On any given night, there are about fifteen-hundred homeless people in St. Louis. Since Gateway’s occupancy permit only allows seventy-five beds, the shelter is always maxed out.
I recognize some of the faces tonight. Those I’ve never seen before are the hardest to coax into dancing. They don’t know me, don’t trust my intentions, and I don’t blame them. But I have a strategy that works.
Line dancing. Anyone with two working legs can do it. I always start off alone, traveling through the steps and explaining each movement. After I draw a crowd, I cajole the most enthusiastic ones into joining me. Eventually a few more jump in. Then more and more.
I’ve been at it for hours, but they’re finally warming up and letting go.
“Don’t you have to dance at the restaurant tonight?” Rick runs a hand over his bald head, watching twenty people of various ages and dress teeter through the Cupid Shuffle.
I don’t know what time it is, but my seven o’clock meeting with Trace Savoy is probably nearing. Or passed. I rather enjoy the thought of him waiting.
“My schedule changed.” I guzzle the remainder of my water bottle. “Don’t worry, Rick. I’ll still be here a couple of times a week.” I wish I could donate more time, more money.
“You have a good heart, Danni.”
Good and broken. But no one here knows my background. I came to Gateway after I lost Cole, and I always move the engagement ring to my right hand before walking in. No questions. No past.
Two years ago, I started in the kitchen, hoping the volunteer work would direct my focus to other people’s misery instead of my own. The line dancing lessons evolved from there. I figured if my goal is to put smiles on troubled faces, I’ll find my own happiness in the process. It mostly works out that way. Sometimes I leave here feeling sadder than ever, but those times are rare.
I slide back into the dance line, rolling my hips and grinning at the elderly woman beside me. She’s stiff and hunched over, her weathered complexion knitted with a lifetime of hardship. But her toothless smile makes my heart soar.
“Look at you.” I touch the paper-thin skin on her elbow, guiding her through a turn. “You caught on quick.”
“Oh, I…” She sidesteps, staggering and laughing at herself. “I don’t know about that.”
With my music player set on repeat, the Cupid Shuffle loops two more times before my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I stay in the line, twirling through the steps as I glance at the screen.
Unknown: You’re late
According to my phone, it’s only 7:01 PM. A grin lifts my cheeks. If Trace had to pull my number from my website, I bet it really puckered his scowl to do so.
I step out of the dancing line and add his number to my contacts list. Not that I intend to talk to him after tonight. But I might be in the mood to make prank calls.
Flexing my hand, I type a response.
Me: Well-timed lateness is an art.
Trace: Punctuality is a professional courtesy.
Me: You’re scowling, aren’t you?
Trace: Where are you?
Me: Between here and there.
Trace: Your here better be in the casino.
He types fast, his texts pinging within seconds of mine.
Me: What do I get if it is?
Trace: A job.
Me: Oh right. The one that objectifies me. Tempting.
Trace: Tell me what you want.
Me: A smile would be a good start.
A heartbeat later, the ringtone on my phone plays Try by Pink, and his name flashes on the screen.
Oh man, he’s persistent, and damn if that doesn’t make me feel all bubbly inside.
I accept the call. “911. What’s your emergency?”
After a moment of silence, his deep voice growls through the line. “What’s that noise?”
I hold the phone toward the portable speakers for a few seconds and put it back at my ear. “Recognize it?”
“No.”
“How do you not know the Cupid Shuffle?”
“The Cupid—? Never mind.” His voice sharpens. “You’re late.”
“You already said that. Don’t be tedious.”
“This is fucking—” Something thumps through the connection, and he blows out a breath. “You’re testing my patience.”
“You’re being presumptuous.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You assume I agreed to this meeting.”
“Get. Your ass. In my office.” His low even tone might lend power to his command, but it only makes me want to push all his buttons.
“Hmm.” I sashay back into the dance line, synchronizing my steps with the song. “How about you try that again with professional courtesy?”
He sniffs and clears his throat on a heavy exhale. “Can I expect you this evening?”
“Much better. You can expect me later.” I disconnect the call and dance through three more iterations of the shuffle before saying goodbye to my new friends.
Thirty minutes later, I leave my phone and keys in a hidden pocket beneath the driver’s seat of the Midget. Then I make my way through the parking garage of The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel and step into the lobby.
Bright bursts of electronic sound and color assault my senses, and the stale scent of smoke tickles my lungs. An industrial theme dominates the decor, accented by numerous steel archways that curve and stretch overhead. Painted black and pinpricked with light, the domed ceilings twinkle like starry skies over thousands of glowing slot machines.
Tinkling, clinking, beeping noises clash in a battle of conflicting melodies. It’s the discordant song of desperate people stuffing Trace Savoy’s pockets with money.
As I stroll around the flashing machines, no one socializes or glances my way. Row after row, the gamblers lean back, bend forward, and puff on cigarettes. Brows grooved in concentration. Hands poised to punch a button or pull a lever. It’s mesmerizing. And kind of sad.
A path of swirly-patterned carpet leads to a bank of silver elevators on the far side of the gaming area. Instead of heading to the 30th floor, I wander toward the restaurant on the opposite end.
Slipping inside the vacant dining room, I sidle around piles of construction materials and plastic sheeting. The overhead lights are off, the workers gone for the day. If this is Bissara’s new location, Trace didn’t waste time starting the renovations. When a small round stage at the center comes into view, I know I’m in the right place.
I stride toward the platform, circling the eight-foot diameter. It rises to chest level without steps to climb on. So I kick off my flip-flops and hoist myself up to stand on the dark acrylic surface.
Glass walls separate the restaurant and gaming area, dampening the blaring beeps and tinkles of slot machines. But I can see them—the kaleidoscope of neon lights illuminating the serious faces of addicts doing what they need to do.
That’s six million patrons strolling through my doors and resting their eyes on the art you create through movement.
The stage is certainly visible from the most active gaming areas, but gamblers aren’t looking around at the scenery. They sit in a trance, focused on their drug, determined to win. None of them would notice a belly dancer in the restaurant.