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wing and a prayer.
    I yanked out my cel and cal ed JoJo, one of the dancers, who was also always late. JoJo came and got me and we both hurtled through the doors of Smithie’s fifteen minutes after we were supposed to.
    Smithie was at the bar and he looked up at us as we came through the door.
    “You’re fuckin’ late, a-fuckin’-gain,” Smithie greeted.
    “My car wouldn’t start,” I told him, approaching the bar.
    JoJo shot like a rocket backstage to avoid the Smithie confrontation.
    He gave me my apron, I took out my cel and slid it into a pocket and handed him my purse and cardigan that he put behind the bar.
    “At least come up with somethin’ original,” he said.
    “I’m serious.”
    “You’re a walking disaster.”
    I smiled at him. Smithie was al bark and no bite, at least with his girls. He was a big, black guy, used to be muscle but he’d gone a little soft. He had half a dozen kids with four different women and he doted on al of them, including the women.
    “Listen, Smithie, I need to pick up a couple more shifts.” He looked at the ceiling, “She comes in late and, right away, she asks me for more fuckin’ shifts.”
    “I have to get my car fixed!” I cried, tying my apron around my waist.

    around my waist.
    “You work more shifts, I have to pay you overtime. I don’t pay overtime.”
    “Smithie.” I gave him a wide-eyed, girlie, “please” look that I saw other girls use on him. It worked so I’d tried it and found it worked for me too.
    Smithie wasn’t in a generous mood.
    “You want more money, you work a pole.”
    I looked at the stage. Three dancers were working poles, al oiled up, al wearing nothing but g-strings and pasties.
    Not on your life.
    “I’m not working a pole,” I told Smithie.
    “You’d be doin’ me a favor. Mandy told me today she’s gotta quit. She’s pregnant.”
    I couldn’t help myself; I clapped. Mandy and her boyfriend Ronnie had been trying to get pregnant since before I worked there.
    “That’s great!” I cried.
    “That is not fuckin’ great. I’m a dancer down. You work a pole, you’d have my ever-fuckin’-lastin’ gratitude and so much money, you could buy a Porsche.”
    “JoJo’s your best dancer and she doesn’t own a Porsche,” I told him and she didn’t. She drove a Corol a.
    “JoJo can dance but her tits aren’t real and she’s short.
    Guys can tel the real from the fake. Your tits are real and your legs go on for-fuckin’-ever in those fuckin’ shoes. Men look up those legs to those tits and they’l give you fifty dol ar tips.”
    “I’m not working a pole,” I said in a way he knew I meant it.

    it.
    He sighed.
    “You want me to have a guy look at your car?” He asked.
    See, Smithie was a softie.
    I nodded and smiled.
    “You’re a pain in my ass. Get to work.”
    I got to work and made extra nice with the drunks and idiots who paid good money, essential y for nothing.
    Though they obviously didn’t see it that way. Tips were good, gropes were few and it was a decent night.
    I arranged for Lenny to take me home and, when everyone was gone, I waited at the door for him.
    Lenny was a bouncer, midnight skin and two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle on a six foot four inch frame. He was getting a Masters in Biochemistry at Denver University.
    He walked to where I stood at the front door. “Wait outside, I’l do a sweep, set the alarm and lock up.”
    “Gotcha,” I said and walked out to stand outside the front door.
    Smithie’s was on Colorado Boulevard and even though it was three in the morning, traffic was passing steady. The days were stil warm, but the nights were chil y and I pul ed the cardigan closer around me. I was tired, my mind beginning to shut down and found myself dazedly looking to the right.
    Something came at me from the left; I was thrown against the wal of Smithie’s and saw the flash of a knife from the lights of the club.
    A hand was at my chest, pinning me to the wal . I could