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so they could see me as the last drumbeat hits, arms in a Fabulous Burly-que pose with wrists bent and palms flat, fingertips out, my right heel pulled in behind my left, giving me the look of a martini glass. The silver pasties glittered in the lights. The audience hooted and cheered while Max applauded politely. I winked at them, blew a kiss, and strutted off stage.
    I learned one of my most valuable lessons in stage presence from Madame Onça. “If you’re not going to steward your vision all the way through to the end,” she said, “why are you making anyone watch you in the first place?” You hold the character, not just as long as the song lasts, but for as long as the audience can see you. That means when the lights are down, when the song is over, when you’re entering and exiting. It would be a total betrayal of the saucy vision I created for the audience if I scurried offstage like a bashful teenager, so I sunk my teeth into that character and held it fast until I disappeared behind the curtain.
    I made it to the wall before my knees buckled. I sat down and breathed deeply, head to my knees, back against the wall.
    Oh Jesus he’ll never be able to take me seriously and I can’t help him now and he trusted me and I wanted that quiet, wanted it so bad and almost had it, and he could complain to Jeff and Jeff is such a great boss he’ll be so disappointed and I didn’t get the quiet and is necrophilia treatable and if he wants me dead now and how will this compromise the boundaries and I want to leave and—
    The currents of the chatter drowned out the audience, drowned out Grant’s voice, drowned me in waves of panic and chaos.

CHAPTER THREE
    I wanted desperately to pack my things and sneak out, but I knew Tish would bite my head off if I weren’t supportive of my fellow artists. I headed back to the dressing room and pulled my robe on.
    Frenchie ran in with my clothes in her hands. “D’you think they liked it?” she teased. “They were going crazy!”
    “Thank you,” I said, accepting my discarded costume. She trotted off to be ready for the end of Ronnie’s number.
    I had a wild impulse to just throw everything in my bag, but I forced myself to smooth my clothes out, packing them quickly but carefully. I put my heels in their open-weave bag and into my rolling bag, then unhooked my stockings from the garters and checked them for runs. I rolled them loosely, placed them in plastic baggies, and set them in their compartment. Then I removed the garter belt and put it in its own baggie. I took off my earrings and necklace and put them in my jewelry bag. I removed the pasties, set them in their container, and rubbed the excess adhesive off with my fingertips. It had a texture like more-aggressive rubber cement. I left the false eyelashes on, because removing them would leave a flesh-colored stripe between my natural lashes and the heavy eyeshadow. That’s never sexy. I pulled a soft teal knit dress from my hanging bag and wiggled it down over my head. I did a last-minute sweep of the makeup table to make sure I hadn’t left anything, zipped my bags, and headed for the theater.
    The hallway to the dressing room led to stairs that would take me to the wings of the theater in one direction; in the other, I could head to the theater’s offices, or down another flight of stairs into the sound booth at the back of the house. It was dark, and probably stupid in heels, but I liked the feeling of a secret passage. I tiptoed into the booth as Ronnie took her bow.
    Normally, I’d be sorry to miss Ronnie, who performed under the name Gin Fizzy. Ronnie was short for the Pharisee name Roshan; she told me once that she had a Chinese father and Persian mother. She had a winsome smile, thick dark hair, and brown eyes that you could see from Wisconsin. I loved her irreverent, campy style.
    That night, though, I was just glad to be one piece closer to the end.
    I huddled in a seat in the back row, applauding