"Well that's good." Dino sounded like he was trying to get comfortable with it. And failing. "Would you do it again?"
Was he asking her to work as a dancer at Ten? Angela's answer was cagey. "Maybe."
Dino practically stuttered. "Tonight?"
Well! This was almost too good to be true. Worth waking up with a head full of rocks. Almost worth showing her breasts to a room full of strangers.
Angela thought about the shocked look that would be on Miguel's face when she told him.
And the shocked look that would be on Dino's face when he found out she was the one who put him behind bars.
*Definitely* worth it.
Her answer to Dino's question was the vocal equivalent of a swagger. "I guess you didn't get enough last night?"
"Ahem. It's not for me. I mean, it is for me, but... Well, a friend is in town for a couple of days, and he saw your performance last night. He wants to see more."
Certain words reverberated in Angela's Perfectua-cleared head. A "friend." Her "performance."
She was determined to play her role to the hilt -- and determined to enjoy doing it. "Well, I don't think it's legal to show him more." Rule Number One: Thong Stays On. Though with a private dance in the back, even if she couldn't get any more naked she could certainly get *closer*...
Then it occurred to her that this "friend" might want not just be talking about a dance.
No, Dino couldn't mean that. Dancers didn't do that. Did they?
"Cute. I meant he wants to see you dance again before he leaves town tomorrow."
"Oh." Angela's confidence was restored. Dancing she could definitely handle. Especially if Dino thought she was doing him a favor. Because that meant he owed her one. Angela liked the idea of Dino being in her debt, especially without having to do anything... "more." It was proof of her power over him.
"So, will you? Work tonight?"
"The owner of the most prestigous gentleman's club in the city is asking *me* if I'll dance for him." Careful, Angela. Don't push it too far.
"I didn't even want you to do it the first time, but yeah, I need you."
Ouch. That stung a little. But really, he was just in denial. Angela remembered the way he'd looked at her last night... this wasn't just business.
"Okay. For you."
"Great. Kostya will be pleased."
Kostya? Dino's boss? Why would he care... oh. The "friend." Was that all Dino did -- show Moroshkin's business associates a good time? No, he did more than that. Why else would he have been at the chop shop that night?
"So, Angela, um... are you okay now?"
Oh, right. Her "problem." "Yeah, I'm good." She was good all right.
"All right. Listen, I gotta go. Duty calls. Good luck tonight." She felt him hesitate; she waited, giving him the opportunity to finish. "Maybe I'll see you, after."
"Yeah. Bye."
Angela tried not to sound like she hung up in a hurry, but she did. She'd already known she had him, but to hear him practically admit it... her heart raced with the thrill of the hunt. But what would she do when she caught her prey?
She was supposed to tie him to the crime. What did that mean, exactly? Get some evidence that proved he was involved. Get him to talk. Get him pumped up, get him to brag. He didn't seem like the bragging type. Still, he was a proud man. And he was a *man*. He'd melt under her sultry gaze. And if that wasn't enough, she'd give him a private dance... and whisper in his ear...
She'd tell him how danger turned her on. She'd tell him how she found him more attractive when she learned who his boss was and what he did. She'd ask him to tell her about his achievements -- the club, sure, but what else? Surely he'd done other things. Surely he was doing other things. *She* was doing other things. There was more to *her* than he'd seen at first. Was there more to him? He could tell her. She trusted his discretion; he could trust hers.
Yeah. She'd hold him in the palm of her hand. And then she'd squeeze, ever so gently. And he'd spill it all.
Hmmm...! Angela was starting to get worked up for real...
But what if he wasn't so easily manipulated? Despite her feeling of empowerment, Angela remembered the last (and so far only) time they'd been together. She'd been breathless. What if her charms weren't enough to get his lips loosened?
Well, there was always the sapphires. She still didn't exactly get how, but they seemed to have a compelling effect when she used them... *that* way...
No, that's not what they're for. Remember what happened last time? Get a hold of yourself. You're acting like he was the one who danced for you. Maybe you enjoyed it a little *too* much. Maybe you're not just in it to bust him. Maybe you're in it to nail him.
Angela shook her head clear. Such thoughts were absurd. Sure, he was a good-looking guy, and sure, he was good in the sack -- no, *great* in the sack -- but no matter what she may have done last night, she wasn't in it for the sex. There was a big difference between showing off and... getting off. She wasn't like that. She was a professional. She was doing this because she had to, not because she enjoyed it.
Angela had to watch herself. Maybe the Perfectua was getting to her. She was thankful for the way it built her confidence and helped her see that the bad things behind her were just that -- *behind* her -- and she was thankful for the way it helped her keep a positive, enthusiastic mindset, but... there were certain things she didn't need to be enthusiastic about.
Like getting together with Dino Sinclair.
Or working undercover according to Detective Rubio's debasing instructions.
Angela dismissed such doubts as she stepped into the shower, feeling the warm water on her skin. She was fine. She was in control.
It took a hand towel converted to washcloth duty to remove the mixture of makeup and sweat, suddenly thick like pudding-skin. But she did get it all off, and she felt clean.
As she toweled off, she caught her reflection in the mirror. She saw a young woman brimming with confidence.
The waitress, the exotic dancer, the seductress, the femme fatale. Just parts to play.
Beneath it all, she would still be the same Angela Barrett.