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“There ain’t no files in the storage closet,” Norma Rae said during the drive back to the restaurant. “It ain’t even used for storage. The docs just got themselves a lunchroom in there.”
“Carly’s file wasn’t in Patrick’s file cabinet either,” I told her.
“I done swiped me a cookie while I be snoopin’ in the docs’ kitchen,” Norma Rae confessed. “Tasted like shit. I had to drop it in the toilet with the rest of my dump. Filthy thing looked right at home.”
“They were probably low-calorie cookies,” I said absently. I stared out the window, disappointed by our lack of results. “I just don’t understand where else Carly’s file could be.”
With Carly’s records failing to show up in either Patrick’s exam room or the reception area, I could only conclude that Options had relocated it off-site after learning of her death. The timeline seemed rather hasty, but maybe that was standard procedure for medical offices. After all, doctors were accustomed to dealing with death in a timely manner.
Something else disturbed me about the patient files. Counting the twenty files in the reception area and the three in Patrick’s office, Options still only had twenty-three patient files. With twenty-two adoption profiles, the tally suggested only one client had either already found an adoption match or intended to keep her baby. Yet I’d counted three adoptive-parent files during our initial visit, and I already knew at least one of the mothers—Adelaine—planned to raise her own child.
And I still hadn’t noticed a file for Brittany or any of the other mothers with a profile page. Could Carly’s and Brittany’s files both be absent, or was Brittany an alias?
Patrick could store client information electronically too, but, unfortunately, I didn’t have the skills or opportunity to hack into his computer.
Norma Rae and I didn’t speak throughout the rest of the drive. She was too consumed with getting her nicotine hit, and I remained preoccupied with Carly’s missing file. By the time she dropped me off at the restaurant and I climbed into my own car, I was no closer to figuring anything out than I had been after leaving the clinic.
I pulled into the Barely There parking lot at two-fifteen and headed inside the building. Before I opened John’s office door, I shook my head to clear out thoughts of Options and Carly. Today marked my first shift as manager in training, and my duties tonight would require my full attention.
“Megan!” John enthused when I stepped into his office. He leapt out of his desk chair and motioned me around. “You’re in charge tonight, so this seat belongs to you. I’ll hang out in the office and keep an eye on things, answer questions from you, the works, but I want you to be the club presence tonight. It will start to give the other staff the feeling that you’re the boss.”
I gulped. “The boss. Okay.”
He ran through my responsibilities, which were namely to make sure people showed up for work and knew what they were supposed to be doing. “Delegation is the key,” he said over and over, reminding me that a lot of his employees were quite competent and didn’t need help—or interference—to get their jobs done.
Over the next six hours, I became increasingly comfortable with the club’s day-to-day operations. John was generous with his help, and under his patient tutelage I started believing I might actually be capable of managing the club on my own someday.
Around nine o’clock, the office phone rang. I’d already fielded a few calls tonight, and picked up the receiver as if I’d been answering this line for years.
“Megan? It’s Keith.”
“Hi, Keith,” I said to the bartender, locating a pen so I could jot down whatever he needed for the bar.
“A suspicious crowd has gathered on the floor. Looks like they could be about to make a deal.”
My hands turned clammy. “What kind of deal?” I asked, shooting a glance at John. He didn’t notice, his nose buried in papers concerning the property where he wanted to locate Barely There’s sister club.
“A drug deal,” Keith said, his voice short. “What else?”
My heart fell toward my stomach. Although I’d predicted his answer, hearing him verify my suspicions only exacerbated my anxiety. So much for just calling in a beer order.
“I’ll be right out.” I hung up the phone and turned to John. “Keith observed some odd behavior on the floor.”
I waited for John to announce he would go deal with this development, but instead he flipped to another page of the leasing contract and said, “Good luck.”
I slowly backed out of the office, giving him plenty of time to change his mind. When he still hadn’t stopped me by the time I reached the hallway, I sighed and shut the door. Then I walked briskly toward the front of the club. I was dreading this encounter, but if I moved any slower I might be tempted to escape through the emergency exit.
