“He liked another girl,” Tonya said.

A lump formed in Yvette’s throat. “Who?”

“Jessica Skye. She was real popular. Blond. Blue-eyed. Great body.”

Yvette felt cold suddenly. She rubbed her arms. “Where’d she go?”

“Quit. Evacuated for the storm.”

“She ever say anything about some guy creeping her out?”

“Not a thing.”

Tonya started out the door, then stopped and looked back. “If he comes in tonight, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Get a look at him for sure.”

“The thing about this guy is, he doesn’t look scary. He’s kind of dumpy. Smallish. Wears thick, clunky glasses. You know, like Clark Kent or pre-spider-bite Peter Parker.”

Yvette nodded and thanked the woman. Alone again, she turned back to the mirror to finish applying makeup.

Only two of the girls presently working the Hustle-Autumn and Gia-had been here before the storm.

Yvette wondered if they would remember Jessica, and if they did, whether she had said anything about an admirer who called himself the Artist.

Both of the other women were working tonight, so she planned to speak to them before their shifts ended.

The rest of the evening crawled by. Yvette now understood what it meant to be on pins and needles. She felt as if her every nerve was on the alert, waiting for Tonya to signal that “he” was here. As she danced, her thoughts were consumed with him. Was he watching her? Planning his next move? Sensing her fear, getting off on it?

Tonya’s signal never came. A part of her had been relieved, another part frustrated. She wanted to see him for herself, look into his eyes and know what she was dealing with.

Tonight she would have to content herself with talking to Gia and Autumn. She caught Gia first, sitting at the bar after closing.

Yvette took the stool next to hers. “Hi, Gia.”

“Hey, Vette,” the woman responded, her voice a soft, deep drawl. “You had a good night?”

“Not my best, but decent. How about you?”

“Same. Beats the hell out of what I’d make at Dillard’s,” she said, referring to a local department store chain.

“Got a question about a girl who danced here before Katrina. Jessica Skye. You remember her?”

“Sure, Jess was a sweetie.”

“You ever hear from her?”

“Nope. She left for the storm. That’s the last I heard from her.” She lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “Why?”

“I’m getting letters from this dude who calls himself the Artist. Tonya’s thinking he used to request Jessica a lot.”

“Tonya said that?”

Yvette nodded. “I wondered if he sent her the same kind of letters.”

“She never mentioned it to me. We didn’t have that kind of relationship.”

“She never said anything about being stalked, creeped out or anything?”

“Sorry.”

“She have a boyfriend?”

“Not that I know of. Hard to do what we do and have a real relationship.” Gia took a last drag on her smoke, then drained her cocktail. “I’m beat. See you tomorrow.”

As she stood to go, Yvette touched her arm. “Autumn still around?”

“She took off already.” The woman frowned slightly, then leaned her head toward Yvette’s. “Word of advice?”

Yvette turned slightly and met her eyes. She nodded.

“I wouldn’t trust Tonya farther than I could throw her. She’s in it for Tonya. Always.”

Long after the other woman walked away, Yvette sat at the bar, nursing her drink, the things Gia had said ringing in her head.

I wouldn’t trust Tonya farther than I could throw her. Hard to do what we do and have a real relationship.

And not just a romantic one but any relationship. She didn’t have any friends. Not real friends, anyway. The kind you trusted and turned to for understanding and support. No family. No boyfriend.

She thought of Marcus and wanted to laugh. There’d been no affection there, no respect. The attraction for her had been money, for him sex. Or something like it.

The guys she met were either already in a relationship and looking for some action on the side, or were freaks, like her buddy the Artist.

And if a regular Joe stumbled in here, he wouldn’t want someone like her.

What’s your girlfriend do? She’s a dancer down at the Hustle.

And if the guy was proud of that-or worse, turned on by it-he was a creep. If he approved of what she did because of the money, he was a pimp and a creep.

Problem was, for a woman who made a living shaking her tits and ass, she had some pretty conservative ideas about love.

But maybe they all did. They operated outside the mainstream but longed to live-and love-inside it.

Tonya took the stool next to hers. “You talked to Gia.”

It wasn’t a question. Yvette answered, anyway. “She remembered Jessica, but Jessica never mentioned the Artist or receiving any creepy letters.”

“What about Autumn?”

“I missed her.”

“She’s dancing tomorrow night.” Tonya stood. “C’mon. I’ll give you a lift home.”

Yvette hesitated.

I wouldn’t trust Tonya farther than I could throw her.

She opened her mouth to ask why the woman was being so nice to her, then shut it, question unspoken. Fact was, she needed someone to trust-and nobody else was available.

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Noon

Yvette hadn’t slept well. She had tossed and turned, troubled by nightmares of faceless women running for their lives. In each dream, when they’d had nowhere left to run, Yvette had realized she was the woman. And that she was going to die.

Thunder rumbled in the dark sky outside her kitchen window. It had been raining since long before daybreak. The weather certainly wasn’t lightening her mood.

The front intercom sounded. Yvette answered.

“It’s Tonya.” The woman’s voice shook. “Can I come up?”

“I’ll buzz you in.”

The woman was winded and wet when she reached Yvette’s apartment. She clutched part of a newspaper to her chest. “You have anything to drink?”

“Juice or cof-”

“Something stronger. Bloody Mary?”

“No tomato juice. Screwdriver?”

Tonya collapsed onto one of the kitchen chairs. “Make it strong.”

Yvette did, quickly adding vodka to a glass of orange juice. She set it on the table in front of Tonya, then took a seat across from her.

The woman picked up the glass, gulped down half the drink, then carefully laid the newspaper on the table, facing Yvette.

It was the Metro Section. Yvette looked at the newspaper, no clue as to what Tonya wanted her to see.

Tonya reached across the table and tapped the paper. “That’s her. Jessica, the girl I told you about.”

Yvette stared at the image. Not a photograph. A police artist’s rendering, in clay. She scanned the paragraph that described the woman. The police were trying to identify the “Jane Doe” and asking the public for help.

Yvette dragged her gaze from the image to look at Tonya once more. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I’m so freaked out.”

“But that means she’s-”

“Dead.” Tonya drained the drink. She held up the empty glass. “Mind if I refill?”

She told her to help herself, though it seemed obvious the one she had just guzzled hadn’t been her first. Did she always drink like this, or was she that rattled?

Tonya mixed the drink, then looked back at Yvette. “And not just dead, murdered. Otherwise they wouldn’t be trying to ID her.”

Yvette stared at her a moment, the reason Tonya had rushed over here sinking in. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You don’t think he…that the Artist killed her, do you?”

“Maybe. He liked her. She disappeared. And you think he killed Marcus.”

Yvette felt ill. “You’re sure it’s her?”

Tonya nodded. “Read the description. It fits her to a T. Age, height-”

“But lots of women-”

“No. Read that again. Jessica had really crooked teeth. She hardly ever smiled because of them. They make a point of mentioning them.”