Foxy Valentine stood in front of the empty warehouse and knew this was the room where every outcast in Funkytown would finally dance. She could see it already. A dance floor where the shy kids and the loners and the misfits all belonged. But right now she saw only cracked windows, a padlocked door, and a For Sale sign swinging in the wind. Her disco lived in her head. It had no walls. She had saved for two years. She counted the roll of bills in her red pocket one more time. Enough for the down payment, if the owner honored his word. She had shaken his hand last week. He promised to hold the building for her. A long purple car pulled up to the curb. Foxy's stomach dropped before the door even opened. Only one man in Funkytown owned a car that loud. Bad Mamma Jamma stepped out. He tapped his gold cane on the sidewalk, slow, like he had all the time in the world. Black sunglasses. Purple suit. A hat so wide it threw a shadow over her boots. He had run half the clubs in this town, and he had run out on Foxy three years back. Seeing him still stung. "Foxy Valentine," he said. He smiled without warmth. "You always did chase the wrong dream." "This one's mine," Foxy said. "The owner already promised me." Bad Mamma Jamma pulled a folded paper from his jacket. He held it up so she could read the top line. A deed. His name was already on it. "Promises are cheap," he said. "I paid cash this morning. Full price. Twice what you got in that little pocket." He tapped the padlock with his cane. "This building belongs to me now. Gonna make it a private room. Members only. No misfits allowed." Foxy's hands shook. Not from fear. From rage. She stepped close enough to smell his cologne. "You don't even want it," she said. "You just want me not to have it." He shrugged. "Same thing, baby." He turned back toward his car. Foxy looked at the swinging sign. Then she looked at the man walking away with her whole future in his coat pocket. She could beg. She could cry. Instead she thought about every kid who had nowhere to go on a Saturday night. "Fine," she called after him. "Keep your ugly building." He stopped. He hadn't expected that. "There's only one thing that makes a disco a disco," Foxy said. "And it ain't the walls." She smiled now. "It's the funky disco ball. And that, Mamma Jamma, is coming home with me." His smile finally cracked. He knew exactly what she meant. He climbed into his car and slammed the door. Foxy had lost the building. But she knew where the disco ball was hidden. And now, so did he.

Foxy Valentine noticed the thin man that morning. He stood across the street, pretending to read a newspaper. He was there when she bought coffee. He was there when she turned the corner. Bald head. White tank top. He moved like a shadow that had learned to walk. She knew Bad Mamma Jamma had sent him. If she led him to the disco ball, he would grab it first. Foxy ducked into a phone booth and called the one person who could help. Pinky La Fae answered on the first ring. Pinky ran a dress shop and had helped Foxy dodge trouble a dozen times. She was loud, blonde, and dressed head to toe in pink glitter. Nobody ever remembered the mark when Pinky walked in the room. "I've got a tail," Foxy said. "Tall, skinny, bald. Following me since sunup." "Oh honey," Pinky said. "Then let's give the poor man a show." They met on a busy corner an hour later. Foxy spotted the goon leaning by a lamppost. She whispered the plan. Then she walked slow, letting him keep pace, letting him think he had her. Pinky went to work. She strutted straight at the thin man, arms wide, glitter catching every light. "Jenkins MaGee!" she cried. "Baby, it IS you!" She threw her arms around his bony shoulders. He froze, stiff as a board. "Lady, I don't know you," Jenkins said. He tried to step back. Pinky held tight. "Don't play shy now," Pinky said. She spun him in a circle, laughing loud. A crowd gathered to watch the glittery woman dance with the confused stranger. Jenkins twisted his head, searching for Foxy. But Foxy was already gone. She slipped through the crowd, cut down a narrow alley, and doubled back twice. By the time Pinky finally let Jenkins go, Foxy stood two blocks away, alone and free. Jenkins stumbled onto the empty sidewalk. No Foxy. No trail. He wiped glitter off his tank top and knew his boss would not forgive this. Foxy met Pinky behind the dress shop. They laughed until they had to sit down. "He'll tell Mamma Jamma he lost me," Foxy said. "Now nobody knows where I'm headed." "So where ARE we headed?" Pinky asked. Foxy's smile faded a little. "To the man who's had the disco ball for ten years. And he doesn't give up treasures easy." She pulled a folded photograph from her red pocket and showed Pinky a grand old ballroom. "He owes me nothing. That's the problem." Pinky looked at the photo, then at Foxy. "Then we better bring more than charm." Foxy stood and brushed the glitter off her red pants. She had shaken the goon. But shaking a tail was the easy part. Now she had to convince a stubborn old collector to hand over the one thing that could give every outcast in Funkytown a home.

