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Over the next few weeks, I became progressively more comfortable with handling the club operations. I even made some contributions, snapping pictures of dirty floors as documentation for John to negotiate a refund from the custodial company, and setting out several humane traps in order to determine whether Hank’s rat assessment held any merit. The traps had yet to catch anything.
On Mother’s Day, Sunday, May 12, John officially promoted me to club manager on a full-time basis.
Although I welcomed the good news, the day still stung with sadness. Had Carly lived, she would have been expecting to meet her son today.
Even though news of Patrick’s research had ignited public outrage, there was still a lot to be done to bring Carly justice. After confiscating the Options equipment and files, and questioning Keisha and some of the other Options clients—especially Bethany and Sofia, Patrick’s two other research vessels—Sparks had assured me the district attorney had substantial evidence to pursue prosecution. Whether Patrick had murdered any girls before Carly remained unknown, but the investigation continued as the police worked to identify and locate former Options patients who also might have fallen victim to the doctor’s research.
Patrick was currently awaiting his trial from jail, where he was being held without bail.
Several weeks after seeking the second opinion, Keisha had miscarried. She’d never intended to raise her baby, but its fate tore her up nonetheless. Despite how everyone assured her she couldn’t possibly have known, she still blamed herself for choosing Options. Fortunately, her new therapist and the constant support of Mike were helping her to work through her guilt and grief.
After Whiskers’ plea for help the night of my abduction, Ray discovered about my continued presence in his apartment complex. Thankfully, he did end up releasing the full security deposit on my old unit, and I used the savings from my rent agreement with Helen to pay him the rest of what I owed at the beginning of this month. He’d become much friendlier since then, but that could only be because he hadn’t yet figured out that I was harboring Herman, the unauthorized third cat, in my bedroom.
“Here’s your first task as official club manager,” John said now, handing me this week’s paychecks. “Distribute these, and the staff will love you until next Sunday.”
I gripped the checks and made my way to the dressing room. Norma Rae, Georgia, and Yasmine were in the middle of preparations for the night.
“Megan!” Georgia greeted. “John told us the news earlier about making you official. Congratulations, manager!”
I smiled and handed her a check. “Thanks.”
Norma Rae made a beeline for my side, her fingers snapping at her own paycheck. She might not yet acknowledge my authority, but she was willing to benefit from it nonetheless.
“That bar down the street is offering two-for-one drinks in honor of Mother’s Day,” Georgia said. “We should all go after work.”
Norma Rae whipped toward her. “Two for one? So you buy a drink, and I be gettin’ one free?”
Georgia rolled her eyes. “Something like that.”
Norma Rae’s own eyes expanded to the size of serving platters. “I be there.”
“Count me in too,” Yasmine said.
Georgia turned to me. “Megan, you’ve got to come. You’re the reason we’re celebrating.”
I hesitated. I still hadn’t determined the social impact of my promotion. I was no longer an exotic dancer, and technically could be considered the girls’ boss now. I wasn’t sure whether going to bars with them was appropriate anymore, but with more time I hoped I’d figure out a balance between being both manager and friend.
“Yeah, Megan,” Yasmine said. “At the very least, come for Carly. She’d be so proud that you didn’t let her life end for nothing.”
We all fell silent at the mention of Carly. My heart twisted over the reminder of today’s significance for her. I glanced between my coworkers, feeling their words and shared emotions sway me.
“Norma Rae,” Georgia prompted, elbowing her in the ribs, “tell Megan she has to come out with us.”
Norma Rae stared at the floor. “You gotta come out with us,” she mumbled.
I laughed. “Well, with an invitation as warm as that, how can I refuse?”
* * *
“Yo, peeps! Move outta the way for my new boss,” Norma Rae shouted, shaking her shoulders as she maneuvered through a crowd of dancers. “She be the Metro detective of the year, and she ain’t even on the force!”
Norma Rae’s mood had improved considerably now that we’d each downed a couple beers and she’d spotted a table being vacated. We’d been standing near the entrance of the bar, each of us assigned to monitor one corner of the room in search of patrons abandoning their table. Despite the late hour, every single seat had been occupied when we’d arrived.
Georgia, Yasmine, and I followed single file behind Norma Rae while she jostled between the other patrons. We each held up a beer and danced our way toward the table where two couples prepared to leave. Several inebriated strangers let out a cheer and tacked themselves onto our procession, creating an impromptu conga line through the dance floor.
The crowd was stifling tonight. People were packed so thickly in the aisles that some duos had taken to moving in time with the music between tables rather than fighting their way to the dance floor. Apparently, we weren’t the only group with reason to celebrate.
The number of young people crammed inside surprised me. Didn’t they have mothers to honor? We couldn’t all have been orphaned before thirty. Or perhaps these hoards of twentysomethings had come to drink off the memories of an excruciating evening spent entertaining their mothers. Or maybe they’d dragged their mothers along to celebrate all throughout the night by getting raging drunk.
Norma Rae signaled for refills as we all grabbed seats around the vacated table, but the passing waitress ignored her. She looked completely harried, and her tray was already filled to capacity.
