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on the floor of the Stock Exchange. He thought it curious how the hunger for sex and money appeared exactly the same on the human face, making it hard sometimes to determine which one was more important.
         Behind the door, the thud of the dance music and screams of the women were not as pronounced. Grady welcomed the respite. The backstage area was compact, stuffed with scenery and props set against the back wall with ropes tied off to a pin rail. Above, a batten that housed several stage or trooper lights hung along with extra rigging for background scenery. A few men, scantily dressed in G-strings with oiled bodies and shiny silver boots, were standing about on the dusty hardwood floor drinking from white paper cups or talking on their cell phones.
         There was an almost bored look on many of the faces of the toned and buff men waiting backstage. All the chaos out front dramatically contrasted against the almost relaxed atmosphere behind the scenes.
         Not looking where he was going, Grady accidently ran into a well-built man apart from the group. He was wearing a snug gladiator costume and waving his wooden sword about.
         “Hey, watch it,” he grumbled at Grady.
         The haughty look in the man’s green eyes seem to challenge Grady. There was something about him that made Grady uncomfortable, as if he sensed the guy was trouble. 
         “You lost, buddy?”
         Grady held up his hands. “Sorry. You know where I can find Matt Harrison?”
         The gladiator looked him over, his eyes filled with disdain. “Who’s asking?”
         Grady bit back his curt reply and simply smiled. No need to make enemies on the first day.
         “I’m Grady Paulson, the guest dancer.”
         The man’s uncanny eyes softened a bit. “Colin Caffranelli. I’m one of the headliners here.”
         Grady wanted to groan out loud. He hated headliners. In every club he had worked, from Philadelphia to Portland, the headliners always treated the travel dancers like shit. Just because they had a long-term gig in one club, they thought they were better than the guys who had to constantly move from club to club.
         “Do you know where can I find Matt?” Grady asked, anxious to get away from the rude man. 
         Colin tilted his head to his right. “Matt’s at his desk.”      
         Grady followed his eyes to a wooden desk located against a red-bricked wall in the corner of the backstage area.
         “Ah, thanks,” he said to Colin, before turning away.
         Sitting behind the desk, talking on a phone and waving his hand furiously about, was a scrawny man, dressed in a tailored gray suit, with a pockmarked, pasty face, gray-streaked, wiry black hair, and coal black eyes. He had a wide mouth, and his crooked nose appeared as if it had been broken more than once. 
         When he spotted Grady eyeing him from across the backstage area, he beckoned to him and instantly ended his call.
         “Are you Paulson?” he asked, in a craggily sounding smoker’s voice.  
     Grady nodded and held out his hand. “Mr. Harrison?”
         “Matt,” Matt Harrison corrected. He stood and took Grady’s hand. “Burt said you were a real showstopper.” He waved down Grady’s body. “I can see he was right. The all-American, California look is big with these women.” He put his cell phone in his jacket pocket and nodded to a door to his left. “Let me show you the dressing rooms and we can get you settled.”
         Grady followed Matt as he led him to the plain wooden door set into the red-bricked wall. After stepping into a dimly lit, yellow-tiled hallway, Matt shut the door with a bang.
         “Damn, that’s better,” he said, taking in the almost peaceful stillness of the hallway. “I swear, I hear screaming women in my sleep.”
         “I know what you mean,” Grady concurred.
         “My wife told me I