Inside With The King of Jugglers.

A short story about crimes, misnomers and slutty dresses.

One night Wes heard him hitting Marcie. I asked what he did about it. “Pretended I was sleeping,” he said.

A shadow appeared under the door. Wes knocked again. “I know you’re in there,” he said. “I can see your shadow. I need my stuff.”

“I don’t know,” Wes says. “I’m no good thinking that far ahead. Rube says I’d be a better juggler if I did. He can juggle eight balls.”

She did a twirl. I couldn’t believe how hot she looked. I pulled her down on the couch.

As soon as she closed the bathroom door, I got up and looked in the living room. The dresses were gone.

Eddie, the manager, was taking bets. “If he keeps them up two more minutes,” Eddie said to me, “I’ll make a hundred bucks.”

“It’s The Juggler and — who’s this?” — he looks at me — “The Jugglerette?

“Fifty dollars for the dress if — if, my sweet — you let me cut your hair. That’ll be fifty dollars as well.”

“My pleasure,” he says, “straight as you are.”

“Those cards are ten years old,” he says. “The apartment belongs to a queen friend. Roxy shows up there every time she gets out.”

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I did a poor imitation of Don Draper for 40 years before writing my first novel. I'm currently in the final stages of a children's book. Lucky me.

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