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five-eight black frame, though she could see the evidence in her driver’s license picture. Her face was still striking for its cheekbones, but seemed broader than it had in the publicity glossies five years earlier.
    She had sultry eyes and a smile she knew could raise the motherfucking dead. Her shoulder-length extensions complemented her boobs and the jut of that money-making booty. So what if size D tits made more money; they were the first to sag.
    When Marva passed the washrooms and DJ booth, she stopped to talk to Vicky, a slender blonde with bad teeth leaning against the brass rail near the bar. It was then that she noticed the burly guy with the bandanna and spiky jacket she’d danced for the other night checking her out again from a table on the west side of the stage. Though she’d wondered from the earrings and tattoos if he was a biker, the older man he was with looked more like a cop, except maybe for those cowboy boots with the steel-capped toes.
    â€œI see somebody,” she said. “See you later.”
    â€œYeah, later.”
    Marva picked up the platform and started walking. He raised his hand to catch her attention. She took a leisurely right between some tables and chairs, pausing briefly to brush off another customer until the next song. “Hi,” she said, putting down her prop. “How are you tonight?”
    â€œGood. How’re you doing?”
    â€œOkay. One of you want a dance?”
    When Mr. Steel Toes suggested she perform for both of them, she gave him a smile and told him no, just one, so he said, “I guess Jack, then. He seems to have taken a shine to you.”
    â€œYeah?” She sat between them and crossed her legs, glancing at the bearded one. “He looks kinda mad to me.”
    Her guy deflected attention by looking around the bar with a sneer as the smoke curled up from his cigarette. “They ought to turn on a few lights. You can hardly see a fucking thing in here.”
    â€œLike me, you mean?”
    â€œNo, you know what I mean. Everything.”
    â€œWell, you businessmen like to sit in the dark. You don’t want to be seen in a place like this, right?”
    He snorted. “Hardly.”
    â€œI’m Derek,” the other one said. “I think you know our friend here.”
    â€œI’m Marva.”
    She made small talk while waiting for the next song to start, sniffing periodically to try to clear her sinuses. Although this Derek had a hardened sort of face with pockmark scars, the white shirt and short hair made him seem professional or at least more respectable. He also seemed easier-going.
    She suspected from Jack’s attitude that he was trying to impress her with his toughness. He was staring over her shoulder with a disgusted expression when he said, “Look at that guy there in the leather coat. Those aren’t real handcuffs on the epaulets, just fag shit.”
    â€œWhat are you drinking?” Marva asked, reaching for his glass. “Can I have a sip?”
    â€œVodka-tonic. Go ahead.”
    The next song was “New Orleans is Sinking” by The Tragically Hip. She got up and stood on her platform. It was the second number for Candy-O on the low stage; she shed her bikini top, twirled on the pole, smudged the mirrors, and looked between her legs at the first row. Derek’s attention was divided between the main act and a polite interest in Marva’s limber movements beside him, apparently trying not to stare into someone else’s ten dollars’ worth. Once she was naked she noticed he was harder to distract.
    With her hands on Jack’s chair, she pressed her breasts within an inch of his stony face and slowly turned around, swinging her ass low and bending her knees to graze his lap with a light bounce, bounce, bounce, then up again, peeking at him between her thighs. She got down and pulled the next chair closer as she sank back on it, putting her legs on each of his