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everything.” He nodded to Grady. “You married?”
         He shook his head. “Divorced. No kids, but I’m still hopeful.”
         “At least you’re not gay. The gay guys in this business give me the creeps.”
         “Not a lot of them. The women figure it out, and they never last long on stage.”
         “I had to find that out the hard way with the French guy.” Matt removed his hands from his pockets and clapped them together. “You’ve got a good place to stay in the city? If not, I can recommend a few spots I know in the Quarter.”
         “Thanks, but I got a nice place a short walk from here.”
         Matt glimpsed the gold Rolex on his wrist. “Good. I’ve got you scheduled to start tomorrow night. First show is at eight, second at eleven. When we have private gigs, it’s a one-show night, but we don’t get those too often. We only do one show on Sunday at eight. You’ll be off on Mondays. If you need off for family, plastic surgery, or whatever else, try and give me a little notice so I can get someone to cover for you. Burt said you were real dependable.”
         “I don’t like to miss a show,” Grady admitted.
         Matt smiled, showing off a row of yellow teeth. “Good boy. Get here by seven to oil up for the eight o’clock show. What costumes you got?”
         “A black leather cowboy, tuxedo, and a flashy silver-sequined number.”
         Matt shook his head. “I’ve got enough cowboys in the show. Bring the tuxedo and that silver number. You can run those two for your routines.”
         Grady nodded. “Got it.” 
         “I don’t have a lot of rules. Just be on time, sober, and no girls backstage,” Matt insisted. “I’ve got enough problems with the women out front. I don’t want them starting shit back here.”
         “I understand.”
         Matt stepped through the dressing room door and back into the hallway. “Why don’t you get out and enjoy a night in the French Quarter? Check out the sights before the club takes up all of your time. It’s a hell of a town.”
         “Thanks, I think I’ll do that.” Grady stepped back out into the hallway, and Matt shut the dressing room door behind him.
         “Looking forward to seeing your moves up on the stage. Burt said you really pack ‘em in.”
         “I hope I can do that for you, Matt.”
         “Just keep them drunk and wet,” Matt clucked. “That’s all I ask of my dancers.” He patted Grady on the shoulder with a long hand. “See you tomorrow night.”
         Matt Harrison strutted back toward the stage, pulling his cell phone from his pocket as he went.
         Grady waited until his new boss had walked out the stage door. He shook his head and then sped down the hallway, eager to get out of the club and mute the cheap and dirty feeling gnawing at the pit of his stomach. 
         Another sleazy club; another slimy owner.
         Once outside, Grady reveled in the sizzling lights of Bourbon Street. Everywhere he turned there were people along the seedy, smelly street, soaking up the heady atmosphere of music, drinking a plethora of alcoholic concoctions, and peeking into the open doors of the numerous strip clubs.
         At one of the clubs, that touted male dancers on its billboard, Grady saw bouncers the size of tree trunks luring female patrons inside. He was about to go in and check out the competition when he spied a couple walking by carrying paper cups adorned with the green Pat O’Brien’s logo. Stopping once to ask directions, Grady eventually found the green and white sign of Pat O’Brien’s hanging from beneath a balcony on St. Peter Street. He passed another muscular doorman and entered a red-bricked carriageway. The first open doorway he came to had a sign with Main Bar above it.
         After stepping inside, a rush of cigarette smoke and noise hit him. The stale, recirculated air reeked of beer and the