Thirty
The Midnight Cowboy was in a renovated Smith’s grocery store—one could still make out the letters of the grocer under the EXCITING MALE REVUE neon sign. The parking lot was full, and a heavy bass beat echoed over the neighborhood.
Joan took out her hearing aid. “Sorry, girls—my hearing aid can’t deal with that level of loud.”
They made it as far as the front door before a tall and musclebound man stopped them. “You gals looking for trouble?” he asked. He was moving, his hips swaying to the beat, snapping his fingers like he was about to ask them to dance.
“Looking for fun!” Edie said.
The man stopped swaying his hips and looked them up and down. “Ladies—do you even know what sort of place this is?” he asked, his gaze zeroing in on Edie’s shirt with the stack of books.
“We heard it was raining men,” Frances said.
“I think you want the Magic Mike show.” He pointed toward the Strip and began to usher them toward the parking lot.
“We can’t afford that,” Joan said.
“Then maybe take in a movie. This isn’t a tourist spot, and you’re not exactly the demographic for the dancers here.”
“Why not?” Edie asked. “We like dancing. Come on, let us in.”
The man flashed a smile that was blistering white against his dark skin. “Not sure you’ll like this style of dancing. I know, because I’m one of the dancers. Trojan is my name. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He pushed open the door.
They crowded into a vestibule and paid the price of admission.
They then entered a space with music so loud that Edie worried they could all be blown back by the force of it.
Neon flashing lights strobed across the crowded dance floor.
Edie noticed Frances had put her hands to the temples, as if trying to contain the light and sound.
Irene pulled her bucket hat low over her eyes and huddled behind Joan. Only Marcy seemed to be enjoying it; she was bouncing around between them, dancing in place. They weren’t the only women in the establishment, but it was hard to distinguish drag queens from other women in that light.
They stood like deer in headlights until Edie corralled them all and drove them to the bar.
The show had not yet started; men on the dance floor were grinding against each other.
Some of them were making out, seemingly oblivious to the chaos around them.
Irene ordered shots of tequila and passed them out.
“No thanks,” Frances said when Irene tried to put the shot glass in her hand. She looked white as a sheet.
“Haven’t you ever been to a gay bar?” Edie asked her.
“Actually … the opportunity has not presented itself.”
“You’re kidding! I thought it was a rite of passage for women to visit a gay bar at some point. Are you shocked?”
“No!” Frances frowned at her.
“Take the shot and chill out,” Irene said, forcing her to take it. “Our guy is here.”
Edie and Frances gasped at the same moment.
“End of the bar around the stage. Heavyset guy. Looks like every extra in every army movie ever made.”
Edie and Frances turned to look.
“Good God,” Irene said. “Don’t make it so obvious.”
Irene was right, of course, but before she turned back, Edie managed to get a good look at their mark. He was burly, with a military buzz cut. He sat alone at the end of the circular bar around the stage, nursing a drink as he watched people dance. There were two empty glasses at his elbow.
Irene gestured for all of them to move closer. “Get a table at the stage across from him. I can’t let him see me—he might recognize me.”
“What are you going to do?” Frances asked.
Irene shrugged. “Pick his pocket, I guess.”
Marcy laughed, like it was a joke.
“How are you going to do that?” Frances asked.
“Well, I obviously don’t know yet. But I know how to pick pockets.”
She did not look or sound as certain as Edie would have liked.
“You do?” Frances pressed, obviously thinking the same thing. “Because I never knew that about you, and it seems like the sort of skill that would require continued practice.”
“I think we’ve established there are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Franny.”
“Hey,” Frances said, and pointed a finger at Irene. She blinked. “Fair point.”
Just then, a rowdy bar customer knocked into Joan and her tequila went flying out of her glass.
“Go,” Irene said, pushing the rest of them forward. “Make sure his eyes stay locked on that stage. Make a scene if you have to.” She disappeared into the crowd behind them while the man apologized to Joan and insisted on buying her another shot.
“How are we going to get seats at the stage?” Marcy asked.
“I don’t know. Improvise,” Joan said. “The show is starting.”
Edie and Frances exchanged a look. Edie sensed a familiar current between them—the buzz of something big starting.
This heist was no longer an exercise in fantasy.
If Irene managed to get that key fob, the game was on and the real work began.
Edie felt buzzy with excitement and a tad nauseated by fear.
