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“You might be missing something,” Carpenter said.
“That’s what I’m saying. I’ve been missing a lot of things,” Shane said with a glare at Joey. “But that’s done with.”
He turned and went on and then stopped short of the house, hearing the sound of girls giggling and catching the silhouette of a skimpily clad woman in one of the upstairs windows. “Great,” he muttered.
“Bachelorette party,” Carpenter said. “Lisa Livia told me that?—”
“I don’t care,” Shane snapped. He cocked his head, listening to the music coming from the barn.
“Bachelor party,” Carpenter said. “You know, Casey Dean’s target, given that it’s not your uncle here?—”
“Hey,” Joey said in warning, but Carpenter spoke over him.
“—and on the off chance it’s not you, will most likely be at the bachelor party. Although the bachelorette party could be interesting.”
“Focus,” Shane said.
“There’s a shower in the barn in the rear,” Carpenter said. “I could grab some clothes for us from my van. We could get cleaned up.” He sniffed. “You might not be aware of it, but we smell of?—”
“Get the clothes.” Shane turned on his heel and headed down the path for the barn. Carpenter disappeared into the dark, and Joey fell in beside Shane. They trudged up the path, their shoes making squeaking noises as water squished out of them.
Shane reached the barn. The music was overwhelming, and he could see a crowd of men inside split into two distinct groups: a bunch of a-couple-years-out-of-college former frat boys on one side with mugs of beer in their hands acting stupid with several kegs surrounding them and Palmer looking miserable in the middle with a flamingo hat on his head; and a smaller bunch of goombahs from New Jersey seated on the other side, shot glasses in hand, a neat row of bottles stacked on one of their tables. Shane noticed Hammond standing off to one side, looking equally miserable, with neither group.
“This looks like fun,” Joey muttered.
“Downer invited the Don’s men?” Shane shook his head. First the flamingos, now this. He recognized a tall figure seated at the rear of the mobsters. “That’s the consigliere. You know him?”
Joey shook his head. “Nah. It’s been twenty-five years since I seen any of those mutts.”
“Let’s go around and take the back stairs.”
They skirted around the building and climbed up the stairs to the loft apartment. “You use the shower first,” he told Joey. “Carpenter should be here in a minute.”
Joey went into the bathroom while Shane went to the balcony door and cracked it open so he could look down on the barn floor. The frat boys were now chanting something Shane couldn’t make out, all looking in one direction at something underneath the balcony. Shane opened the door further to see, when the lights in the barn went out for a moment, then a spotlight, controlled by Downer—who else?—was trained in the direction everyone had been staring. Shane edged forward and looked down.
Two of the groomsmen appeared below, pushing a large round bed toward the light. They stopped it and then ran to join their buddies. Shane noted that even the goombahs were perking up in anticipation.
The music suddenly changed, going from the loud thumping techno-whatever that had been playing, to what sounded like monks chanting in Latin.
Shane stepped back as Downer drunkenly turned the spotlight, which flickered over a slight figure dressed in black robes at the top of the stairs from the balcony. Downer corrected, bringing it back and fixing the figure in the glare: a woman dressed in a nun’s habit and dress.
“This is going to be interesting,” Carpenter said, coming up behind Shane.
The woman moved down the stairs, head bowed in apparent prayer—I’d be praying, too, with that crowd, Shane thought. She reached the bed, and the music abruptly shifted to Madonna’s “Like a Virgin,” and the nun began to dance, dropping pieces of her habit, which came as a surprise to no one, although the frat boys roared anyway. She took off her wimple to reveal her long blonde hair, and then she dropped her robe to reveal a lace bustier, a black leather miniskirt, and fishnet stockings. Downer yelled, “I always wondered what they wore under there!” and his buddies roared again while Palmer continued to drink and look miserable.
“And that’s the future of America,” Shane said.
“Downer?” Carpenter said. “Surely not.”
The blonde jumped on the bed and unhooked her bustier to reveal perfect breasts, covered with pasties of pink-sequined flamingos. When she bumped, her breasts bumped, and the flamingos’ sparkly heads bobbed. The flamingos were a terrible thing to do to a great pair of breasts, Shane thought, but you really couldn’t help but watch the shiny pink sequins, and after a minute, there was something almost Zen about it. Then she shimmied the miniskirt off her washboard abs and the hoot grew louder: she was wearing garters and a
G-string, also decorated with sequined flamingos so that with every bump and grind, spangled flamingos bounced on her beautiful body. Jesus, Shane thought. That is truly tasteless. Agnes would look great in those flamingos.
And she’d laugh her ass off, too, if he showed up and handed them to her.
“That’s for you, buddy!” Downer said as the stripper began to de-flamingo herself toward her big finish. He slapped Palmer on the back, making him spill his drink.
The goombahs watched, the consigliere in the back row with his arms folded. Evidently the flamingos weren’t impressing them.
