When Layna spotted me empty-handed, sugar-coated twins trailing behind me, she raised her hands to the sky in a what-the-hell gesture. I mimed that we needed to stay quiet until the kids were in the car.
With the Impala doors finally closed, I said, “The cashier was already handing the scissors over. To a cop! He’s taking them in as evidence.”
“Yeesh,” she said. “So what are you gonna do?” She sounded sympathetic and alert, and for a moment I let myself hope she was my very own Olivia Pope, ready to help me fix this shocking problem.
How was I supposed to know what to do? If only my mom was alive. She could have helped me figure this out. Right now nothing seemed real except the cold, which had my teeth chattering again. “Find a babysitter, drive up to Idaho City, dump the body in the woods, and hope for the best?” I said. It didn’t sound great.
“That might work,” Layna said. “I mean, Turner is a common name. Thank god you don’t have a record.”
“Well, I’ve never beenconvictedof anything. But I’ve sure been arrested and fingerprinted.” When I was nineteen and home from college for spring break, the state legislature had voted on a bill to restrict abortion access. I may have thrown a couple eggplants. I may have squirted sunscreen from the balcony of the senate gallery while shouting: “Ejaculate responsibly!”
I’ve always believed comedy could change the world.
But the senators were not amused.
Charges were eventually dropped. But after that I’d kept my comedy out of the Idaho State Capitol.
“That is not good.” Layna leaned against the trunk of my Impala as if there wasn’t a corpse inside.
Freefalling down an elevator shaft would feel exactly like this. Could I be having the worst nightmare ever? A car drove past the dumpster, a little too fast. Layna barely sidestepped the spray, but the very real slush hit the calves of my jeans and soaked through to my skin. Nope. I was definitely awake.
“I need to go to the police,” I said. “Like right now. Right? I can’t remember anything after the bouncer threw that creep out of Huckleberry’s.”
“Hold tight. Let’s think this through. You left with Shade. It was pretty early. Like maybe nine thirty.”
“I left? With Shade?” The lone guy from our pole class with the sassy attitude and luminous skin. “That’s amazing news! I need to talk to him! Did you get his number? I could call him. What’s Shade’s name anyway? His real name?” The cocktail of panic and hope had me talking too fast.
“I’m sorry, babe,” Layna said. “I have no idea.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, trying hard to think clearly. What was my Next Right Thing? “I think before I call the cops, I ought to look in the dead guy’s wallet, maybe even his phone. See if there are any clues.” Hopefully the clues would point to a murderer who was definitively not me.
Layna gave a rapid-fire nod. “Yes, yes. Makes sense. You’ll be in a way better position if there’s another suspect.”
“This is a nightmare,” I groaned. “A literal waking nightmare. I’m never going to a strip club again.”
Six
The Day Before
In the curtained entryway of the strip joint, a massive bearded bald man in a shiny lavender suit perched on a corner stool, immobile as a baseball bat and just as ready to be deployed in case of emergency. A woman in a microscopic minidress made of sequins the size of quarters handed out pads of paper and pencils. “Welcome to Huckleberry’s Art Night,” she cooed.
“Art night?” Layna said.
Salma explained Idaho state law forbids the sale of alcohol anywhere you could see nipples. However, Boise had passed a local ordinance that nudity with serious artistic merit was allowed. So “Art Night” was the workaround.
“You can practice drawing the female form,” the hostess said with a wink. “Twenty bucks each, please.”
I handed over the cash, guilty with the knowledge it should be spent on a jumbo box of Bagel Bites for my kids, not entrance to a low-budget nudie bar. Being furloughed meant everyday expenses would have to go on a credit card straining toward its limit.
Salma Hayek parted the velvet curtain, and we crossed the threshold from the plain, clothed world of Boise to the bare-bottomed, chintzy mise-en-scéne of booty floss and glittery platform shoes. The club was dark as sin with pops of purple LED strip lighting. As my eyes struggled to adjust, I stumbled on a carpeted step lost to the gloom.
Sunday nights probably usually weren’t this packed, but tomorrowwas Presidents’ Day. Heavyset guys in trucker hats sat at the rails, ignoring their art pads. A gaggle of societal rejects—think waxed handlebar mustaches and paisley scarves—clustered at the end of the stage near a bunch of meatheads inUnite the RightT-shirts. The dancer onstage wore a silver thong and angel wings reminiscent of peak Victoria’s Secret.
As we settled in at our little table, I made sure to sit with my back to the stage. I’m not a puritan. But I’d spotted my high school geometry teacher at the rail and would drown a kitten to avoid making eye contact.
The other Pole Virgins cheered at more advanced pole moves while Salma Hayek dropped wisdom like she was Mr.Miyagi and we were her five Karate Kids. I was relieved she was doing most of the talking—since I spent all my free time interacting with kiddos, my main conversational topic was whether or not My Little Ponies actuallylikedto swim in the toilet.
“Having a pole name helps you really lean into your sensual, strong side,” Salma Hayek said. “The persona is a part of you that maybe you can’t flaunt in the rest of your life. I want each of you to try a name on for size. See how it feels.”
