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trying to hold everything in, even my vocal chords seized up. I silently cursed Broad-beam with every foul word I could think up. What was she doing in there?
    On second thought, I didn’t want to know.
    The lady behind me shook her head. “Look, you look miserable. Why don’t you go in?”
    “No, thanks. I’m waiting for number three.”
    “What on earth for?”
    “Three’s my lucky number.”
    She sighed and shook her head again. “Believe me, this in no place to get lucky.” She went into number four.
    This waiting was so not covert. Just as I reached the point of actually thinking about dragging Broad-beam out of there, she threw open the stall door and staggered out, leaving a bad odor behind her.
    Grimacing, I slipped in. All this waiting meant I had to do my business first. I set the drive on top of the feminine protection disposal receptacle, as Huff so elegantly and technically called it.
    The automatic toilet flushed as I reached for a seat protector. It flushed again before I could sit down. I had to get another seat protector and move quicker this time.
    I finished my business, stood, tidied myself, and scanned the stall. This was a high-class establishment. It had seat protectors, a room freshener, a feminine protection disposal receptacle, and the rare find—a sanitary protection disposal bag dispenser of lady-safe bags, all in satin finish chrome. Wow!
    I was supposed to hide the drive in the bottom of the feminine protection disposal thing beneath the liner bag. I grabbed a piece of toilet paper and picked up the drive. Now that my hands were dirty, I couldn’t touch the drive. I tried the lid. Stuck. I tried. I pried. I shook the stall. The toilet flushed.
    Someone squealed, “What’s going on in there? Do you need help?” in a pitch just below only-dogs-can-hear-it range.
    The lid was bent and totally stuck and I was shaking the foundations and taking more time in the stall than Broad-beam had. The natives were getting restless. Never stand between a woman and her stall. I had to get out of there.
    I thought back over Huff’s instructions. He couldn’t have meant to hide the drive in the disposal bin. No way. That’s nasty. I had no desire to reach in there. Not without some heavy-duty gloves.
    I glanced at the lady-safe bag dispenser. Yeah, he must have meant that, the sanitary protection disposal bag dispenser , not the receptacle. Men were likely to mix these things up. I’d straighten him out later. I reached into my purse and found a bandage.
    Using the toilet paper as a glove, I slid the drive up into the dispenser and tucked it so it rested on the inside lip. Then I carefully secured the drive in place with the bandage.
    Mission accomplished, I left the stall under the watchful glares of several dancing women.

Chapter 4
    Back in the bar, I slid into my spot at the table next to Van with Huff’s envelope burning in my booty pocket. Van looked up as I scooted in my chair. His conversation with Jim came to an abrupt halt.
    “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said.
    “You weren’t,” Van said. “We were just marveling that you managed to dance to a lounge-lizard classic.”
    “Hey,” I said. “It had a beat.”
    “Sure,” he said.
    Jim grinned, but I noticed he kept glancing over at Cliff and Huff.
    “What did I miss?” I asked eagerly. I was a girl. I liked gossip and hated to miss anything juicy.
    “Jim was just telling me about his practice in LA,” Van said.
    “LA? Don’t tell me you’re an entertainment lawyer?” I asked, addressing Jim.
    Jim took a swig of beer. “You don’t like entertainment lawyers?”
    “I have my beefs with them. Too many celebs get off because of celebrity lawyers.” I was thinking of Ket, who was only a minor, local LA-type celebrity, but who’d gotten off with a slap on the wrist for beating me practically into a coma.
    “I represent celebrity clients.”
    “I’m very sorry to hear it. Divorce lawyer?” I took a sip of my