“What’s going on?” Norma nudged. “Are you in trouble?”

  “You know what I’m doing, Norma?”

  “I saw you in one of those real estate magazines, so I guess I do.”

  Ella squeezed her eyes shut. Damn Bobby. “It’s kind of impossible to stay under the radar in real estate.”

  “You look different. You’ll be fine.” She paused. “Did some joe recognize you?”

  Ella sighed. “Grant. He’s still coming in, I think.”

  “He asked me about you.” Norma paused. “Is he messing with you?”

  “Sorta.”

  “Can you blow him off? You were always good at that, Ella.”

  “I don’t think so. Not this time.” Another sigh. “He wants money, Norma. And I don’t have it and wouldn’t give it to him if I did.”

  “I would lend it to you, kid. But that’s a bad road to go down.”

  “I don’t want your money, Norma. Just a kind word. You were always so good to me.” Suddenly, now, after all these years, the tears started.

  “Oh, kiddo. You are all grown up. You’ve got balls of steel. You will figure this out, you got more smarts than all my other girls put together. What’s this asshole’s real name? I forget.”

  Ella told her. Someone should know what a jerk he is. “He beats his wife, too. He’s a real stand-up guy. I’m sorry to bother you, Norma. I just needed to hear your voice.” She hung up before the tears started again.

  She was late to work. She had to wash her face and start over on her makeup, such as it was. Gretchen gave her a stare. Bobby sent her an email and said the website just had her name on it now. “Let me know if I can help, Ella. We don’t stand for harassment here.”

  Right. Great, Bobby. She spent her lunch break searching for a source for exploding powder like she’d seen in movies. Did they use it in bank heists? Was it illegal? What was it called? Agnes said she didn’t know either. They might have to skip the powder business.

  “Did you hear from Mister Raymond about that house, Ella?” Gretchen asked accusingly. “Because you have to tell me. It was my open house, my listing. You know that, right?”

  “I did not hear from him about that house, Gretchen.” She found she could stare into Gretchen’s eyes convincingly.

  “Is he bothering you still?”

  “Nope.” Ella sat taller. “Not at all.”

  The more she and Agnes talked about this caper—which had to go down on Friday night, the deadline Steve had given her—the more she thought they were forgetting something. Agnes had nothing to lose except a creep for a husband. But Ella would have to testify, wouldn’t she? She’d watched enough episodes of Law & Order to know that the victim of blackmail would be a witness at a trial. Was there any way around that? Could they keep the details of the emails, of the blackmailing, secret?

  It might all blow up in her face. Agnes could be rid of Steve, but Ella’s public reputation would still be in the shitter. Squeaky Clean Dad-of-the-Year Bobby would cut her loose. She’d have to start over somewhere. And with what? Her savings were almost gone.

  Agnes was nice, though. She deserved better. Ella wanted her to get away from Steve. Nobody should be with Steve. He was toxic. So, she would go through with it for Agnes, and hope for the best. Maybe cops weren’t gossips after all.

  She was up to two packs a day.

  The private detective was all set. They stuffed the briefcase with newspapers. Agnes sat with Ella in her apartment as she called Steve on Thursday night, hands shaking so badly she almost dropped her phone.

  “Mister Raymond. It’s Ella Brown.”

  “Ah-ha, little Princess Hot Pants comes to her senses. She’s not so dumb after all.” He laughed long and loud.

  Ella grit her teeth. “Not much choice. I do have one request. We meet in the parking lot across the street from the Scuttlebutt. It’s a Legal Aid office, so the lot will be empty. Midnight. Sit in your car. I’ll find you.” Ella glanced at Agnes, who gave her thumbs up.

  “Ah, okay. My wife might not like it, but I guess I can meet you there.”

  Agnes mimed shock. “You’re married?” Ella asked.

  “Never mind. Don’t stiff me or you’ll regret it.”

  The private eye’s name was Bridget. She didn’t look like a private eye. In fact, she could have been a stripper. Blonde, curvy, with a winning smile, she also had a cunning look in her eye that reassured Ella. Bridget set up her blind, as she called it, around the corner of the building, farthest from the streetlight. “He’ll park over here, I guarantee it,” she said. “Out of the light. It’s dark, but I can still get him doing the dirty.”