Foxy and Pinky reached the old ballroom by dusk. Jenkins was somewhere behind them, sweeping the streets with two more of Bad Mamma Jamma's men. Foxy had no room to think, no door to close, no place to hide. She needed to get inside and off the street fast. She pushed open the tall doors and pulled Pinky in after her. The ballroom was huge and dim. Dust floated in the last light. High above, chained to the ceiling, hung the disco ball. It was the very thing Foxy had come for. It threw soft glints across the empty floor. A voice creaked from the shadows. "Nobody touches my ball." An old man shuffled out, hunched, gray hair hanging in strings. His suit hung in tatters. This was Mr. Boo-Thang, the collector who had guarded the disco ball for ten years. He owed Foxy nothing, and his pale eyes made that clear. "I'm not here to steal," Foxy said. "I'm here to buy. And I need a place to sit while I do it. Men are hunting me out there." Mr. Boo-Thang studied her. He glanced at the doors, then locked them with a rusty bolt. "Then you're safe in here," he said. "But the ball's not for sale." Foxy's chest tightened. Behind that bolt, Jenkins couldn't reach her. She had her safe place at last. But the treasure she came for still hung out of reach. "Everything's got a price," she said. The old man's face twisted. He turned toward a dusty window and pointed across the way. "There's a coffee shop down there," he said. "A waitress works the counter. Brown eyes. Laughs at everybody's jokes but mine." His voice dropped. "I've watched her three years. Never said one word." Pinky clapped her hands. "Oh, you poor thing! You want a date." "I want her to see me," he snapped. Then softer: "Get me one evening with her. Just one. Do that, and the ball is yours." Foxy looked at Pinky. Pinky was already grinning, glitter catching the last light. Charm was her whole game. "We can do that," Foxy said. "I've got the smoothest wingwoman in Funkytown." Mr. Boo-Thang held out a bony hand. Foxy shook it. The deal was sealed. The safe room was hers. The old man's bolt kept Jenkins out. But the price of that door was a promise Foxy hadn't planned to make. To win the disco ball, she now had to turn a creepy, silent old man into a suitor a stranger would actually want. And the waitress had never once looked his way. Foxy leaned against the locked door and let out a breath. She had shelter. She had a shot at the ball. Now she had to make a lonely old man loveable by tomorrow night, or walk out with nothing.

