Off Highway 101 was a squat building set at an angle to the road. The marquee said Ruby’s, with an image of tipping martini glasses. “That’s where Lis is going to work,” my father said, pointing to it as we sped past, all of us in the car, me and my brother in the back. He’d made the joke before. Now I understood the place was a strip club. I pictured women in scenes from movies, women writhing naked on countertops inside. There were hardly any cars in the parking lot. “Ha,” I said, trying to play along.