  Ella and Agnes sat in Ella’s beat-up Buick, across the street and down a few sad, empty storefronts from the Scuttlebutt. A liquor store was the only active business at this end of the block, customers in and out. They had a good view of the parking lot. The cars came and went from the Scuttlebutt, the pink neon splashing over the street. Pickups drove by, kept moving; autos made U-turns and honked. They waited.

  Agnes guessed Steve would drive his own sedan, a dark blue Mercedes, the same one he’d driven to the showing. He loved the car, she said, and drove it to the Scuttlebutt all the time. And there he was, ten minutes later, pulling into the empty parking lot. He drove to the far side, in the shadows as Bridget predicted, and turned off his car.

  “How long do we wait?” Ella whispered.

  “Let him sweat.”

  They waited ten more minutes then saw Steve get out of the car, check his wristwatch, and look around. They ducked below the dash. Agnes peeked up. “He’s back in the car. Time.” She handed Ella the briefcase. “I’m going to move the car closer and turn it around. Jump in after you’ve made the hand-off.”

  Ella nodded, biting her lip. What if Steve opened it right in front of her? They’d not been able to find that powder, so he wouldn’t be distracted. He would be livid. Maybe violent. “I’ll run. Fast.”

  “I’ll be ready. You got this.” Agnes patted her shoulder.

  Ella opened the car door, holding the briefcase at her side. She closed the door gently and waited for Agnes to start the car. Agnes drove past the Scuttlebutt and Legal Aid toward the corner where she’d make a U-turn. Ella walked slowly, giving her time to get into position. At the curb, Ella looked both ways. The only things visible were the Buick’s red taillights moving away and a pair of headlights, high beams on, a half block away. She stepped out, crossed the street to the parking lot. The tinny thumping of music from the Scuttlebutt came and went.

  As she approached Steve’s Mercedes, he spotted her in the rearview mirror. She slowed, giving him time to get out. She walked to the far side of the car, where Bridget said she’d get the best shots. Steve stepped onto the cracked asphalt and slammed his car door. Ella stopped ten feet away from him, holding the briefcase to her chest now.

  “What?” Steve barked. “You gonna give it to me or not?”

  “I need your word. That you won’t rat me out.”

  “You’re a real estate agent, right? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Steve stepped closer, arms extended. “Come on. Get it over with.”

  “This is it. No more money.” Ella made a show of being unsure, then finally handed the briefcase over to him.

  “That’s a good girl,” Steve said mockingly. “Let’s see what you brought me.”

  Ella turned and sprinted for the car as fast as she could, across the asphalt, down the sidewalk. The Buick’s lights flashed on. Agnes opened the car door and Ella jumped in. She could hear Steve swearing behind her, yelling. Before Agnes got the car in gear, the other car roared up, the high beams blinding them. It cut into the parking lot, crossing in front of them at speed, and jumped the curb, skidding with a hard bounce. Ella heard a thump and a screech of tires.

  “Oof. Jesus,” Agnes whispered.

  “Come on, let’s go!” Ella said.

  “Um. Ella.”

  The other car, a big, black Cadillac, sat at an angle in the lot, the single streetlight bouncing a shine off the trunk. Recognition clicked: Norma’s car, the one that looked like a mafia boss’s. The driver’s door hung open and Norma herself stood next to it, wearing the sort of shapeless orange and yellow muumuu that old ladies wore at home. Norma was always dressed and pressed, her hair perfect.

  But it was Norma. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a teased French twist in her silver hair, no doubt it was the owner of the Scuttlebutt. Agnes turned off the Buick and opened her door. Ella swallowed her fear. Norma and the cavalry had arrived. But where was Steve?

  The Cadillac’s headlights lit up the asphalt lot, spotlighting the Mercedes and dark law office windows. Norma looked down, hands on her hips. She acknowledged Ella and Agnes then continued staring at the man lying on the asphalt near her front bumper. Ella suppressed a gasp.

