across the room toward her. He lifted a big hand and gently covered her eyes with it.
“Be all right,” he murmured.
JASPER DRAGGED O.T.’S BODY DOWN the hallway toward the back exit. The Whale locked his office door.
Lucy felt blank, light-headed. The narrow, dimly lit corridor was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and watermelon-scented body spray. The Whale’s voice came to her from the end of a long, long tunnel.
“Let’s go eat a steak.”
He started walking, then turned back when he realized she wasn’t following him. “What?”
“I gotta use the ladies’ room,” she said.
“Hurry the fuck up. I’ll be in the car.”
GINA FINISHED CHANGING INTO HER street clothes—a pair of Dark Baja True Religions that fit her like a glove and a Runnin’ Rebels sweat-shirt—then touched up her lip liner. She put her hair up in a ponytail, then tried it down. Up? Down? She decided it looked better up. Half past midnight. A minute later, Lucy pushed open the door to the undressing room and stepped inside.
She looked like hell, her face bloodless and eyes empty. She went to the sink and ran some cold water, then just stared in a daze at herself in the mirror. Gina gave her a second, but they couldn’t afford much more than that. She reached over and turned off the faucet.
“Lucy?”
Lucy continued to stare at her reflection.
“You sure you want to do this?” Lucy said finally, her voice shaking. Gina put two fingers under Lucy’s chin and turned her face away from the mirror. Kissed her on the lips. Kissed her again. Took Lucy’s upper lip between both of hers and tugged gently.
“Don’t wig on me now, Loosey Change, okay?”
Lucy drew in a deep breath and held it. “You really mean it?” she whispered. “You love me?”
She gazed up at Gina with those black Spanish eyes of hers. Gina felt a faint familiar ache of sweet melancholy, fading almost as soon as it started, like a breath of wind not quite strong enough to rattle the leaves in a tree.
She took Lucy’s hand and pressed the warm palm to her sternum. “You have the key to my heart, sweetie.”
“Three A.M. ,” Lucy said.
“Three A.M. ”
“The volcano.”
“You know I’ll be there,” Gina said.
Lucy nodded and hurried out of the room.
Gina smiled and picked up the key Lucy had left on the edge of the sink.
THE WHALE’S PRIVATE OFFICE WAS at the far end of the hall on the left, between the undressing room and the fire exit. Foot traffic was bad for a few minutes, girls on crystal breaks clattering on high heels to the bathroom and back. But then Gina heard the next song start pounding through the walls—seriously: more of that stupid hair metal?—and the hallway cleared.
She slid the key into the lock and heard the velvety snap of the dead bolt. She slipped inside Dick Moby’s office and shut the door behind her. Flicked the lights on. The cabinet was behind the desk, beneath the mini-fridge, right where Lucy had said it would be.
The air in the room was hot, stale, heavy with Whale funk. Gina knelt on the carpet and pulled open the cabinet doors. She almost giggled out loud when she saw all the money stacked on the shelves inside—bricks of hundred-dollar bills, ten grand per. Thirty bricks, thirty-five, forty. Shit! She cupped a hand to her mouth and did, then, giggle out loud.
She helped herself to one of the Whale’s Kools from the pack on the desk and tucked it behind her ear for later. She figured he wouldn’t miss one little cigarette, a thought that almost started her giggling again. Instead she assumed her most serious, all-business frowny-face, yanked down the zipper of her gym bag, and started stuffing in the money.
DICK MOBY HONKED TO HURRY the dumb cooze across the parking lot, but—as always—Lucy took her good, sweet time. Your average jig had nothing on a Mexican girl when it came to sheer laziness—Mexican or Costa Rican, whatever the hell she said she was. Lucky for Lucy she had a
“Be all right,” he murmured.
JASPER DRAGGED O.T.’S BODY DOWN the hallway toward the back exit. The Whale locked his office door.
Lucy felt blank, light-headed. The narrow, dimly lit corridor was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and watermelon-scented body spray. The Whale’s voice came to her from the end of a long, long tunnel.
“Let’s go eat a steak.”
He started walking, then turned back when he realized she wasn’t following him. “What?”
“I gotta use the ladies’ room,” she said.
“Hurry the fuck up. I’ll be in the car.”
GINA FINISHED CHANGING INTO HER street clothes—a pair of Dark Baja True Religions that fit her like a glove and a Runnin’ Rebels sweat-shirt—then touched up her lip liner. She put her hair up in a ponytail, then tried it down. Up? Down? She decided it looked better up. Half past midnight. A minute later, Lucy pushed open the door to the undressing room and stepped inside.
She looked like hell, her face bloodless and eyes empty. She went to the sink and ran some cold water, then just stared in a daze at herself in the mirror. Gina gave her a second, but they couldn’t afford much more than that. She reached over and turned off the faucet.
“Lucy?”
Lucy continued to stare at her reflection.
“You sure you want to do this?” Lucy said finally, her voice shaking. Gina put two fingers under Lucy’s chin and turned her face away from the mirror. Kissed her on the lips. Kissed her again. Took Lucy’s upper lip between both of hers and tugged gently.
“Don’t wig on me now, Loosey Change, okay?”
Lucy drew in a deep breath and held it. “You really mean it?” she whispered. “You love me?”
She gazed up at Gina with those black Spanish eyes of hers. Gina felt a faint familiar ache of sweet melancholy, fading almost as soon as it started, like a breath of wind not quite strong enough to rattle the leaves in a tree.
She took Lucy’s hand and pressed the warm palm to her sternum. “You have the key to my heart, sweetie.”
“Three A.M. ,” Lucy said.
“Three A.M. ”
“The volcano.”
“You know I’ll be there,” Gina said.
Lucy nodded and hurried out of the room.
Gina smiled and picked up the key Lucy had left on the edge of the sink.
THE WHALE’S PRIVATE OFFICE WAS at the far end of the hall on the left, between the undressing room and the fire exit. Foot traffic was bad for a few minutes, girls on crystal breaks clattering on high heels to the bathroom and back. But then Gina heard the next song start pounding through the walls—seriously: more of that stupid hair metal?—and the hallway cleared.
She slid the key into the lock and heard the velvety snap of the dead bolt. She slipped inside Dick Moby’s office and shut the door behind her. Flicked the lights on. The cabinet was behind the desk, beneath the mini-fridge, right where Lucy had said it would be.
The air in the room was hot, stale, heavy with Whale funk. Gina knelt on the carpet and pulled open the cabinet doors. She almost giggled out loud when she saw all the money stacked on the shelves inside—bricks of hundred-dollar bills, ten grand per. Thirty bricks, thirty-five, forty. Shit! She cupped a hand to her mouth and did, then, giggle out loud.
She helped herself to one of the Whale’s Kools from the pack on the desk and tucked it behind her ear for later. She figured he wouldn’t miss one little cigarette, a thought that almost started her giggling again. Instead she assumed her most serious, all-business frowny-face, yanked down the zipper of her gym bag, and started stuffing in the money.
DICK MOBY HONKED TO HURRY the dumb cooze across the parking lot, but—as always—Lucy took her good, sweet time. Your average jig had nothing on a Mexican girl when it came to sheer laziness—Mexican or Costa Rican, whatever the hell she said she was. Lucky for Lucy she had a
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