He blinked. It appeared that he had never heard thisanswer 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 gardenstuffed 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.
