Foxy Valentine's Arc

Chapter 7 of 9

The bar was loud and dim. Foxy and Pinky slid into a corner booth. Tonight Bad Mamma Jamma opened his club in Foxy's warehouse. The disco ball would hang in his ceiling by midnight. Foxy had no way past his door guards. She traced a wet ring on the table and tried to build a plan. "We can't just walk in," Pinky said. "He knows our faces." "Then we find another way," Foxy said. But she had nothing. The DJ dropped a fat, funky beat. The bass shook the glasses. Foxy felt it move up through her boots. She looked at Pinky. Pinky grinned. They didn't need words. They stood, tucked their elbows in, and threw down the funky chicken. Arms flapping, knees bending, heads bobbing. The whole bar turned to watch. For one minute, Foxy forgot the warehouse. A big man pushed off the bar and came over. He was broad and hairy, with a black beard and an open flannel shirt. He moved slow, like a man used to swinging an axe. He watched Foxy dance like she was the only light in the room. "Buy you a drink?" he said. "Name's Ricky. That dance of yours ought to be illegal." Foxy laughed despite herself. He had a warm, easy smile behind all that beard. "Foxy," she said. "This is Pinky." He waved the waitress over and paid. He sat close but not too close. Foxy felt her guard slip a notch. She hadn't felt that in a long time. "You look like a woman with a problem," Ricky said. So she told him. The warehouse she'd saved two years for. Bad Mamma Jamma buying it out from under her. The stolen disco ball. The club opening tonight, with guards on every door. Ricky set down his beer. His jaw tightened. "Bad Mamma Jamma," he said. "I've hauled lumber for his crews. Framed half his clubs." He leaned in. "Including that warehouse. I know the loading dock in back. No guard on it during setup. They keep it open for the crew hauling gear." Foxy's heart jumped. "You'd get us in?" "I'll walk you in myself," Ricky said. "You'll wear crew coveralls. Nobody looks twice at a woman carrying a crate." He shrugged one big shoulder. "A man ought to help build the right kind of room." Foxy looked at him a beat too long. Pinky kicked her under the table and smirked. "Why help a stranger?" Foxy asked. "Because you dance like Funkytown belongs to you," Ricky said. "Maybe it should." Foxy stuck out her hand. He shook it, and his hand swallowed hers. She had her way in now. A back dock, coveralls, and a man who knew every beam in that building. But getting inside was only the door. The disco ball still hung in Bad Mamma Jamma's ceiling, guarded from the crowd. And she'd have to pull it down before he saw her face.