Shotgun, Wedding, Bells

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Seriously?” asked a younger girl. She barely looked as if she was sixteen. “That's so rude!”

  “Yup. Here's the deal. If you can help me find the man who shot my husband on our wedding day, I'll teach a special class for all of you, absolutely free. You'd have to pay for your supplies, but I'll provide everything else.”

  “Totally righteous,” said a black woman.

  Good. I had their attention.

  “What's this creep look like?” asked a tall girl with enormous boobs that looked like they might cause her to take a headfirst tumble.

  I gave them a description.

  “Bubba,” said a tiny girl with a mop of blond hair and huge eyes. She came over to where I was standing. “Do you know if he had a southern accent?”

  “We think he might,” I said, and I explained about the Walker County, Alabama, connection. “See, he attacked me and my kids, but I was too scared to listen for an accent.”

  “Attacked you? You being PG and all? That's so wrong,” said another young woman, a stunning girl with strawberry blond hair. “Are the kids okay?”

  “Yup.”

  “Walker County, Alabama? Who knew?” said a redhead cracking gum. “I grew up in the next town over from Gary, Indiana, and I always figured we had the corner on hit men.”

  “I guess not,” I said.

  “Hey-hey-hey, ladies!” The door flew open. In walked a short man with a big mouth.

  CHAPTER 67

  “Shoot,” said Susan, under her breath. “It's Little Chuckie. For once, he showed up early.”

  The man swaggered in with his thumbs tucked inside his waistband. He probably weighed all of ninety-five pounds, after a big Thanksgiving dinner. His narrow shoulders gave his big face an impossible perch to sit on. At any minute, it looked as if his head might fall off and roll under one of the dressing tables.

  The girls had been in various stages of getting dressed. But Chuckie's appearance caused all activity to cease. Most of the dancers grabbed robes and held them over their chests to cover themselves. All of them averted their eyes, hoping that Little Chuckie wouldn't pick on them. Their behavior said a lot about how much they despised the man.

  I felt a shiver climb my spine, as he swaggered around the room.

  “Girls, bad news. Anastasia is sick tonight. You'll have to do without your house mother. That's why I'm here early. To keep you all on your toes. Susan? I see you brought me a new dancer.” With a smirk on his face, Little Chuckie waltzed over and looked me up and down. “Something for the perverts in the crowd, huh? So, Little Mama, you ready to make your dancing debut?”

  “No,” I said. “I'm a friend of Susan's and I came here to—”

  “But Susan told you the rule, right? The only people allowed back here are performers and me. Let me spell it out for you.” He poked a pencil-sized finger at my chest. “Either you get up there and do your thing, or Susan loses her job. It's that simple.”

  I gasped. I couldn't imagine how Susan would manage without this job. I'd overheard her talk about the expensive treatments and equipment that Dallas needed just to survive, much less to thrive. Afterwards, I'd looked it up. A child with CP costs ten times that of a child without CP. In fact, the lifetime care amounted to somewhere around a million dollars.

  “You're kidding,” I said. “You wouldn't do that.”

  Susan's eyes filled with tears. Her voice shook with panic. “Please, Chuckie, please don't! I brought her in really early, see? Before the place filled up. No one needs to know that a civilian is back here with us girls. I can tell the customers that she's my sister.”

  “Ah, ah, ah,” he said, wagging his index finger and looking self-satisfied. “The rules were made for a purpose. If we allow one person back here, we've got no right to keep the rest of the patrons out. We're all clear on the rules, aren't we girls?”

  To a woman, they nodded.

  “You-all remember what happened to Delilah when her babysitter brought her kid here, don't you?” He had a mean grin that belied any kindness.

  Cocking a hand to his ear, he said, “Let me hear the rule, ladies.”

  “No guests in the dressing room,” they chanted.

  “There you have it. Susan, start packing up your stuff. You've got fifteen minutes to get your butt—”

  “Wait!” I shouted. “Stop! I'll dance. I'll do whatever it takes.”

  “Really?” He raised an eyebrow at me. “You'll go out there on the stage? This I gotta see. You know anything about dancing? Or are you planning to hop around like the fat cow you are?”

