Cookie Doyle said, “Aren’t you broads in step yet?” She stared at Cynthia. The girl had gathered the other dancers near the door to the kitchen. For support, or something.
Joyce Crowley said, “What the hell’s that mean?”
“You know damn well,” said Cookie. Good grief. If she called her husband, Butch, he’d slap them and tell them to get back to work. “Well,” she said, “who’s got a plug?”
The girls looked at each other.
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