By morning, Foxy had a problem she couldn't charm away. She'd never spoken to the waitress. She knew nothing about her. You can't sell a stranger on a date with a silent old man when you don't know one thing the woman likes. So Foxy changed her plan. Don't fix the pitch. Fix the man. "We give Mr. Boo-Thang a makeover," she told Pinky. "Clean him up. Give him something to walk in with." Pinky squealed and dug through a bag of her own things. Charm was Pinky's game, but glitter was her weapon. She sat the old man in a dusty chair. He glared with pale eyes and gripped the armrests like they might run. "Hold still," Pinky said. She went to work. Foxy turned to bolt the door, and by the time she looked back, Pinky had gone too far. She'd painted his lips red. She'd pinned a curly wig on him and zipped him into a sparkling dress. Mr. Boo-Thang stood and saw himself in the cracked window glass. His face went dark. "Get it off me," he hissed. "I look like a fool." "You look like nobody else in Funkytown," Foxy said. She stepped close. "Listen. You've watched her three years and said nothing. Walking in normal got you nothing. So walk in as somebody she can't ignore. Make her smile first. Worry about the rest later." He stared at the floor a long time. Then he touched the wig, straightened it, and nodded once. They crossed to the coffee shop at noon. Foxy and Pinky hung back by the window. Mr. Boo-Thang shuffled to the counter in the dress, cheeks red, hands shaking. The waitress looked up. This was Eileen, the woman he'd loved from across the street without a word for three years. She had curly red hair and a white apron, and her smile came easy for everybody but him. She saw the old man in the wig and the sparkles, and she froze. Then she laughed. Not a mean laugh. A warm, surprised one, both hands on the counter. "Well, aren't you a sight," Eileen said. "You've been staring through that window a long time, honey. Took a dress to get you in the door?" Mr. Boo-Thang's mouth worked. "I wanted you to see me," he said. "I see you fine." She poured him a coffee he hadn't ordered. "Sit. Tell me your name." He sat. They talked. Foxy watched the old man's shoulders drop for the first time. When Eileen laughed again, she wrote something on a napkin and pushed it across. A time. A yes. Back in the ballroom, Mr. Boo-Thang held the napkin like it was gold. He looked up at the disco ball chained to his ceiling. Then he reached for the rusty crank. "Take it," he said. "It's yours." Foxy caught the ball in both arms. Heavy, cold, glinting. She finally had it. Now she had to carry it out past Bad Mamma Jamma's men, still waiting on the street.

Foxy hugged the disco ball to her chest and edged toward the door. Pinky went first and cracked it open. The street outside looked empty. Too empty. Foxy's arms burned under the weight of the glass. She could not run with it. She could barely walk. But standing still meant getting caught. So she counted to three and stepped out into the light. They made it four steps before the trap sprang. Jenkins peeled off the wall where he'd been waiting. He was the thin bald man who had tailed Foxy for days, always a step behind, never quite giving up. Now he had backup. Two more of Bad Mamma Jamma's men closed in from the sides. Foxy spun, looking for a gap. There wasn't one. "End of the road, disco queen," Jenkins said. He almost sounded sorry about it. A woman dropped down between Foxy and the door. She landed soft as a cat. Black leather, a long braid, a mask over her eyes. Foxy had never seen her before, but she knew trouble when it stood in her way. This was the outlaw Bad Mamma Jamma had hired, and she moved like she'd done this a hundred times. "Hand it over," the woman said. "I don't ask twice." Foxy tightened her grip. "You'll have to take it." So she did. The masked woman moved fast. She hooked Foxy's arms, twisted, and the ball rolled free. Jenkins caught it. Foxy lunged after it and two men grabbed her instead. She kicked and swore. It didn't matter. They had her pinned. Then Pinky screamed. Foxy jerked her head around. The masked woman had Pinky by the wrist, dragging her toward a waiting car. Pinky dug in her heels and clawed, but the woman was stronger. "Foxy!" Pinky cried. "Don't let them—" A gold cane tapped the pavement. Bad Mamma Jamma stepped out of the car in his purple suit, dark glasses hiding his eyes. He was Foxy's ex, the man who bought the warehouse out from under her, the man who ran half of Funkytown. He smiled at her like they were old friends. "Careful, Foxy. You'll wrinkle that pretty top." He nodded at the disco ball in Jenkins's arms. "I'll take my property now. And a little insurance." He glanced at Pinky, still fighting. "She'll be safe. Long as you stay out of my business." The men shoved Foxy to the ground. By the time she scrambled up, the car doors were slamming. She saw Pinky's face in the back window, wide and afraid. Then the car pulled away with her friend and the disco ball both. Foxy stood alone on the empty street. Her arms still ached from carrying the thing she no longer had. She'd fought for that ball for five days. Now it was gone, and Pinky was gone with it. She wiped her mouth and stared after the car. Getting the ball back was one thing. Getting Pinky back came first.

