23

Daniel didn’t call that night. Or the night after.

Of course, I had told him not to, but I was still surprised when he didn’t. I knew the last thing I told him had been an ultimatum of sorts. And I knew it had been abrupt. But I didn’t care. I was growing closer to yet another person I didn’t really know. And I was trying to put an end to that stage of my life.

I’d already gone that route once and now that person, who had never really let me in, was gone for good. That’s why my computer was at the bottom of a lake, confusing the hell out of local bottom-dwellers. That’s why I was home planning funerals instead of getting a high school diploma.

And I needed to get better, not worse. So, I decided I wouldn’t call again, even if I was tempted. I would let him go if that’s what it took. And in the meantime, I would try everything I could not to think about him.

Instead, I would concentrate on Mamie’s funeral. Now that I’d heard her story, I knew I had to help her whether my father was on board or not. But in order to do it, I had two big problems to solve. The first was finding a venue. And the second was getting in touch with Mamie’s old friends.

I started with the first.

Unfortunately, my early attempts were a bust. Sunrise Commons refused to do anything related to funerals or stripping, let alone a combo of the two. Funeral homes preferred dead bodies to half-naked living ones. And community centers seemed to have a limited definition of a “community event.” So late that morning, I went to the only other place I could think of: a strip club.

■   ■   ■

By noon I was standing outside of a place called Harry Palmer’s. It was a dive, which is why I chose it. I had to have a better chance at a place so run down. Also, according to horny high school boys I’d once known, HP’s was notorious about not carding. So, it came as a bit of a surprise when a man in a plaid Western shirt and a leather vest stopped me at the door.

“Not so fast, honey,” he said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To see some sad naked women?” I said.

He blinked. It appeared that he had never heard this answer before. He scrunched his thick gray eyebrows.

“You have to be twenty-one,” he muttered. “And all ladies need a male escort.”

“I was just kidding,” I said. “I don’t want to see any boobs. I’m Harry’s niece. I need to talk to him.”

The man looked deeply perplexed now. He turned around, presumably to look for Harry. The leather tassels on his vest swished.

“Wait here,” he said.

He lumbered across the room, and entered a door to the side of the stage. Immediately, I walked into the place and took a seat at a bar, which was strung with blinking red Christmas lights. I glanced toward the stage.

Thankfully, there weren’t any girls my age working the day shift. The women dancing seemed chosen to appeal to an older clientele. Both dancers—one a dyed redhead with gravity-defying fake boobs and a thin Korean woman dressed like a stereotypical schoolgirl—looked old enough to be my mom. Or my mom’s mom.

“You are not related to me!” came a voice from across the club. “And I don’t need any new girls. Especially not underage girls. That is not something I’m interested in.”

A man I could only assume was Harry Palmer came up behind the bar, holding a Bloody Mary with half a garden stuffed inside. He had thick black hair sticking out of a faded military cap. When he smiled, he revealed a perfectly straight row of wine-stained teeth beneath his mustache.

“I suppose you could be a hostess,” he said. “But that’s the best I can do. The tips are still pretty good. But you have to deal with the regulars.”

He took a long pull on his Bloody Mary.

“I’m not here for a job,” I said.

He swallowed.

“Oh,” he said. “Then it seems my drinking has been interrupted for no reason. Have a nice day. Francis will show you out.”

He got up to walk away. The man in the Western shirt—Francis?—took a step forward. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I tried to think about what a real businesswoman would do. Someone like Grace.

“Hey!” I said. “I don’t intend to waste your time, Harry.”

He turned around.

“No? Then why are you still sitting here?”

“Because I have a proposal that I think you might be interested in.”

Harry crossed his arms and put on his professional look of interest. It was very similar to his regular look.

“Lay it on me,” he said. “You have thirty seconds.”

I waved my arm, gesturing toward the clients of the club.

“How many people do you typically get in here on a Monday morning?” I asked.

Harry pursed his lips and blew a long, wet raspberry.

“I figured,” I said. “What if I told you I could fill this place with respectable people from the golden age of burlesque. The only thing you would have to do is give me the space. You keep everything from the bar. I cater, decorate, and organize.”

He looked at me again, maybe for the first time.

“How old are you?” he said.

“Twenty,” I said.

It was hard for me not to crack a smile, but I kept it together.

“What’s the catch?” Harry asked.

“The catch is that it’s a living funeral,” I said.

I couldn’t tell if the phrase meant anything to him. Or if he’d even heard me. Harry looked around his club, his gaze lingering on his clients. There was a man in cutoff jean shorts and cowboy boots, nursing a double-shot of whiskey. Another guy by the stage had a dollar in his teeth and a trucker hat that read “I Love Fat Chicks.”

“Hell,” said Harry. “Every day here is a living funeral.”