I recognize some of the other men. They come here often. Is it a business meeting?
Does Dice deal with firearms too, like Mr. Harry?
I close the door, then wait in the hallway. A stripper carrying a pizza crust leans on the wall next to me while she finishes her slice.
“Funeral Lily,” she says. I’m too distracted to smile at the nickname like usual. The stripper munches on a bite of the crust, then continues: “Have you seen Yellow Tie lately?”
I blink at her. As strippers, some of us are good at remembering names. The rest of us use silly nicknames to differentiate them and call them ‘baby’ to their faces.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I say. “Was he a tourist?”
“Oh, come on. Remember he tried to suck your nipple like he was breastfeeding?”
Thatjogs my memory.
“Him,” I grimace. “Fuck him.”
“He used to come here all the time,” she says. “Anyway, he hasn’t come here in a while, and the last person I remember him dancing with is you.”
“I didn’t steal your regular,” I say.
“He wasn’t my regular; he just bought me drinks. Do you know if the manager banned him from the club, though?” I shake my head. She continues: “Maybe the manager has a crush on you.”
I roll my eyes. We barely even talk. “I doubt it.”
She opens the door to the main floor. “He’s not the first customer to disappear after breaking the rules with you.”
The door closes behind her. She’s right; when a customer touches me and it’s against the club rules, theydon’tcome back. I used to think they were tourists passing through; Las Vegas is full of them. Maybe it’s not that simple.
For a brief second, I consider the idea that those customer disappearances have to do with Piper. I quickly dismiss that idea. Piper is a stripper, not a customer, and her disappearance—this fake move to Cancun—must have something to do with Mr. Harry. And he’s still here.
You can handle the rent now, babe,she had texted.I’m off to Cancun! Wish me luck dancing out here.
That was one week ago.
Back in the dressing room, I pull out my makeup bag to reapply eyeliner when a flower petal tumbles out. This morning, like always, there was a bouquet on the dining room table with the mail. I used to think it was Piper. She was like that—full of flowers and frills—but she’s been gone for a week now.
There has to be an explanation for this.
A stripper dressed in hot pink walks past me.
“Hey,” I say.
She stops. “What’s up?”
“Do you know if Piper ever talked about picking flowers?”
She rolls her eyes. “That girllovedher flowers.”
“Do you know if a customer used to send them to her or something?”
“Honey, you’re her housemate. How would I know?” She blinks. “Could she have a secret lover you don’t know about?”
“She would’ve told me.”
“Huh. You remember Bambi? Her regular used to send her flowers. Maybe he decided Piper is his new favorite.”
My stomach hardens with nerves. Bambi disappeared a while ago, and she gave us an explanation before she closed out her profiles. She was starting a new life with her drug dealer husband, onto bigger and better things. I never believed it though.
