For a moment, the man’s face disappeared within a coronal flare of gold and purple light. “Check the goods!” someone yelled from the audience. They were boisterous tonight. “Yeah,” the customer said, looking into Dare’s eyes, “show me those cookies. C’mon. Gimme a sample.” The man reached for Pepper’s crotch. With practiced speed and precision, Pepper gracefully blocked the move with a palm to the man’s wrist. Those customers closest to the stage made their feelings known by howling, clapping, laughing, or jeering. Pepper smiled at the grabber, slowly waved a forefinger, and shook his head. The denial was subtle but emphatic. “Don’t you know,” he crooned, leaning forward, “the best things in life aren’t free?” Just as a marbled cloud of scent— perspiration and cologne, alcohol and fruit— snaked up Pepper Jack’s nostrils like a psychotropic vapor, the spotlights’ glare shifted and the customer’s face took shape, receding hairline to jutting, bearded chin.
