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word,” he said in a marbly voice.
    Shad pointed at him. “Don’t come back, you little dork.”
    “Do you speak for the management?” Killian inquired.
    Shad placed a size-thirteen shoe on his windpipe.
    “Be careful,” Erin said again.
    “It’s so tempting.”
    “But I love her,” Killian croaked. “I am lost in love.”
    Shad shook his head. “You’re pathetic,” he told Killian. “But you got good taste.”
    “Don’t underestimate me. I am not without influence.”
    Shad looked at Erin, who shrugged.
    “Be my wife,” Killian cried.
    Shad leaned over and seized him by the collar. “That’s enough a that,” he said.
    Erin started the car. Shad didn’t let Jerry Killian off the ground until she had gone. The next night, in the dressing room, Monique Sr. announced that Carl Perkins was sitting at table seven.
    Erin, who was repairing a heel, glanced up and said, “Carl Perkins the guitarist?”
    Monique Sr. beamed. “Is there another?” She regularly spotted celebrities in the audience. Last Tuesday it was William Kunstler, the renowned attorney. A week before, Martin Balsam, the actor.
    The sightings were imaginary, but none of the other dancers made an issue of it. Each had a private trick for self-motivation, some inner force that pushed her toward the stage when the music came on. For Monique Sr., the inspiration came from believing that someone famous was in the club, someone who might be impressed by her moves, someone who could whisk her away and change her life forever. Erin thought it clever of Monique Sr. to choose personalities whose names were well known, but whose faces were not exactly national emblems. Carl Perkins, for instance, was a stroke of genius. In the smoky blue shadows of the Eager Beaver, a dozen customers might resemble the legendary musician. It was a bulletproof fantasy, and Erin admired it.
    “Old Carl tipped me forty bucks,” Monique Sr. was saying.
    “Not that he can’t afford it. He only wrote ‘Blue Suede Shoes.’”
    “Great song,” said Erin, tapping the new heel in place. Monique Sr. was an encyclopedia when it came to rock ‘n’ roll
    Shad entered the dressing room without knocking. He handed Erin a wrinkled envelope, marked up with red postal ink: her most recent letter to Angela, returned as undeliverable.
    Urbana Sprawl said, “Oh no.”
    Erin bitterly crumpled the letter in the palm of her hand. The bastard Darrell had done it again—moved away without telling her. And taken Angie.
    “No forwarding address?” Monique Sr. asked.
    Erin cursed acidly. The man was such a despicable asshole. How had she ever fallen for him?
    Shad said, “Take the night off, babe.”
    “I can’t.” Erin whipped out her lipstick and hairbrush, and got busy in front of the mirror. “Dance, dance, dance,” she said, softly to herself.
    Monique Sr. had fictitious celebrities to motivate her; Erin had Darrell Grant. The divorce judge had ordered him not to go anywhere, but it was like talking to a tomcat. Every time her ex-husband went mobile, Erin saw her legal fees go up another five grand. Finding the bastard, then serving him with new papers, cost a fortune.
    “Your lucky night,” Shad told her. He held another envelope; it was crisp and lavender, with familiar block lettering. “I took the liberty,” he said.
    “You opened it?”
    “After what happened, yeah. You’re damn right.”
    Erin said, “I told you, he’s harmless.”
    “If he’s not,” said Shad, “he will be.”
    Erin read the message twice:

    The plan is in motion. Soon my devotion to you will be proven. Still awaiting the smile, and the ZZ Top.

    The other dancers clamored to see the note, but Erin tucked it in her purse. “No, this one’s private.”
    “One thing—he doesn’t listen so good,” Shad said. He’d warned Mr. Peepers that his attentions were unwelcome.
    Erin was determined not to get her hopes up. Monique Jr. was probably right; Killian was probably trying to get in