  “Where the tarnation did he come from?” Norma bellowed, flinging her hands skyward like a diva. “What the ever-loving hell?”

  Ella stepped forward. Steve’s neck was at a bad angle, legs in a twist. “He was chasing me,” she whispered. His face was bloody and purple. “It’s—”

  “Hush now,” Norma said, quiet now. “I’ve seen him at the club. Flashy, a big tipper. What’s he doing over here? I didn’t expect anyone in this lot.”

  Agnes began to shake. “Is he—is he dead?”

  “Good question.” Norma bent down to check his pulse on his neck. “Not yet. Should we do something? Call an ambulance?”

  They looked at Agnes. She glanced briefly at the broken figure of her husband and winced. “Can we wait?” she whispered.

  “Of course. We assumed he was deceased. Just look at him.”

  Ella squirmed. “The cops will come, Norma. You know they will.”

  Norma put her beefy arm around Ella’s shoulders. “He jumped out of the dark, right in front of my car. It was a horrible accident.”

  “But how did you—” Ella began.

  Norma cut her off. “I simply don’t tolerate bad behavior.”

  The private eye wandered over, camera on a strap over her shoulder. She gave the body a wide berth. “I got it all, ma’am. He stepped right in front of the Caddy.” She scooped up the briefcase, tucking in newspapers, and handed it to Agnes. “You should go,” Bridget told her. “I’ll tell the cops you hired me to follow your cheating husband. Which is true enough.”

  “She’s right. You too, Ella. Go home,” Norma said. She reached into the Cadillac and pulled her cell phone out of a voluminous purse. “I’ll call it in. I’ve got my guy inside.” She looked at Steve again and sighed. In a flat tone, she said, “It’s a damn shame. I feel just terrible. A tragic accident, but it’s nobody’s fault. The thing is—he’s dead. And there’s no way back, is there?”

  Ella stared across the dark street at the pink neon sign of the pole dancer glowing against the midnight sky. That was her once, Princess Hot Pants, twisting herself to please men, an object of lust and scorn. A girl with no future. But no more. Norma was right. The only way was forward. She was someone else now. Someone she wanted to be, someone she believed in, someone to respect.

  And there was no way back.

  Back to TOC

  Hit It and Quit It

  (inspired by the song “Get Up Offa That Thing”)

  Katy Munger

  Dewey Armstrong could feel the belch ripening deep in his belly. As the pressure intensified, he pushed hard with his diaphragm and unleashed an epic, juicy rumble.

  “You’re a pig, Dewey!” Lana yelled from the kitchen.

  “Shut up, you worthless bitch!” Dewey yelled back. “And bring me another beer.”

  Settling back into the couch, Dewey grabbed the remote and started searching for Love Island. He had an hour before he had to head out and pick up a pound of weed from a guy he’d met drinking beer at Hooters. Dewey was certain his new business selling bammer weed was a winner. Once it took off, he’d never need to get a real job again.

  “You need to get up offa that couch and get a goddamn job,” Lana told him. She thrust his beer at him. And though she knew it was a mistake, she could not stop what came out of her mouth next: “Next time, get your own goddamn beer. You could use the exercise.”

  Dewey leapt to his feet and backhanded her. When he wanted to, he could move quick despite his hundred extra pounds.

  Lana crashed into the coffee table but scrambled to her feet so he would not know he’d hurt her. “One of these days, Dewey,” she said. “I swear to God. One of these days.”

  Dewey laughed. She was half his height and a third his weight. She couldn’t hurt him if she tried. But she never did. Dewey had learned early that Lana took whatever he dished out. She almost made it too easy for him. What fun was a beat-down if she didn’t fight back?

  “Damn, girl,” he told Lana, looking her up and down. She was dressed in one of her titty bar outfits. “Your ass is getting so old it looks like a cantaloupe.”

  Lana ignored him and checked out her face in the mirror. “If that left a bruise, Jorge’s not going to let me dance. You better hope concealer covers it.”

  Dewey laughed. Jorge would let Lana dance if she was missing a leg and covered in fleas. Besides, so long as she kept shaking her moneymaker and bringing home the cash, what did Dewey care if her bruises showed? Everyone knew she deserved it and worse, what with that mouth on her.