  He snickered and glanced around to see if the others were laughing, too.

  They weren't.

  “Actually, I'm a terrific dancer. I've had ballet and modern jazz,” I said, feeling my anger bubble up. How dare this pipsqueak fire Susan for being nice to me! What kind of a creep was he?

  “Suit yourself, Big Mama.” He sneered. “If you get booed off the stage, don't come crying to me.”

  “Don't worry,” I said. “I won't.

  Whatever embarrassment I'd felt previously was now replaced with raw fury. I had to restrain myself from giving this twerp a good kick in the shins. He and I glared at each other for what seemed like forever.

  Finally, Little Chuckie threw back his head and laughed. “This I gotta see.”

  CHAPTER 68

  The girls quickly introduced themselves and offered to show me the ropes, such as they were. “You can't go out there without a tan,” said Candi, the tiny dancer. “If Annie was here, she wouldn't allow it.”

  I assumed she was talking about the house mother. “Um,” I looked down at my winter white arms, “it's a little late in the game to worry about that, isn't it?”

  “Heck, no,” said Tunisia, handing me a foil package. “Inside are tanning towels. Wipe them all over your body. We'll get the parts you can't reach. Most of us are addicted to tanning beds, but this will do in a pinch.”

  Susan shook her head and said, “Kiki needs a costume. What do we have, ladies?”

  That sent everyone scurrying. They dug through purses and bags, holding up bras and panties and bathing suits and garments I couldn't even begin to name. Tunisia hauled out a two-piece bathing suit. “This will work, if I glitz it up. Your belly will show. Is that okay? Good. Let me warm up my glue gun. I’ve got tons of fake jewels down here in my bag.”

  “That I can do. I'm a whiz with the glue gun.” Finally, something I could relate to!

  “Good,” said Susan, “Because while you glue on the bling-bling, I need to get you all dolled up.”

  After seating me at one of the dressing tables, Susan hoisted a pink tackle box onto a bar stool and opened it up. Inside was the biggest collection of makeup that I've ever seen. In fact, it looked like someone had dumped an entire cosmetic counter into the box. Pawing through various supplies, she chose a bottle of foundation and a sponge. After smearing it over my face, she cautioned me, “This needs to dry. Do your gluing. I'll get my costume on.”

  All around me, women were disrobing, discarding plain cotton Victoria's Secret panties for tiny G-strings and bras covered with sequins and faux gems. I was glad for the job of gluing jewels to my two-piece bathing suit, because it gave me a place to look. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that many of the women had chosen to be artificially enhanced. One of them, Foxee, smiled at me and nodded downwards at her own twin peaks. “Like 'em? I got a good deal from a local doctor. Still making payments on them, but with the extra tips I'm raking in they'll be paid off in no time.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling at a loss. “Then they were a good investment, right?”

  “You betcha,” said Dee-Lite-Full, a statuesque woman with a generous smile. “They can make the difference between earning a little and earning big. It's almost like an extra grand a week per cup size.”

  I'd finished adding sequins to the bathing suit bottoms. I picked up the top and started on it. Covering it with fake gems didn't take long at all. The cu
ps were tiny. “Um, this won't cover everything. Since I've been pregnant, I've grown.”

  “It's not supposed to cover everything,” said Susan, laughing. “That's the point.”

  “Or one of two points,” said Tori, who introduced herself as Dr. Victoria Sanchez, “proud owner of a PhD in sociology.”

  “Right,” I mumbled. How on earth had I gotten myself into this?

  Tori came over behind me, so she could run her fingers through my chin length curls. “This will never do. I'll take care of her hair. Be right back.”

  Susan bent low to whisper, “Wow, she's really taken a shine to you. We all beg her to do our hair, but she won't. You're in luck.”

  While Susan attached false eyelashes to my lids—the trick being to let the glue set up so it's tacky before you try to stick on the lashes—Tori skinned my curls back and pinned them into a tiny ponytail. Then she clipped on a large fake hank of hair. To cover the spot where the real and the fake hair met, she wrapped it with a glittery red band that matched the colors in my “costume.”