Foxy hadn't slept. She'd chased every lead in Funkytown for a full day. Nobody would say where Bad Mamma Jamma took Pinky. Then she remembered the man who caught the disco ball. Jenkins. He drank cheap gin every night at the same bar. So Foxy waited in the shadow of the doorway until he stumbled out. She grabbed his collar and shoved him against the wall. "Where's Pinky?" His eyes went wide. He was drunk enough to be honest. "The old warehouse," he slurred. "The one the boss bought. Off the docks. But you don't wanna go there, disco queen. They got her over a tank." He hiccuped. "With a croc in it." Foxy let him drop. Her stomach twisted. She ran. The warehouse door stood cracked open. Inside, a single light hung over a metal tank. And above the tank, chained by her wrists, dangled Pinky. Her pink jumpsuit was torn. She kicked at the air, twisting on the chain. Below her, dark water rippled. Something long and scaled slid beneath the surface. "Foxy!" Pinky screamed. "It's a trap! Go!" Too late. Bad Mamma Jamma stepped from the dark. His purple suit gleamed. He tapped his gold cane on the concrete and smiled like he'd already won. "I told you to stay out of my business." He nodded upward. "And here you are. Anyway." A woman dropped from the rafters beside him. Black leather, a long braid, a mask over her eyes. Foxy knew her. This was the outlaw who'd stolen the disco ball. Lady Supa Bad. She held the crank that lowered Pinky's chain. "Give me one reason," Lady Supa Bad said, "and I drop her." Foxy raised both hands. "Wait. You want me gone? Fine. Trade. Me for her." Bad Mamma Jamma laughed. "You think I want you? No. I want you to watch." He waved his cane at Lady Supa Bad. "Turn the crank." The chain slipped. Pinky dropped a foot. She shrieked. The crocodile surged, jaws snapping at her boots. Foxy didn't think. She snatched a wrench off a workbench and hurled it at the light. Glass exploded. The warehouse went black. In the dark, Foxy charged the crank. She slammed into Lady Supa Bad and they crashed together onto the floor. Foxy hauled the crank the other way, hand over hand, until Pinky swung back over solid ground. Someone found a switch. Light flooded back. Foxy stood over Pinky, unhooking the chains, her chest heaving. Bad Mamma Jamma was gone. Lady Supa Bad was gone with him. Pinky threw her arms around Foxy and sobbed. "You came." "Always," Foxy said. Then Pinky pulled back. Her face changed. "Foxy. The disco ball. They took it out the back. I heard him. He's putting it in his new club tonight. He's opening the warehouse he bought. Your warehouse." Foxy stared at the empty dark where he'd stood. She had Pinky. But the heart of her dream was hanging in his ceiling now.

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.

Ricky led them in through the back dock. Foxy wore the crew coveralls over her red bell-bottoms. Pinky pulled a cap low over her blonde hair. Workers hauled crates across the warehouse floor. Above them, the disco ball hung from a chain, catching the work lights. Foxy kept her head down and grabbed the edge of a crate. Almost there. "Keep moving," Ricky said under his breath. "Don't look up." Then a voice cut across the floor. "Well, well." Foxy's stomach dropped. She knew that voice. Lady Supa Bad stepped out from behind a stack of speakers. Her black leather catsuit caught the light. Her long braid swung as she walked. The mask hid her face, but not her eyes. She was Bad Mamma Jamma's enforcer, the same woman Foxy had fought at the crocodile tank. And she was staring straight at Foxy. "Foxy Valentine," Lady Supa Bad said. "In a costume. Cute." She snapped her fingers. "Miko." A large woman in a fox-eared robe rose from behind a crate. Her painted tail swayed. She grinned and cracked her knuckles. Workers scattered. Ricky pulled Pinky back toward the wall. Lady Supa Bad struck first. She spun, boot flying at Foxy's head. Foxy ducked. The kick sailed past. Foxy had learned kung-fu on hard floors like this one. She dropped low and swept a leg. Lady Supa Bad jumped it and landed clean. Miko charged from the side, arms wide. Foxy