  “Don’t forget who pays the rent on this apartment,” he yelled, just to remind Lana that he was in charge.

  “Yeah, and you pay it with the money I earn,” she shot back, mumbling something about a “limp dick” under her breath.

  Dewey leapt up again and charged, but Lana was too quick for him. Grabbing her keys, she was out the door before he could close the distance.

  The moment Lana entered the club, she could tell that something was different. The bartender ignored drink orders and stared at the stage while two dancers leaned against a back wall, still in their robes, losing money by the minute. They gave Lana a warning look, but before she could react, Jorge had her by the elbow and was peeling off her coat.

  “I need you up there ASAP,” he said. “I’ve got a full house and a new girl. I need someone up there who knows how to work the whole stage.”

  Lana shrugged. It might mean more tips. She could not understand why the other dancers hung back, but shaking her hair loose, she shed her kimono and entered center stage. She paused for whistles and shouts, but they never came, so she swung around the first pole she saw, then slid to her knees. Mouth open, she slithered toward the edge of the runway like a woman crawling across the burning sands of the Sahara, desperately in search of Bedouin dick. She had long ago learned that working the tip rail was the best way to get lap dance requests, and that’s where the real money was. Sure, it was degrading scooting around on all fours while men tried to peer up your hidey-hole, but what else was she going to do? She’d dropped out of school in the ninth grade.

  Belatedly, Lana realized that absolutely no one was looking at her. She could have smeared herself in peanut butter while banging a banana, and the crowd would not have noticed. What the hell? She had on her best extensions, star-spangled nippies, and a thong that hid maybe an inch of her bajingo. Then she saw the problem. A girl barely out of her teens was sliding her ass up and down the spotlight pole in time to Brown Sugar, her caramel-colored skin spinning off diamonds from the disco ball above. She was a tiny little thing with round breasts and a tight ass that vibrated as if someone had dropped a quarter in it. She had a ponytail extension pulled up high so that it cascaded down her back and she was whipping that ponytail with a rhythm any dominatrix would have envied. Men were throwing fistfuls of cash at her and begging for a private dance. And no wonder. Either the kid was a natural, or she’d been put on the pole around the age when most girls were holding tea parties. She was doing things to it that Lana wouldn’t do with the best of men. The kid would probably bring in a couple thousand by the end of the night, while Lana would be lucky to crack a couple hundred.

  With that girl on stage, Lana was invisible. Yet, she could not find it in herself to resent the newcomer. She probably had bills to pay, too, and would be where Lana was before long, disgusted by the turtle burpers, ruined for love, and as cynical as any war-hardened sniper. However much the girl might love being the center of attention now, it would not last, and Lana felt sorry for her.

  Then Lana thought of what Dewey would do to her if she came home with less than five hundred bucks.

  She rolled onto her back and pulled her t-string aside, scoring a fistful of dollars from a group of old geezers sitting ringside who were egging each other on. When she had enough to placate her pride, Lana strutted off the stage and joined the other dancers watching the action.

  “Well, that was a waste of time,” she told them.

  “No kidding,” another dancer said. “We’re waiting for her break before we go on. Kid’s got stamina. It’s like she’s in the Olympics or something.”

  Lana decided she’d wait, too. Dewey would be furious, but what the hell was he offering toward the rent? He could barely get his fat ass off the couch.

  She really needed to do something, Lana knew. Tonight was the start of the downhill slide she’d been expecting. She’d only be competing with more and more young girls in the years ahead.

  By the end of the night, Lana had barely cleared three hundred dollars. She figured Miss Thang had indeed hauled in thousands. Damn, Lana thought. I am getting too old for this shit.

  “Don’t ever schedule me on the same night with her again,” she told Jorge on the way out. “Not unless you start pooling tips.”

  Jorge held up his hands as if he were helpless to do anything about it. He grinned. “You’re kidding me, right? She’s going to be up there every night from now until the end of time if I have anything to do with it. The place is packed, and drink sales have doubled.”