Out front, I made my way to the end of the bar and motioned Keith over. He pointed to three men huddled close to the bathrooms, then ignored me to resume filling drink orders.
Clearly, I was expected to deal with this on my own.
I turned around and took a deep breath. My knees trembled as I neared the group. Half of me wanted to run straight to one of the bouncers and demand they diffuse this gathering, but that wouldn’t be the managerial reaction. A manager took control of her club. She didn’t cower behind a brute.
As I got closer, I surveyed the group, steeling myself for what I could expect when I reached them. The tallest man stood around six feet and had dark hair. Our gazes locked, and I was momentarily stunned to note that he had the most piercingly beautiful blue eyes I’d ever seen. I knew I should maintain his stare to let him know I refused to back down, but even as I told myself this I instinctively averted my eyes.
My focus landed on his right arm, and an impressive snake tattoo became the next thing I noticed about him. The snake’s tail started at his wrist before its body wrapped around his forearm and disappeared under the rolled-up sleeve of his jacket. Its head peeked out from above the man’s collar, its long red tongue reaching toward his ear.
One of his two companions scampered out of the building like a frightened dog. The third individual took a step away from Snake Tattoo. His eyes darted toward the door, but he made no move to flee. He was probably too curious to see what happened between his tough-guy partner and the little girl playing dress-up in a pantsuit.
I decided the direct approach was best. I’d be firm, but polite. “Can I ask what you gentlemen are doing over here?”
I hated how my voice wavered, but hopefully the men hadn’t noticed. The music pulsed so loudly they might think the effect had been caused by the pounding, computer-generated melodies.
Snake Tattoo folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall. “Sure, you can ask.”
He stared at me with his blue eyes, his lips curving into a smile. I didn’t know whether to blame that smile or his penetrating eyes, but my heart executed a little flip.
Focus, I mentally chided myself. I teetered on the verge of forgetting my role in this conversation, and we were only two sentences into it.
“What are you gentlemen doing here?” I tried again.
“Just a little business,” Snake Tattoo said. His tone sounded surprisingly friendly, as if we were two buds standing around making party conversation. “What are you doing here?”
“What?” I volleyed, thrown off by the question.
He uncrossed his arms and pushed away from the wall, taking a step closer. “I asked what you’re doing here.”
If I had been operating with a clear head, I would have found his statement and encroaching proximity menacing. What other reason would he have to close the distance between us? Dressed in this pantsuit—which had begun to feel stiflingly hot—I obviously hadn’t come over to take his drink order or offer a lap dance.
But in my surreal frame of mind, his step forward didn’t feel intimidating at all. It almost felt, crazy as it sounded, intimate, as if he wanted to get to know me better.
Get a grip, Megan, I told myself. I hadn’t even figured out yet whether Snake Tattoo intended to conduct a drug deal on this property I was supposed to be managing, and already he had me so unnerved I felt woozy.
“Okay, you’re going to make me guess,” he said, placing an index finger against the stubble on his chin. “You’re here because you want me and my friends to leave.” He locked eyes with me. “Am I close?”
I gaped at him, willing my brain into gear so I could reply. My heart raced so fast I didn’t think I could even nod without fainting.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He sounded amused.
He shifted his attention to his remaining companion and angled his head toward the door. “Take off, G. We’ll do our business outside.”
G scurried toward the exit, the tension evaporating from his body. I expected Snake Tattoo to follow him, and felt a strange sense of elation when he returned his focus to me without making any move to leave himself. My emotions clashed completely with my mission here. I should be encouraging him to beat it, not basking in his unwanted presence. This was my first real test as a manager, and I was failing miserably.
He extended his arm, the snake tail reaching toward me. “I’m Bongo, by the way.”
“Oh,” I managed, staring at his outstretched palm.
