It’s close to two when she takes the stage. They have one of those silver balls that flickers multicolored lights all over the room. Connie appears up there in a gentle caress of half dark and the mist from the smoke machines. She wears a thin silky thing of a tiny white slip dress, virgin pale contrasting with her rich light brown skin, as always. Her eyes are painted dark, so moist and sad. Her black hair spills over the gown and past the swell of her breasts.

She enacts her erotic danse macabre, the badly recorded music a tragic Latin dirge, every verse another button coming undone. She looks down and sees me and doesn’t miss a movement of her intricate dance, even though I know she recognizes me right off. She wriggles out of the slip as the song grinds to a halt, and it seems to hover after her in the smoky darkness as the spotlight follows the subtle curve of her back. She looks back just in time to vanish into darkness, looking over her shoulder, her eyes glowing sadness, with a purse on her bloodred lips. The spotlight illuminates just enough of that beautiful ass, bare except for the tiny G-string, to bring a thundering round of applause and a hail of bills onto the stage. She floats back out like a seductive ghost, smiles and licks her lips, clutches her white slip in front of her, arches her back just so as she bends down to pick up the bills, so that each movement shows off the swell of her breasts. Then she’s gone.

She spots me coming back. Big guy tries to stand in front of me, puts his arms up like logs blocking my path. Connie touches him on the shoulder.

“It’s okay, Louie. Let him come back.”

“The other dancers ain’t gonna like that—”

“Look, just forget it, Louie. Jake, give the guy a tip.” I slip him a five. He backs off. “Jake, close your eyes.”