‘SHEnanigans’

‘SHEnanigans’. What an awesome name for a strip club.

It’s tucked away somewhere off the Gulf Freeway, as you head down toward Galveston. You feel the close humidity hit you as you exit your air conditioned Buick Skylark in the strip joint parking lot.

You tip your white Stetson, in dual purpose — to light a smoke and to acknowledge the huge Kazakhstani dude who runs the door. Show respect without being a pussy.

But, yup, you’re back at good ol’ ‘SHEnanigans’ (emphasis on the ‘SHE’). That’s what the sign outside said: alongside a silhouette of a ‘She-Devil’ astride a three-pronged pitchfork. Classy. But fuck, at least it was on-brand. And at least it was clean. And damn, at least it was honest (as far as the clientele were concerned). Ain’t nobody there try to rob you with anything more than feminine charm.

But it had to be said, old Salla’s done well for herself. Ever since she’d divorced Jed what — seven- years ago now? Making some serious dinero, doing stuff a cop like me shouldn’t ever know about, no doubt.

You don’t get a place up on Westheimer, run a couple Mercs, and keep a nanny on staff for all 3 kids on a strip club manager’s salary alone. She must’ve met every scumbug, piece of shit that the city ever produced. And not just the politicians. Or the police. Not like up in Beaumont. But something must’ve really spooked her to have her call me like that, just like out of the blue.

And even though she ditched my dickhead brother, which everyone does sooner or later, she was still family. Not just because she was (briefly) married to Jed, but because of what we went through. What we both endured. Years before. So yeah, when you’re the last two standing, it matters.

But, what the fuck kinda mess have you gotten yourself into now, Sally-Sall?