He had the type of hands I liked. I couldn’t help but study the one he offered. His right hand was large with long graceful fingers, masculine with the right amount of roughness and just a slight smattering of hair across the knuckles. His hand oozed confidence, advertising that he was capable of handling anything that came his way.
But why the hell was I evaluating his hands? What was wrong with me?
He didn’t move for what felt like several minutes. Then he pulled back his hand and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
“Nice meeting you.”
I watched him walk past me, close enough to touch if I so much as tilted my head forward. When he ducked out the exit without looking back, a strange sense of disappointment washed over me.
* * *
“Idiot,” I muttered under my breath as I stomped back toward John’s office. “Some manager you’re turning out to be.”
But I had gotten Bongo and his crowd to vacate the club without causing a scene, I reminded myself. That should count for something. Never mind that Bongo and his crew had left willingly and hadn’t even waited for me to make the suggestion, let alone protest it. The point was they’d left.
At least nobody had witnessed our encounter. I realized this was perhaps the only redeeming aspect of the entire incident. For all Keith or anyone watching knew, I had talked Bongo and his buddies outside using trenchant wit and authoritative command.
As if, I thought. Oh, I mentally repeated, shaking my head. What kind of fool responded to an introduction with a lackluster oh?
I’m Bongo, by the way.
Oh.
“I’m Megan,” I murmured, as if saying it now might send me back in time and change my sad part in the dialogue. “I’m Megan. Duh!”
And why hadn’t I shaken his hand? The gesture at least could have jarred some sense into my brain. Instead, I’d just stood there like a lump.
But maybe I had been wise to not engage in a handshake. Touching Bongo either would have disappointed me when I learned that delicious hand of his suffered from a sweaty palm, limp grip, or some other equally unattractive misfortune, or the contact would have electrified my senses to the point where I would have no longer been able to stand on my own two legs.
I wasn’t sure which scenario I would have preferred.
I opened John’s office door and slammed it shut behind me, ready to wallow some more in private.
“How’d it go?”
My heart jumped into my throat, and I stifled a scream. I had forgotten about John waiting in his office this whole time, sitting back and allowing me to take charge.
He propped his elbows on his desk. His eyes sparkled, presumably in anticipation of hearing about my first real management adventure.
“It went well,” I lied, hoping he didn’t ask for a word-for-word recount. “The group dispersed.”
John beamed as brightly as if his firstborn had brought home her Student of the Month award from kindergarten. Sadly, such an accolade would actually have been a greater achievement than what I’d just accomplished. “See, you had nothing to worry about,” he said. “I knew you were a natural!”
A natural dunce, I thought, but I forced a smile. “Yep, you were right.”
“Of course I’m right. I’ve been in business long enough to recognize management material when I see it.” John put his hands on the leasing contract he had been reading. “But I need you to work the floor the next couple nights.”
Since the next two nights were Friday and Saturday, our busiest of the week, I had expected this. Naturally John would want enough girls circulating to keep the clients happy.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel a twist of dejection that he might not view me as a capable-enough manager to handle the weekend crowd.
But of course he wouldn’t, I reminded myself. I’d only posed as a manager for not even a full day, and with decidedly mixed success. Besides, five seconds ago I myself had been questioning whether I even qualified as a decent weekday manager.
“I’ve got that electrician coming in this Monday, April first, to rewire some things while the club is closed,” John said. “If you’re free, I’d like you to be here to direct him.”
“Oh, sure.” I might as well botch another manager task while I had the chance. Soon enough John would figure out how ill suited I was for this position and get someone else in here.
“You don’t need to do anything except show him around,” John told me. “He should be here around ten.”
“Ten a.m.?” I was starting to get in the habit of rising early, but not by choice. I certainly didn’t want to have to be dressed and at work before noon.
John nodded. “It will take him the good part of a day, so plan on being here late.”
