As they settled into the limo with us, he made introductions, giving fake names to Brett and me—I was Nitro and Brett was Belladonna—which was only fair since the stripper gave her name as Tangerine, no doubt a stage name.
“Wow,” Tangerine said as she stuffed her bag onto the floorboard. “Cool wheels, T-Bone.” I guessed T-Bone was Nash’s pseudonym.
It’s hard to tell with a little person, but I figured she was somewhere in her middle twenties. She wore a shoulder-length pink wig and a pink tracksuit—for now. When Nash offered her some champagne, her big blue eyes sparkled, and she threw off a wide smile, revealing braces on her teeth. That almost made me revise my estimate of her age, but I decided she probably hadn’t been able to afford braces until hooking up with the Virgo Club.
But no way was this girl ugly. Actually, she was cute in an Anna Paquin sort of way. You know—the girl who plays Sookie on True Blood? This irked me. Not that she was cute but that Nash only chose her for ugly-stripper night at Gangland because she was a little person. I thought he was cooler than that.
She polished off her champagne in a couple of gulps. “This is the life,” she said, holding her glass out for a refill. “You know what would go great with this? A fried-bologna sandwich.”
At that, Brett laughed, and with a squinty stare, Tangerine’s like, “What? Have you ever had one?”
Brett admitted she hadn’t, and Tangerine goes, “Well, don’t laugh, then. Fried-bologna sandwiches are delicious.”
“I bet they are,” Nash said as the limo rolled out of the parking lot. There were no more pre-party visits to make now. It was back to the expressway—next stop, Gangland.
CHAPTER 34
This time we didn’t enter the same way as before. I suspected this was because Nash didn’t want anyone to catch an early glimpse of his pick in the ugly-stripper contest. Instead, we went in through what was originally the front door of the warehouse and directly to an office that was outfitted with all sorts of dark, polished furniture, probably castoffs from one of Rowan’s dad’s swanky offices.
This place also had framed posters of gangsters on the walls along with a glass case exhibiting what might have been an authentic old-fashioned tommy-gun-style machine gun. Or maybe it was just a squirt gun that looked real—I didn’t ask. Nash sat behind the big desk and broke out the sack he’d scored from D-Stack. Inside was a very large plastic bag of weed. He poked his nose inside and goes, “Mmmm—that’s the stuff.”
Surveying the room, Tangerine’s like, “You guys have more money than you know what to do with, don’t you?”
And Brett goes, “That’s not true. We know what to do with it.”
Nash loaded a pipe with weed and offered it to me. I declined—I already felt queasy from my one glass of champagne—but Tangerine took a hit, inhaling so deeply her face turned a darker shade of pink than her wig.
“You got anything around here to eat?” she said after exhaling a plume of smoke.
“We’ll get you something to eat later,” Nash told her. “Here, have some more champagne.” He handed the nearly empty bottle to her. Then he and Brett traded hits off the pipe.
After they were all good and loaded, Nash said he had a little business to transact, and he and Brett headed for the door. “You two stay here for right now,” he said. Then he walked back to me. “Here, I want you to hold on to something for me.” He pulled out his wallet and handed me a hundred-dollar bill.
I’m like, “What’s this for?”
And he goes, “I might need your help with something.”
“Like what?” I asked, staring at the money. I’d never held a hundred dollars all in one bill before.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be right back,” he said, and he and Brett left.
Tangerine wrestled her way up into a chair, which was no easy feat considering the champagne bottle tucked under one of her arms. She took a swig and goes, “So what are you in for?” Like we were in jail or something.
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, what did they hire you to do tonight?”
“They didn’t hire me. We’re friends. We’re just hanging out.”
“Right,” she said. “Then what did he give you the money for?”
“I don’t know.” I looked at the bill again. “Probably part of some game they have going on tonight.”
“Yeah, rich uppity-ups and their games.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bag and lit one. “What’s your real name? I know it’s not Nitro.”
I told her, and she’s like, “My real name’s Melody. You know how I knew you weren’t rich like the other two? Because in the limo they were just kind of melting into the seats, just as comfortable as could be, but you looked like you were sitting on a block of ice. It was obvious you’d never been in a limo before.”
“Have you?”
“Once.” She blew out a cloud of smoke. “But don’t get me started on that. Uppity-ups are crazy. That’s all I’m going to say. They’re warped. I’ll work with them if I have to, but I’d rather hang out with the girls at the V anytime. I liked you right off, though.”
The V, I guessed, was the Virgo Club.
“Thanks,” I said. “I liked you too.”
“You just need to quit trying so hard to get them others to like you, that’s all. You know my friend Tanya had her baby tooken away? Well, she did. Little Serenity Ann. The Human Services people got her. Now there’s this old uppity-up couple wants her. They think they can just pluck her away like she’s a berry growing on a bush.”