Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(5)

“We all didn’t agree. I don’t agree.” My mother withdrew her fingers and crossed her arms. “Charlotte, you’re like a bull in a china shop. You rush into things without thinking them through. How do you think Kevin and his family are going to react when they find out you’re applying to be a stripper? They’ll try to get custody of the kids and—”

“Momma.” I sighed, rubbing my forehead. We’d already had this argument. I supposed we were having it again. “I think you’re overreacting. I’ll only be stripping for two weeks, then I’ll quit. What are they going to tell the judge? That I’m unfit because I stripped for two weeks?”

“Yes!” My mother whisper-hissed.

“I disagree. But if that is the case, then I’ll just tell the judge the truth,” I said. “I’ll tell them I was only stripping to find my cousin or news about her. Then I quit. Two weeks. What’s so wrong about that? And on that note, what’s so wrong about stripping? Lots of mothers are strippers. I can make that case, too.”

“You are denser than dirt if you think a judge is going to care that lots of mothers are strippers, even if it’s true.” Momma sniffed, her eyes flashing. “And if the Buckleys file for custody, how are you going to pay for a lawyer this time, huh?”

I faced forward again, fighting a shiver of fear. “I’ll sell the beach house in North Carolina.” I made sure to firm my voice so she’d know I considered the matter closed.

Despite the twinge of anxiety caused by my mother’s ridiculous statement, I truly believed no judge would take my kids away because I stripped for two weeks if the only reason I was doing it was to help find my cousin. I just did not believe it. If I’d thought my mother’s doomsday predictions had any merit whatsoever, I never, ever, ever would’ve suggested my plan to my aunt and uncle.

Momma sputtered for a few seconds, then said, “You just got that cottage all pretty and set up as a rental, an extra income source, and now you’re going to sell it? And how much money would you get from it in a sale? It’s tiny.”

“But it’s beach waterfront. Someone could knock it down and build a McMansion on it. The land has value.”

“Now, Betty,” Aunt Maddie cut in, twisting around to face her sister. “Let Charlotte do this if she thinks it’s best.”

My mother made a low noise that sounded like a growl. “Now, Maddie, I know you’re scared for Heather.”

“This might be my only chance to find her, Betty. My only chance.” Her voice wavered and she sniffled, turning back toward the windshield and pulling a tissue from the console at her right. “Charlotte’s right. We all agreed. And I agree with Charlotte. If there were a custody case, I think a judge will be compassionate once they found out why she did this. And it’s only two weeks.”

I reached over and patted my aunt’s leg, hating to see her so upset.

“Well. Fine,” my mother said huffily. “I guess I’m overruled. What are we going to do now that Hank Weller won’t give her an interview? Should I go in there and talk to him?”

I snorted at that. “I do not think having my mother talk to a strip club owner about why he refused to give your daughter an audition is a good idea. But thanks, Momma.”

If memory served, my mother had wanted to do something similar when Hank Weller—the same Hank Weller I’d just begged for a job—had stood me up for my junior prom over a decade ago. “Should I talk to him? Should I call his mother?” she’d asked me at the time. Momma could not comprehend that her opinion didn’t move mountains, whereas my daddy—who’d been dead set against my choice in date—had said, “I told you so.”

My aunt whipped her head around and stared at both of us, her eyes rimmed with panic. “How are we going to find Heather now? What are we supposed to do?”

My cousin’s friend had said Heather was stripping at a club on the outskirts of Green Valley. There were a few strip clubs along the parkway, but only two anywhere close to my hometown: The G-Spot and The Pink Pony.

“It’s fine. I’ll audition at The G-Spot.”

“No!” my mother cried. “No you will not!”

Pressing my lips together, I said nothing. I’d wanted to audition there straightaway, but my momma had vetoed the idea, claiming The Pink Pony was the more genteel establishment, given the two options. She’d said, “If you’re determined to do this stupid, reckless thing, then you should at least check The Pink Pony for Heather first.”

Genteel. Like Hank’s club was serving afternoon tea instead of local beauties in pasties and thongs. For all I knew, his club did serve afternoon tea. Regardless, after my momma had explained things, I understood her point.

According to my mother, where The G-Spot was rumored to cater to motorcycle gangs—and not the charitable, hobby, or friendly kind—The Pink Pony was where local folks went for bachelor and bachelorette parties. Our local firefighters held an annual women customers only all-male revue fundraiser. there, and competition for tickets was always fierce. I’d never gone. When JT MacIntyre had wanted a space to host a community commission singles auction, he’d held it at The Pink Pony. For the record, I had not attended.

Meanwhile, also according to my mother (and don’t ask me how or why she was such an expert on local strip clubs), The G-Spot kept the local sheriff’s office plenty busy with drug busts, overdoses, and violent brawls. She’d said The G-Spot made The Pink Pony look like a country club. As far as I could figure, my mother didn’t approve of The Pink Pony simply because it was a strip club. But she approved of The G-Spot even less and feared it plenty.