Some ladies in the front row let out a volley of “Woo”s.
“I see you, Woo Girls!” I said, pointing at them, and they “Woo”ed even louder. “I learned recently that if you’re a straight gal ‘Woo’ing in a strip club, it’s poor form to tell the strippers you respect them too much to hire them for a lap dance. In a strip club, you don’t show respect by being wary of transactional demonstrations of sexuality. You show respect by tipping like a coked-up stockbroker.”
I spotted Nate at the edge of the crowd. He wasn’t looking at me. Rationally, I knew he was scanning for dangers, but still I felt the vise grip of disappointment at having lost his attention. Then he glanced up and smiled. His adoring eyes said:I see you up there, doing your thing. I smiled back.
But I couldn’t get distracted. Not now.
“Now I’m just a nascent pole hobbyist,” I said. “But I imagine being a stripper is a lot like being a mom. You have to set boundaries a million times a day. We moms are all like: ‘No, you can’t have another popsicle.No, you can’t stay up past your bedtime. Please stop putting your hand down your pants.’ And strippers are like: ‘No, you can’t touch me. No, you can’t touch yourself. Please stop putting your hand down your pants.’”
One woman in the front row was crying she was laughing so hard. But on the far side of the park, some sort of commotion had started to brew. I heard shouts and saw three officers hustling toward the Kids’ Tent. Could our plan be working? Could the cops be grabbing Ralphie and Errol?
In an effort to keep the crowd’s attention, I pulled the mic from the stand and leaned forward as if to impart a secret. “I’m going to level with you about the actual reason I’d never be a stripper—other than the fact that I can’t pole dance for shit and would need to work at a niche club catering to guys horny for Gen X pheromones.”
I paused to let the laughter die down.
“The reason I could never be a stripper is I don’t have the other necessary skills. Those baddies have to be excellent at sales. And most important, they have to have the ability to act like male sexuality isn’t disgusting ninety-five percent of the time—and that’s one talent I do not have.”
The ruckus over by the Kids’ Tent seemed to be escalating. A murmur rippled through the park. I had the panicky sense I was losing my audience. But underneath it lurched hope—that law enforcement had found Ralphie and Errol, that they were arresting them right now, that this nightmarish period of my life was coming to a close.
“But I don’tnotstrip because I don’t want to sell my body. I already do that. In return for a paycheck and bennies for me and my kids, I spend forty hours a week slinging meatloaf, refilling ketchup, and doing the schedule in the Capitol Grill cafeteria.” I pointed at the capitol itself, even though the Capitol Grill was actually in the tunnels underground. “That’show I sell my body.”
Barely half the crowd laughed. The rest had turned to see whatwas going on at the far side of the park, where crying children with half-painted faces came pouring out of the Kids’ Tent. I heard shouts of “Fire!” and “My kids!” Streams of capitol police, Boise PD, and ATF officers sprinted toward the tent as tendrils of smoke curled into the air. Approaching sirens wailed.
Agent Lanagan appeared beside me, rudely grabbing the mic. “Please stay calm,” he told the crowd. “But we need everyone in the Kids’ Tent to evacuate now.”
Forty-Eight
Strong arms linked with mine as Agent Lanagan continued to instruct the crowd to stay calm. Two blazer-clad men with Secret Service agent earpieces protected me on either side.
“We’re federal agents,” the tall one said. “Here to get you to safety.” They flashed their badges at Agent Lanagan, who gave a quick nod.
Thank goodness the twins were safe at home. I gave Salma and Cheyenne a brave wink as the feds hurried me toward the backstage stairs. Once we hit the soggy ground, the agents lifted me a little to keep my stilettos from sinking into the muddy grass. We moved away from the mayhem to a familiar flight of stone stairs. At the bottom, one of the feds buzzed the door open with a key card.
We hurried along one of the grim underground tunnels I took sometimes to get to the Capitol Grill. It was funny to think I’d be back at work there soon, joking with my coworkers, checking off shipments of ground beef, pitching in on the fryer when someone was out sick. My life dribbling away doing work I wasn’t passionate about. No way out.
“Are you Secret Service or FBI?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” the shorter agent said as a slight woman in a neat navy overcoat stepped out from another branch of the tunnels.
Miranda’s mother, Belinda Carson. When the men stopped short, their tight hold on my upper arms suddenly felt like a restraint.
“You got her! Great job, boys,” Mrs. Carson said, clapping her hands like she used to when the Boise High football team scored a touchdown. “Tilly Turner.” She pinned me with her disapproving gaze. Her voice, so friendly a second before, now could’ve turned all the melting snow inBoise back to ice. “With those stretch marks, you’d really be better off keeping your clothes on.”
“Mrs.Carson,” I managed. “What are you doing here?”
“Cut the crap, Tilly,” she said. “I know you saw me at Bar Gernika. I know you know.”
Bar Gernika. My eye twitched. My brain had gone glitchy. “You were there for a lamb grinder,” I said. But even as the words left my mouth, I realized it. Belinda Carson had been sitting alone at a two-top, looking a little frail.
But she’d been there to pick up the grenades.
Because she was the Receiver.
Which meant I was in very deep shit.
I tried to yank my arms free, twisting my head to get my first good look at the men holding me. One had a shiny pink keloid scar on his temple. The other had a unibrow worthy of a young Nicolas Cage. Given they were sporting blazers and Secret Service earpieces, their mullets turned to tight fades, I hadn’t recognized them as the lumberjacks I’d spotted bellied up at Bar Gernika. I’d assumed one of them was the Receiver. But these brutes had been there to protect Mrs.Carson. To be her lookouts. To carry the grenades.
Miranda had told me her mom hired dodgy guys to help her with her counterfeit candle business. But now I knew they were doing more than hauling around boxes of candles that smelled like Concrete After Lightning and Wild Brooklyn Lavender. I thrashed and fought as if my life depended on it—which I now understood it absolutely did.