“Place so busy I can’t even get me a fix,” Norma Rae grumbled.
“Just pray nobody pulls the fire alarm,” Georgia said, finishing off the last of her beer.
Yasmine giggled. “Yeah, we’d be trampled in the stampede.”
Norma Rae raised her hand again, only to be ignored by another server. “Ain’t never gonna get no service in here.”
“Maybe if all four of us yell at the same time we’ll get some response,” Georgia suggested. But before we could coordinate, she bellowed “Drinks!” at the top of her lungs.
Her voice would normally be lost in the music and other conversations, but a few men at a nearby table heard her and began their own chant. Pretty soon, the collective yell of “Drinks! Drinks!” roared throughout the building.
I stood up. “I’ll get us beers from the bar. Be right back.”
As I inched past a few gyrating couples, I heard Georgia rousing the group into performing Carly’s signature shimmy in honor of her memory.
I pushed past the other patrons before I could witness the tribute, stepping on more feet than I cared to during my trek. Since the bar was obscured by the crowd, I had to use the tall walls filled with bottles of every liquor product imaginable to guide me in the right direction.
I finally reached my destination, wedging myself between two people at the counter. The nearest bartender had his back to me, but stood close enough that I could yell in his ear.
“Excuse me. Can I get four Heinekens?”
The bartender paused from making the drink in front of him and turned around. I started to raise my hand so he’d know who had spoken, but my arm froze an inch above the counter.
Bongo stared back at me, his own arm unmoving as he held a vodka bottle half ready to pour.
Time seemed to stop. The noise of the bar faded away, replaced by the sound of my own blood rushing through my ears.
Bongo recovered first. He finished mixing the drink and passed it to a hand grabbing across the bar before stepping toward me.
I watched him, my brain buzzing. I willed my salivary glands to start working again.
“Megan,” he said.
I felt a juvenile sense of glee that he remembered my name.
He glanced at my top. “Tough journey, huh?”
I looked down at the tank top I’d changed into after work, now splotchy from the spills endured during my journey to the bar. I spied a stray maraschino cherry with its stem caught in the fabric and plucked it off.
“It’s busy tonight,” I said lamely.
“Yeah, I’m swamped here,” he replied, but he made no move to tear off the drink orders peeling relentlessly out of a miniature printer. Nor did he respond to the cluster of people all vying for his attention.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He grinned. “I believe that was one of the first things you ever said to me.”
I couldn’t help but smile too. The humiliation of the night I’d approached to throw him out of Barely There had dulled, leaving just a pleasant memory of the encounter.
“But to answer your question, I work here,” Bongo said.
I turned his words over in my head. Did Bongo’s job mean he’d given up drug dealing, or had he been busted since our dinner at Circo and this stint fulfilled some prison work-release obligation?
But of course it was too soon for Bongo to have been arrested, convicted, and subsequently released. Our date had only occurred six weeks ago, although with everything that had happened since it felt as though years had passed.
“I know the owner,” Bongo said, “and he was nice enough to give me a shot.”
“What about . . .” I flapped my hand, not wanting to call attention to his illegal activities in the middle of this crowd.
“I still do that too.”
My heart fell. I knew my reaction was silly. I’d never expected Bongo to give up his career for me, but I still couldn’t prevent the wave of dejection that washed over me.
“But I’m working on getting out of the business,” he continued.
Hope surged through me, dizzyingly strong in its intensity. The emotion made me feel impossibly young. I’d had twenty years of disappointments with men—thirty if including my father—yet around Bongo I felt like a schoolgirl again, someone just learning the full capacity of all her emotions and being surprised by each.
He shrugged. “It’s more of a young man’s profession. I’ve kind of outgrown it.”
“You’ve matured,” I said.
We locked eyes and smiled at the same time.
He looked away first, picking up a rag and running it across the counter. “So, what are you doing here tonight?”
“My coworkers and I came for a couple reasons,” I told him. “Remember my roommate Carly? Well, it turns out there was something going on at that clinic. Something bad.” I fell silent, not wanting to shout the details over the crowd. Besides, maybe he knew already. “Have you watched the news?”
“No.” He stopped pretending to clean the counter and peered at me, his piercing blue eyes boring into my soul. “You should tell me about it over dinner.”
I feigned surprise and tried to ignore the rapid beating of my heart. “Bartenders need to eat too?”
The corners of his mouth turned up. “Sometimes, if they have somebody worthwhile to take out.” His smile faded and he sighed, leaning his elbows on the counter. A stack of napkins collapsed, but he made no move to right them. He probably hadn’t even noticed. “Look, Megan, it will take a few more months before I’m completely . . . transitioned.”
“My story can hold for a few more months,” I assured him. “Trust me, it will be worth the wait.”
His eyes sparkled. “I already know that.” His head snapped to the side, as if he’d just remembered he was supposed to be serving the crush of people pressing in from all sides. “Now, what is it that you wanted to order?”
“Four Heinekens.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“My girlfriends and I are celebrating,” I explained, letting myself become infected by the convivial atmosphere of the bar for the first time. “We’re here to avenge sad endings and welcome new beginnings. Hear, hear!”
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