“What was weird about it?”

She reached beneath her oversize, drooping red hood and withdrew a long strand of deep brown hair, twisting it around one thin finger.

“Well—”

“Vite, Corinne! Five minutes!”

Red, whose name was evidently Corinne, glanced over her shoulder at a tall, thin man in another hot-pink T-shirt standing on the now well-lit stage.

“Je viens!” she called out, then mumbled, “Gimme a damn minute,”

under her breath as she turned back to face us. And by us, I mean Marc.

“Honey, why don’t we talk some more after my set, ’kay? Sit down and save me a seat, and I’ll find you after I dance. Oui?”

“I guess I can spare a few minutes,” Marc said, flashing a dazzling smile.

My hands curled into fists as she spun on her stupid, dangerously high heels and sashayed—yes, sashayed, swinging ass and everything—into the main room, curling a finger over one shoulder at Marc to beckon him forward.

How the hell does he do that? I thought as we followed Corinne to a booth against the back wal . Somehow, Marc had gotten a potential witness to beg him to question her. Over drinks. Without losing even a shred of dignity.

Yet I’d have to pretend to want to take my clothes off for money in front of a room ful of strange men, just for a chance to drag some information out of the bartender. Fat chance.

Marc slipped into the curved booth, and Corinne bent to whisper something into his ear, her hand resting on his shoulder. Only she didn’t really whisper anything. If she had, I’d have heard it. So whatever she did must have involved her tongue, rather than her voice box.

A warning look from Marc kept my mouth shut, but it didn’t keep my fingernails—my short and unmanicured but very practical fingernails—from digging into my palms.

“Jeff, bring these gentlemen something to drink,” the red-clad whore, excuse me, exotic dancer, called out on her way to a door marked Employees Only on the other side of the room. “And I think the girl with them wants a word with you.” Somehow, she made that sound dirty, in spite of the fact that I was supposed to be applying for the very job she already had.

I shoved Marc over and sat next to him, repressing the overwhelming urge to express my displeasure aloud. Unfortunately, we were in public, in a manner of speaking, and I had no choice but to stick to the story Marc had made up for me. But he would pay later. Boy, would he pay.

“What’ll it be?” Jeff called out, leaning on the bar with both palms flat against the polished surface.

“Whiskey and cola,” Marc called, raising one eyebrow at Kevin, who’d taken a seat across the table from us. We had no rules against drinking on the job, because it takes a great deal of alcohol to impair a cat’s judgment or coordination. And that was pretty damn convenient, considering that teetotalers didn’t stand a chance in hell of blending into the crowd at a strip club. Especially a New Orleans strip club.

“Michelob,” Kevin said, just as hidden speakers crackled from somewhere near the painted-black ceiling and grungy background music blared to life.

Only once the music was playing did I realize it had been missing before. That accounted for the uncomfortable, exposed feeling I’d had since walking through the front doors. Well, that, and the fact that I was in a strip club.

Not that the nudity bothered me. But the blatant advertisement for sex with perfect strangers made me a little uncomfortable, and while I knew there was a difference between nude dancing and prostitution, I was a little fuzzy on the legalities. And hoped to stay that way.

Less than a minute after the music began, the first real patrons came through the front door, a gaggle of men about my age, in neat civilian clothes with identical military hair-cuts—clearly a sample of our country’s finest on leave from the nearby naval air station. They chose a table near the raised dance platform and sent an emissary to the bar to order their drinks.

As the bartender reached beneath the bar for a bottle, the background music screeched into silence, and bright lights burst to life at the foot of the stage. Seconds later, new music came over the speakers, louder and faster than the previous sample, and within four beats, Corinne pushed through a heavy black curtain and pranced onto the platform, almost completely covered by her red hooded cape. For the moment.

Immediately, the young men up front began hooting and laughing, daring one another to call Little Miss Hood closer.

“Here you go,” Jeff-the-bartender said, less than a foot from my left shoulder. I jumped, startled by his sudden appearance. I’d been so distracted by the spectacle of the only striptease I’d ever seen that I hadn’t noticed a human approach. That was just sad.

Jeff set a short glass full of dark liquid in front of Marc, and a foaming mug of beer in front of Kevin. “Enjoy the show, guys,” he said, then turned his attention to me. All of his attention. He dismissed Marc and Kevin the way Corinne had dismissed me. Selective vision must be contagious.

“You change your mind about that job?”

I glanced at Marc to see whether he intended to make me go through with the fake interview. He did. He shoved me half off the bench with a not-so-subtle thrust of one hip.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, standing awkwardly to keep from falling to the floor.

Jeff grinned and took a second opportunity to appraise my…um…qualifications. He nodded, much as Corinne had, and gestured toward the bar. “Step into my office.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Marc tense, and knew he would watch me wind my way among the tables to make sure I wasn’t actual y going into another room. He’d make me play along, but he wouldn’t let me out of sight. Or out of earshot.