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sniffed. “I guess I wasn’t thinking. I needed help and I didn’t think you’d help me if you knew.”
    â€œThat is lame,” I said. “You know me better than that. Now, what gives?”
    Denise sagged against her car. A week ago I would’ve told you she was a great kid, fun to be around, a real hell-raiser. Sure, she had her walls, those places where you just didn’t go with her. You could see it in her. Her eyes would kind of glaze over when you asked a question, and she’d switch the subject or call Arlo over to be a distraction. But hell, we work in a strip club. Even though the Tiffany is the top of the line, we’re still life’s outcasts. We all have walls. We’ve all got secrets. You think I tell people I read books and wish I could maybe be a writer or an artist? No way. They’d eat me alive. So I talk tough and I don’t take nothing off nobody. Everybody works the Tiffany for a reason. It ain’t like being a nun. No higher power called us. We needed money, we saw the way, and we grabbed it like an uptown bus.
    â€œI don’t tell anybody I did time,” Denise said. “What if Vincent found out and fired me? You don’t think I held my breath every time he wanted to talk to me? I know sooner or later he’ll find out and that will be that. But I needed a job.”
    â€œGet real, Denise,” I said. “Half the girls at the Tiffany have been arrested for one thing or another. It comes with the life.”
    Denise shook her head. “The Tiffany is a nice place. Vincent pays good. He don’t do trash; he’s trying to have a classy place. I knew he wouldn’t hire me if he knew.” She shook her head in disgust. “Don’t you think that I applied at a hundred other places first? I was honest with them, and what did it get me? Not a job, that’s for sure.”
    I let it go. For all I knew, she was right. Vincent Gambuzzo didn’t have to hire a bartender with a record. Dancers were another story. If they were talented, you didn’t ask too many questions. After all, good T and A brings in the money, pure character ain’t worth shit.
    â€œSo, what’d you do time for?” I asked.
    â€œPossession with intent to distribute,” she answered softly.
    I was puzzled. “Why’d you pull time for that? You’re a first offender.”
    Denise laughed bitterly. “Yeah, but I was married to Leon Corvase. They made such a big deal of who I was married to at the trial that I didn’t stand a chance. Leon got twenty-five years for trafficking and it was his first offense.” She rolled her eyes.
    I couldn’t figure it. To my way of thinking, Denise was a victim here. Obviously, the courts thought otherwise.
    Denise was rummaging through the backseat of her car.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked.
    â€œLooking for this,” she said, her voice muffled by the car’s interior. She backed out, holding a bottle of tequila. “Want some?”
    â€œWhen have I ever turned down tequila?” I answered. Denise knew me too well. She hunkered down on the bumper of her old VW and twisted off the cap. I walked over and sat down next to her. It’d been a long night.
    â€œHey,” I asked, taking a big swig off the bottle, “who was the looker who left with Nailor?”
    Denise took too big a swallow and choked. I leaned over and clapped her on the back a couple of times. I know they say it doesn’t help, but it helped me to beat on her a little.
    â€œEase up,” she sputtered, regaining her composure and handing me the bottle. “You don’t know?”
    â€œWould I be asking you if I did?” I was feeling warm and relaxed. Maybe the evening had some promise after all.
    â€œThat’s some special agent, visiting from South Florida and working with Nailor. I think her name is Carla Terrance. Don’t be fooled by her looks. She