I considered whether I might get away with coming in at ten-thirty or even eleven. Weren’t handymen notorious for disrespecting their clients’ time by showing up late to jobs? The last time a repairman had visited my apartment to fix a leaking kitchen pipe, Ray had told me to expect him between noon and three o’clock. I’d set my alarm to ensure I woke up in time, then sat around stewing until four, when the plumber finally strolled up. If they couldn’t be bothered to even honor an appearance within the three-hour window quoted, I shouldn’t have to rush myself.
But if I screwed up this one simple task of letting someone into the building, John’s faith in my management potential might extinguish completely.
John winked at me. “I know Monday is normally your day off, so go ahead and take Sunday off instead. I’ll throw a little something extra in your next paycheck to cover the tips you’re forfeiting too.”
“Great,” I replied, thinking I’d rather work Sunday, not make any tips, and be able to sleep in Monday.
“Hank will need full access to the building to perform the necessary rewire,” John continued. “Take him wherever he asks to go. I know him, and he’s trustworthy. If you want a lunch break or anything while he’s working, just make sure he’s reached a point to get by without you for a while.”
That sounded easy enough. Maybe I could escape somewhere for a nap. “So I’m basically just babysitting the contractor.”
John laughed and pointed an index finger at me. “Welcome to management.”
* * *
When the crowd started to die down around one a.m., I fetched one of the spare wastebaskets from the storage area and visited the girls in the dressing room.
My interaction with Bongo had emboldened me. My new confidence could result from surviving an encounter with a drug dealer, or be one of the aftereffects from the adrenaline rush triggered by those incredible blue eyes. Or maybe my lingering, self-directed disgust over my conversational ineptitude overrode any hesitation I might normally feel for the task currently at hand.
Georgia rushed up and grabbed my elbow, careful not to touch the wastebasket. “How was your first night?” She eyed me up and down. “You look so cute and professional!”
Her announcement took some of the wind out of my sails. I had been braced to jump directly into a confrontation.
“It’s my only pantsuit,” I said.
“It makes you look like a manager,” she assured me.
“It won’t after wearing it for a few weeks straight. I need to go shopping.”
Georgia squeezed her hands together. “I’ll go with you. It will be fun shopping for work clothes not sold in the lingerie or costume departments.”
“Okay.” I didn’t know whether the stereotype about homosexual men having uncanny fashion sense applied to lesbians as well, but having another pair of eyes handy couldn’t hurt.
“What you done bring us?” Norma Rae asked, stepping away from her vanity to inspect my offering.
I straightened, switching my attention to the real reason for my visit. “It’s actually for you, Norma Rae.”
She scrunched up her nose. “What I gonna do with that?”
“You’re going to use it,” I told her.
I strode toward her vanity and used both hands to bang the wastebasket onto the floor. I made sure to position it within arm’s length of her chair.
Norma Rae followed behind me, watching my movements through narrowed eyes as if she expected me to swipe her things. Georgia trailed behind us.
“It goes like this,” I said, inspecting the items on her vanity in search of the least revolting piece of garbage. I decided on a tissue streaked with makeup, mainly because it wasn’t buried beneath anything else. I lifted it up between my index finger and thumb, and turned to showcase it to Norma Rae. “Whenever you find yourself in possession of something you no longer want, you pick it up and drop it in here.” I bent over and let go of the tissue so it fell into the trash receptacle.
Norma Rae scowled.
Georgia clapped her hands. “Ingenious!”
I pointed to the overflowing ashtray. “You can start with that. Smoking is no longer allowed in the dressing room. I’ll arrange with John to have a tent set up outside the employee entrance where you can smoke your cigarettes.”
“Hooray for clean air!” Georgia cheered.
“When your can fills up, you carry it over there and dump it.” So my directions were clear, while I spoke I pointed to the wastebasket then moved my finger until it lined up with the larger communal garbage bin near the door. “Got it?”
Norma Rae gawked at me for several seconds. When she did respond, her voice emerged as a low growl. “After all I done for her, my bitch done turn on her mama butch.”