caught her wrist and pulled. Miko's own weight sent her stumbling into a crate. Wood cracked. Miko roared and turned back around. "Foxy!" Pinky shouted. Lady Supa Bad came again, fast, fists snapping. Foxy blocked one, then two. A third grazed her cheek. She tasted blood. She stepped inside the next punch and drove her elbow up under the mask. Lady Supa Bad's head snapped back. She staggered. Miko grabbed Foxy from behind, squeezing. Foxy stomped a red boot on the woman's foot. Miko yelped and loosened her grip. Foxy twisted free, spun, and slammed her palm into Miko's jaw. The big woman's eyes rolled. She dropped like a sack of flour. Lady Supa Bad shook off the daze and lunged one last time. Foxy sidestepped and hooked a heel behind her ankle. Lady Supa Bad went down hard. Her head cracked the concrete. She lay still. Foxy stood over both of them, breathing hard. Silence. The workers had run. Ricky moved fast. He grabbed rope from a crate and bound their wrists. "My truck's out back," he said. He hauled Miko up over his shoulder like a log. Foxy and Pinky dragged Lady Supa Bad by the arms. They loaded both women into the truck bed and Ricky locked the doors. "That's two out of the way," Ricky said. Foxy wiped the blood from her lip and looked up. The disco ball turned slow above the empty floor. No guard now. No enforcer. Just her, her friends, and a long climb to the ceiling.

Foxy pulled off the coveralls and looked up at the ball. Ricky uncoiled a rope. Pinky checked the door. They had maybe ten minutes before the crowd arrived. Then the far doors swung open, and Foxy's chance slipped away. Bad Mamma Jamma walked in slow. His purple suit gleamed. His gold cane tapped the floor. He was her ex, the man who bought her warehouse to lock the outcasts out. He grinned like he already owned the night. "Foxy Valentine. Sneaking around my club." Foxy stepped in front of Ricky and Pinky. Her hand hovered near a stacked crate. "I came for what's mine." "The ball?" He looked up at it, then back at her. "Tell you what. Have dinner with me. One night, my VIP booth. You say yes, the ball is yours." Foxy's jaw tightened. She knew his games. But she saw Ricky's eyes flick to the rope, then to the ceiling. A silent question. She caught it and understood. Keep him talking. Keep him looking at me. "Fine," Foxy said. "One dinner." Bad Mamma Jamma laughed and offered his arm. "Now that's the Foxy I remember." He led her toward a raised booth wrapped in velvet, his back to the room. Foxy went with him and never once glanced up. He sat her down and snapped for a server. Plates arrived. A tall glass of something pink. He talked about his empire, his clubs, the money. Foxy nodded and sipped and kept her eyes on his gold sunglasses. Behind him, high in the shadows, two shapes moved along the rafters. Ricky climbed hand over hand, his boots braced on a beam. Pinky clung beside him, pink jumpsuit catching no light in the dark. She reached the chain first. Her fingers worked the clasp. The ball tilted. Ricky caught its weight against his chest and held. "You always did like the finer things," Bad Mamma Jamma said. "I like what I earn," Foxy said, and raised her glass. Above, the chain came free without a sound. Ricky lowered the ball into a canvas sling and swung it down toward the loading dock. Pinky followed him along the beam. They dropped out of sight through the dock door. Bad Mamma Jamma leaned close. "So. Tomorrow night?" Foxy stood up. "Look up." He did. The chain hung empty. His grin fell. He shot to his feet and shouted for his men. Foxy was already moving. She ran for the dock. Ricky's truck was loaded, the ball wrapped safe in the bed. He'd thrown open the truck's rear doors, and Lady Supa Bad and Miko had already stumbled free and vanished. Pinky waved from the cab. "Go!" Foxy shouted. Ricky gunned it. The truck roared off with Pinky and the disco ball inside. Foxy stood alone in the empty dock, breathing hard. Behind her, Bad Mamma Jamma's voice cracked through the warehouse. The ball was gone. But so was her ride, and every guard in the building now knew her face.