Marcy led the way to the stage, apparently intending to improvise as ordered. She pushed a path through the crowd and managed to squeeze them in between two parties of drag queens, both of whom seemed happy to share space with old ladies.
The first man onstage was none other than the door man they’d met at the entry.
The lights went down, TROJAN flashed in neon pinks and blues above the stage, and then the lights came up along with the music.
Trojan began to dance to a heavy bass beat.
At first, he looked to be doing a line dance.
But his moves grew more suggestive, his hips circling and thrusting.
Then his clothes started to come off. Edie looked at Marcy, expecting her to be shocked or embarrassed.
But Marcy had joined the drag queens in egging the dancer on.
When Trojan had stripped down to a bright green G-string thong, and had gathered the bills thrown at him, an announcer came onto the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen! A round of applause for the one and only Trojan!” The crowd roared as Trojan took another bow, flexing his muscles and grabbing his crotch.
“Join me in welcoming Buck Wild! Jiggler! Aaaand Ryder!”
Three men joined Trojan onstage as the announcer stepped off to the side. The lights went down again, and when the lights began to come back up, the four of them had arranged themselves in suggestive poses against each other. The music started, and the dancing began.
Edie poked Frances, nodding toward their mark. Mark Wachtel’s gaze was fixed on the stage. When the lights strobed across the stage, he sat forward, his tongue darting across his bottom lip.
The dance was highly choreographed and highly salacious.
A lot of thrusting and grinding was happening on that stage.
Frankly, Edie had no idea that sort of thing was allowed in public.
She’d never been with a man who could gyrate like the men onstage.
Moreover, she’d never been with a man who had so much to gyrate with.
She was enthralled by it, and when the four men pulled a drag queen up onstage and sat her in a chair, they really began to work their magic.
The drag queen was a natural—she played up the heat, pretending to swoon more than once, her mouth skirting dangerously close to the dancers’ genitalia as they were thrust into her face.
When the drag queen was released from her chair (she pretended to faint on her way back to her seat, much to the delight of the drunk crowd), the dancers moved to the edge of the stage, inviting the audience to put their faces close to their crotch, too.
“Shit,” Joan said, grabbing Edie’s arm and knocking her out of her trance. She nodded toward Mark Wachtel. His head was turned, as if he was looking for a server. His gaze was not on the stage.
“What do we do?” Edie asked.
Mark stood up, his neck craning, as if trying to see someone.
Joan suddenly surged forward, putting her hand on the arm of one of the drag queens next to them. “Excuse me!” she said loudly. But whatever Joan said to them was drowned out by the music. She turned back after a quick discussion. “We need cash.”
“How much?” Frances asked.
“A lot,” Joan said. “Big bills.”
Frances pulled the pleather bag from her shoulder and withdrew a thick roll of bills.
“What the hell?” Joan said. “Did you rob a bank?”
“I thought we might need cash.”
“We do,” Joan confirmed. “For a lap dance. Irene was right.”
Joan took the roll of bills from Frances and turned back to the helpful drag queen. In the very next minute, Joan was standing up, waving bills in the air and shouting “Yoo-hoo! Trojan! Yoo-hoo!”
“Yoo-hoo?” Marcy repeated, cringing.
Trojan danced his way over, pretending to mime a rope that Joan had thrown to him, pulling him in.
“What do you need, doll? You want some special attention?”
“Not for me. For the gentleman at the end of the bar.” She pointed to Mark Wachtel, who had turned back around in his seat to face the stage.
Trojan looked at the bills Joan held up. “Sorry, doll, that’s not enough for special attention.”
Joan quickly peeled off more twenties from the roll until Trojan was satisfied. “Okay,” he said, and thrust his pelvis forward for Joan to put the bills in G-string. Edie had a desperate urge to cover Marcy’s eyes as Joan shoved the bills into the already overstuffed pouch of his G-string.
Trojan winked at Joan, then danced his way back into the routine and across the stage to where Mark was sitting.
“Where is Irene?” Frances said desperately. “Can anyone see her?”
“Are you kidding? I can’t see anything but that ass,” Joan said, watching Trojan undulate his body in Mark’s face. His gaze was fixed on Trojan’s groin, his lips pressed tightly together.
“I can’t see her,” Frances said. “Why did we ever believe this would work?”