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She said, “Congrats. You've got a job. You'd better go over and talk to Eddie. He'll explain everything. How much, hours and the drinks.”

I said, “I'm sorry you didn't make it.”

She said, “Aw, I expected it. All these guys are down on me since last year.”

I asked, “Why?”

She said, “I got married. My old man is colored.”

I went to join the others, and the bartender said, “O.K., Kate, you and the other girls know the routine. See you tomorrow night. You.” Although he didn't look at any of us, he meant me. The bartender was a fleshy man with large hands and a monotone voice. His thin, pink skin barely covered a network of broken veins.

“You worked around here before, Rita?” His eyes were focused on the edge of the bar.

“No.”

“You been a B-girl?”

“No.” I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Salary is seventy-five a week and you work the bar.”

I began to get nervous, wondering if I should tell him I knew nothing about mixing drinks.

He continued, “If you hustle you can clear ten, fifteen bucks a night. You get a quarter for every champagne cocktail a customer buys for you and two dollars off every eight-dollar bottle of champagne.”

Eddie had given the spiel so often he no longer listened to himself. I began to pick meaning from his litany. I was expected to get men to buy drinks for me and I would get a percentage. Ten extra dollars a night sounded like riches, fur coats and steaks. I rattled around twenty-five cents into ten dollars and choked on the idea of forty cocktails per night. If I told the man I didn't drink, I'd lose the job.

“We use ginger ale and sometimes 7-Up with a lemon twist. And we got the fastest waitresses on the street. Show time is eight o'clock. Six shows a night, six times a week each one of you girls dance fifteen minutes a show.” He shifted his head, the spiel was over. I backed away, but he stopped me. “Uh, Rita, you belong to the union?”

“No.” I had never heard of a dancers' union or a B-girls' union.

“Soon as we reopen, the AGVA representative'll be down here. Every girl has to belong to the union or we get blackballed. If you want to, we'll advance your initiation fee and you can pay it back in two weekly payments.”

“Thank you.” I was beginning to like this man who talked like a villainous Edward G. Robinson, yet was too withdrawn to look directly at my face.

“I'm only the manager, but the boss thinks that you shouldn't strip. The other girls are strippers. You just dance. And wear costumes like you wore today.” The costume I had borrowed made stripping absolutely unnecessary. “Most girls buy their materials from Lew Serbin's Costume Company down on Ellis Street. Last thing is this, Rita: we've never had a colored girl here before, so people might say something. Don't get upset. If a customer gets out of line with any of the girls in a coming-on way, I take care of that, but uh, if they say something about your color, I can't help that. 'Cause you are colored. Right?” He nearly looked at me. “And don't go home with any guy or else the police'll be down and close us up.” He turned his back and began typing on the cash register keys.

“See you at seven-thirty tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

A showgirl. I was going to be a star shining in the firmament of show biz. Once more adventure had claimed me as its own, and the least I could do was show bravery in my strut and courage in the way I accepted the challenge. It was time to celebrate. No bus could take me back fast enough to Ivonne's house, where I had left my son. I stopped a taxi and gave the driver her address.

Ivonne grinned when I told her of my new profession and laughed outright at the salary.

“Seventy-five bones a week. What are you going to do with all that money? Buy a yacht?”

“It's going to be more than seventy-five.” I told her about the drinks and the percentage. Ivonne had the talent of forcing her face absolutely still and looking so intently at an object that her eyes seemed to telescope. She sat a few moments registering my information.

“My. I know you'll try