The daytime was how Diamond knew the place best. She’d been there at night as well, when the place came alive in a drunken, hormone-driven frenzy—when the crowd of sweaty, frothing men was three deep to the stage and bouncers paced like panthers on steroids, waiting for anyone to step out of line. She’d seen the women crawl over the men sprawled in the booths at the back of the place, naked and gyrating for twenty dollars a song, whispering whatever fantasies they thought might increase the tip or bring a request for one more dance. But in the daytime was how she knew the place. Sitting at the bar, doing what homework she could, as her mother served cocktails to the truly lost and desperate souls that found themselves there in the late mornings and early afternoons. This was what the Naked Eye looked like in the light of day, when the cracks in the facade couldn’t be hidden.

Diamond looked around to see who was there, then slid into a seat at the corner of the bar, took off her coat and put it on the stool next to her, took off her hat and put it on top of her coat, stretched her neck and pulled her fingers through her hair in a halfhearted attempt to straighten it. Behind the bar, down at the other end, a woman pushing forty cast a glance down Diamond’s way, and gave a sad, knowing smile. Diamond gave a halfhearted wave and looked away. The bartender made her way down.

“Hey, kid.”

“Hey, Daisy Mae.” As hard as it was to fathom, it was not a stage name. When she had danced regularly, she’d gone by “Chrystal.” Her dancing days were, for the most part, behind her now. She would take an occasional turn on the stage late on a Saturday night, when the place was filled with men no longer capable of seeing the signs of age, whose desire for any flesh overcame the need for perfection. For Daisy Mae, those nights weren’t about the money; they were about the attention. They were about feeling desirable—feeling powerful—for just that moment. As the years passed, there would be fewer and fewer of those nights, she knew, and it scared her. She spent most of her time now behind the bar, where she felt free to use her real name—one which, ironically, other girls might have chosen as a laughably obvious stage name. In that, she and Diamond O’Connell shared a bond.

“What are you doing here?”

Diamond thought long and hard about that. What was she doing here? “Can I get a whiskey?”

“No, you can’t get a whiskey. You’re nineteen.”

Age seemed the least of the reasons Diamond shouldn’t be drinking, but at that moment she didn’t care. Everything seemed so lost, she just wanted a little escape. “Please?”

“You’re underage.”