  I resisted the urge to giggle as Susan applied various brushes to my face, drawing in darker eyebrows and enlarging my lips. “Time for you to change. I can tell you won't feel comfortable baring it all in front of us. That's okay. The john is over there, behind the racks of costumes.”

  Most of the dancers were dressed and putting the final touches to their make-up. All whipped out bottles of fragrance and started spraying themselves. The back room smelled like the cosmetic counter at Dillard’s. I covered my nose rather than sneeze.

  Walking through a cloud of perfume, I headed toward a spare, utilitarian bathroom. No effort had been made to pretty it up. Because my belly was so big, I worried I'd get stuck in there. But somehow I managed to shed all my clothes and pull on the two pieces of the bathing suit. It did cover the essentials, but not much more. I breathed a sigh of relief. Next I wiped myself carefully with the tanning towel. Nothing happened.

  So much for looking bronzed and healthy. I tossed the fabric square into the trash. Only then did I dare to look at my reflection in the mirror—and when I did, I gasped.

  Who was that woman? She looked like a femme fatale!

  “Yeah, I know who she is,” I said, speaking directly to the reflection. “She's the woman who's going to save Chad Detweiler's life.”

  Leaving the safety of the restroom, I pushed past the clothing rack. But I came to an abrupt stop when I saw myself in the three-way mirror. I sure didn't look like me! If I hadn't given Johnny my purse with my cell phone, I would have taken a selfie. No one was going to believe my total transformation. The tanning towel worked its magic, turning my skin a golden bronze.

  Craning my neck this way and that, I admired my reflection. I looked like some weird participant in a TV reality show. There was just one problem. My baby bump was so advanced that my belly button stuck out.

  Tunisia rolled the rack to one side and gave me the once over. She ripped open another pack of tanning towels and wiped down the back of my legs and shoulders where I couldn’t reach.

  I pointed to my navel. “This looks weird.”

  “When in doubt, add bling. By the way, you did a good job with the tan towel. See? It goes on clear, but now you're turning nice and brown.” From her own red toolbox, she fished out a big fake diamond. Using a dab of E-6000 glue, she stuck it onto my belly button. Oddly enough, that looked just right.

  With my baby bump leading the way, I stepped out of the bathroom and joined my new sisters, the Badda Bing Dancers.

  CHAPTER 69

  “Since you're so short,” said Susan, “we decided you should follow Candi. She's first in line.”

  “But I was hoping to hide,” I said. “I really don't want anyone to recognize me. I’d be so embarrassed!”

  Tori pushed Susan aside and said, “Let me handle this.”

  Facing me, she put both hands on my shoulders. “Think it through, Kiki. If someone recognizes you, that means that he or she is sitting in the audience, right?”

  “Right.” I stared at her through a thick fringe of eyelashes.

  “You're here to find the man who shot your husband, but why is the other person here?”

  I stuttered, “To, uh, well, t-t-to...”

  “Stare at half-naked and naked women,” she said, calmly. “So which one of you should feel embarrassed?”

  The logic stunned me. I felt my face relax into a smile. “You're right!”

  She nodded. “I know I am. That's why you're going to get out there and dance. You're going to have a good time. Candi leads us onto stage. If at any point while you're dancing, you don't have a good vantage point, just strut on over to one of the spotlights.”

  “The spotlights?”

  Candi nodded and smiled at me. “The spotlights are platforms all around the stage. Usually we take turns getting up on them, because that's where you collect the best tips, but we voted on it while you were in the john. We decided that you should have priority. Whenever you need to, just climb up on a spotlight platform and dance. Those offer the best vantage points in the house.”

  “But you've got to remember,” said Sugar, a dark-haired beauty with a southern accent, “that the stage is a great big horseshoe. If you don't keep moving the rest of us will get all bunched up.”

  “At first, you might not be able to see a thing. Don't panic. Your eyes will adjust.” Susan patted me on the shoulder.

  “She's right,” agreed Tunisia. “We're under these hot lights, and the crowd is kinda, sorta in the dark.”

