The Corpse Wore Pasties Read Free Page A

was going to start the show with a plagiarist. Which meant there was really only one possibility left: Brioche à Tête, the woman with whom Eva had been talking. I wasn’t entirely comfortable asking her, because Brioche...well, Brioche is weird , even by burlesque standards. And I’m saying this in an industry where people regularly glue inanimate objects to their naughty bits and make it sexy. Brioche’s acts are unlike anything else in the business—they’re more along the lines of performance art, though that’s not exactly the right description either. Because when I say “performance art,” you’re probably thinking about that excruciating thing you had to sit through for five hours when your college roommate decided to “explore the world of live theatrical creation.” This is as different from that as you can possibly imagine. Brioche’s acts are compulsively watchable. You just can’t ever be sure what exactly it is you’re watching.
    And in person she tends to make me a little nervous. Don’t get me wrong, I like her, but she has a way of looking at you that can be disconcerting. I can’t quite describe it. It was a cocking of her head similar to the way a dog might look at you when confused, if that dog were significantly more intelligent than you.
    “Listen, Brioche,” I said. “Would you be willing to switch spots in the lineup?”
    “With whom?”
    “With Victoria.”
    “Excuse me?” she said. There was that look, damn it.
    I did my best not to stammer when I said, “She says she has another gig, wants to do her number earlier in the show.” I dropped my voice, not out of concern for Victoria’s feelings so much as to keep the backstage atmosphere from going from chilly to explosive. “Look, you wouldn’t be doing her a favor, you’d be doing the rest of us a favor. The sooner she performs, the sooner she leaves, the sooner everybody starts having a good time.”
    “Perhaps she could leave right now.” Brioche didn’t lower her voice nearly as much as I had. I’m guessing she wanted to be overheard—she doesn’t have a very strong internal censor, nor much patience for dealing with people she doesn’t like. If Victoria caught the comment, she showed no sign of it. She was busy adjusting something underneath her cape.
    “What are the chances of that?” I whispered.
    Brioche stared at me. I kept my mouth shut.
    “Fine,” she said, following the word with a sigh that would make a dead man punch a duck. “I’ll make the exchange.”
    “Beautiful,” I said. I took Brioche’s music, and Eva’s, and headed back over to Victoria.
    “You’ll be on second, after Eva,” I told her. She thanked me “so so so much” and handed me her own CD.
    Just for the hell of it, I glanced at the disc to see if there was any clue on it about what number she was doing, but no such luck. A self-burned job, nothing written on it but her name.
    I made the changes to the setlist and headed out into the main room. Casey intercepted me halfway to the DJ booth. I handed him the paperwork and the pile of CDs.
    “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll introduce you as soon as I’m all set back in the booth, okay?”
    I nodded. Casey headed up the aisle, and I went back into the dressing room, where I intended to polish off the remainder of my pre-show drink in one gulp. But before I could, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to find it was Victoria’s. “Thanks again for your help, honey,” she said.
    Honey, my ass. I’d bet gold against g-strings that she was only calling me ‘honey’ because she couldn’t be bothered to remember my name. I shook the hand off my shoulder, put the whiskey in my face, and directed my feet towards the stage.
    “Oh, there’s one other little thing,” she said, following me, a little too closely. “I’ll need you to hand me a prop during my act.”
    “Fine,” I said. I held out my hand. I’d do just about anything to get this damn show started and her act