Chicks Kick Butt

the outfits were magical; here they were musty with sweat, sagging, sad—and twitching.

I shoved aside still-warm costumes. Katie Burnell, the sixth girl, crouched behind them, tying a scarf around her head. She gaped up at me in sheer terror for a startled second, then wilted with relief. Her exaggerated makeup had been spoiled by flowing tears. Black trails from her too-thick mascara cut through the supposedly waterproof pancake and greasepaint. She was a mess, a scared-out-of-her-mind mess.

“Those guys are gone, but the boss is hopping mad,” I said. “Stay here a minute.”

She gulped and nodded.

I returned to the hall. The manager—who really wasn’t a bad sort, just upset—had worked out that none of the girls knew any of the guys.

“So they wasn’t nobody’s boyfriends?” he asked, his eyes sharp for the least hint of a lie. Male visitors were not allowed in this part of the club, only stage talent and other employees.

“Oh, please,” said Big Maggie, who wasn’t big, except for her loud, fluting voice. “I can do better than those mugs. Ask me if I can do better.”

He declined the invitation. “You girls never seen ’em before?”

“They weren’t in the audience,” I said from the back. “They were dressed too strange.” On weekends the Classic Club was a high-hat joint. Patrons had to put on the Ritz or find some other place for drinks and a show come Saturday night.

The other girls supported my observation, nodding, agreeing, and comparing notes now that the excitement had died down.

The manager turned toward the bouncers and guys who’d found an excuse to continue loitering at their end of the hall. You’d think they’d be used to seeing half-dressed females, but apparently not. The ventriloquist and even his dummy had come out for a gander.

The manager gave someone hell about the back door being unlocked, but it was like holding back winter: people were always leaving it open after sneaking outside for a smoke.

I kept my lips together about the men looking for a blonde like me. Katie Burnell had dark hair, but it was a recent and poorly done bottle job. No woman goes from traffic-stopping platinum to a mousy shade of brunette without a good reason.

“Break this up and get back to work,” said the manager. “No need to call the law if no one’s hurt.”

“I broke a nail,” Big Maggie informed him, showing her left ring finger, the rest of her digits in a loose fist. She was too much a lady to use her middle finger, which made the gesture all the more amusing to everyone but the boss.

He grumbled about smart alecks as the girls went back to their room. His gaze fell on me as the guys whistled and hooted appreciation. I straightened, having bent over to pick up some trash. The only thing covering my behind was the pale satin slip. They’d focused on that, not on what I’d snagged from the floor and held behind my back.

“You know anything about those mugs, Bobbi?”

“Nope,” I answered truthfully. “They broke in on me, looked like trouble, so I thought I better yell.”

“You thought right.” He turned to make waving motions to my admirers. “Awright, you cake eaters, show’s over. Walk around the building. Make sure those crashers don’t come back. Discourage ’em if they do, but don’t get caught.”

Though the men were worse for wear with blackening eyes and cut lips, they brightened at the possibility of another donnybrook.

“Has this happened before?” I asked as the troops moved off.

He shook his head.

“Maybe at another club?”

That got me a suspicious squint. “What do you know?”

“Nothing, it just seemed a good bet.”

He snorted. “Next time play the horses.”

“What happened at the other place?”

“Same as here. Four bums bust into the dressing rooms, only they left before they could be thrown out. My brother runs the Golden Rose and called about it. I better phone him back. This is an epidemic.”

“What about the other clubs in town?”

“This is Waterview, not Cheboygan. The only entertainment is this place, the other place, a movie house, and a skating rink. Oh, yeah, the barbershop got in a Whiffle Board. If it wasn’t for that colony of swells from Mackinac Island supportin’ our slot machines, we’d be kissing cousins with a Hooverville.”

“Bet it boomed during Prohibition.”

“Nah, the rumrunners from Canada went to the next town over. Faster boats. You sure you don’t know nothing?”

“I wish I didn’t know this much.”

“You an’ me both, sister.” He moved off, scowl intact. I checked on the girls. Their door leaned crazily on one hinge. Big Maggie stood guard while the rest finished changing. Everyone talked a mile a minute, but subsided when they noticed me.

“What’s goin’ on?” Maggie asked, buttoning her dress.

“Boss thinks it was drunks after a free show. They tried the same thing at another club.”

“Huh. Creeps.”

“Men,” said another girl knowingly.

“Men-creeps,” agreed a third.

“Damn,” said a fourth, reacting to a run in the stocking she’d been pulling on.

“Where’s Katie?” I asked, my heart sinking. Enough costumes had been shifted from the rack to show she was no longer there.

“Washroom.”

I crossed to it, knocked, and called before pushing in. The window was wide, the room empty. The alley outside was also empty. Katie had made a clean escape.

Well, I’d intended to offer help.

I looked at the item I’d plucked from the floor. It was the photo the banker type had carried. Though crinkled with abuse, the image was clear, showing a much younger Katie Burnell. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen at the time.

It was a bridal portrait; she was radiant, smiling, and had platinum blond hair.

The cardboard back bore the stamped-on address of a photography studio in Sheldon, Ohio. An elegant copperplate hand had written on the white space under the photo: Mrs. Ethan Duvert on the Day of Her Wedding . The date was under it.

The picture was less than a month old.

Good God, what was she doing to herself? The heavy makeup she always wore made her look years older. She’d also been scared . That could pile on the years.

“Hey, you done in there? I gotta go.” One of the girls slipped by.

I went to my dressing room, donned my traveling suit, and arranged to get my trunk hauled to the train station. It wasn’t a big trunk, not like the one my boyfriend sometimes sleeps in, but I’d checked inside in case Katie had gotten a bright idea. My clothes were there, but no runaway bride. I’d seen too many movies.

Yes … that is correct. My boyfriend sleeps in a trunk. During the day. But only sometimes .

I’ll get back to him shortly.

One of the guys drove me and the trunk to the train station two blocks away. He offered to stay, but the stationmaster and a porter were there, and I had my .38. It made my purse heavy, but I didn’t mind. I was safe enough. Those badly dressed creepy guys weren’t looking for me, after all.

The porter took care of the trunk, the stationmaster took care of my ticket. It was three in the morning in Waterview, Michigan, and I had nothing to do for the next three hours, which was exactly perfect. I parked on one of the long benches and pulled an apple and a movie magazine from my purse. Both gave me something to do while I thought about Katie Burnell and whether there was still some way to find her.