  “But when you get up on the spotlight platform, then Phil will sweep the crowd with the baby spots,” Susan said.

  I was confused. “Sweep the crowd with baby spots?”

  “Yeah, Phil handles all the lights. When a girl is on the platform, he pans the audience with smaller spotlights that encourage customers to come up and stick money in your bra and panties.”

  A new sense of panic filled me. “Stick money in my what?”

  “Don't worry.” Susan patted my shoulder. “If a patron touches you for any longer than absolutely necessary, Lucerne and Peevey will toss him out.”

  “Or toss her out.” Tunisia rolled her eyes. “Remember that weird chick who tried to yank down my top last week? Geez, what a nut-case. She musta been high on something because she claimed I was wearing her clothes!”

  Candi giggled. “Yeah, but Lucerne picked her up by the collar and carried her out like a mama cat grabs a kitten. He was so steamed.”

  “Not to worry,” said Susan, as the music started up. “You'll be fine. Just pretend you're dancing by yourself in your kitchen, all alone.”

  That really, really put a scare into me.

  CHAPTER 70

  Here's my big secret, the thing I wasn't telling my new friends. I love to dance. Absolutely love it. When I dance, I close my eyes and get wild and crazy. Therefore, I rarely dance. At weddings, I allow myself the luxury of a couple of slow dances and that's it. And I never, ever drink and dance. It's just too dangerous.

  I take that back.

  I did do some drinking and dancing once. It was during a barbecue at Mert's house. I'd had a beer or two, and I started moving and grooving to one of my favorite songs, Don't Cha. I got so caught up in the tune that I lost all sense of where I was. My performance came to an abrupt end when I tripped over a planter filled with pink petunias.

  Johnny helped me to my feet. He leaned close and whispered, “I think I better escort you home. For your own safety. Some of my sister's neighbors seem to have gotten the wrong idea.”

  I looked around and several men had their tongues hanging out.

  “Come on, Anya,” I said, and I stood up with as much dignity as I could muster. When we got into our house, she let me have it. “You were disgusting, Mom. I've never seen anyone act like that.” She wouldn't speak to me for days.

  A month after the party, Mert handed me a beautiful birthday card by Hallmark. The cover suggested that I should “dan
ce like nobody's watching.” But on the inside, she'd used a thick black marker to add, “In the privacy of your own home, please!”

  One night over a couple of glasses of wine, I told Jennifer Moore about my dancing “problem.” She quickly reminded me that Josephine Baker had been born right here in St. Louis!

  “Maybe you're channeling her?” Jennifer added graciously.

  Who knows? Maybe, baby!

  Here's the bottom line: I love, love, love to dance. And this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, right? Besides, I had a good reason for doing my best. If I didn't, Susan might suffer the consequences for helping me.

  I was revved up and ready to go when I took my place behind Candi. She gave me a once-over as the music built to a crescendo. “You look sexy, Little Mama,” she said with a giggle. “Just get out there and have fun, okay?”

  An announcer's voice boomed over the speaker system, “Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a warm Badda Bing Welcome to the Badda Bing Dancers!”

  Polite applause and a few whistles followed, but we stayed put until the DJ started a fast-paced version of the Peggy Lee classic, Fever. The curtain parted slowly. It revealed nothing but darkness. Susan whispered, “Remember, your eyes will adjust.”

  I expected Candi to move forward, but she didn't. Instead, she stood there, posing cheerfully in the opening framed by the curtain. As the music swelled, she waved to the crowd. Peering around her, I tried to make out faces. First I was able to pick out the glowing embers of cigarettes. And then...the faint odor of cigar smoke drifted my way.

  Was the shooter out there? I hoped so!

  I wanted to race out onto the stage and look around, but I didn't. I had to wait for my cue.

  Candi stepped forward, doing a slinky jazz walk. She'd taken about ten steps before pausing to do a slow body roll that drove the crowd wild. Two men rushed over and tucked bills inside the tiny band of her G-string. She blew kisses down at them but allowed them no further contact once the money was in place. Instead, she resumed her strut.