Little Girl Lost jb-1 Page 10

  “God, John. Why do you do this?”

  “Get beaten up? I try not to.”

  “Why do you work in a job where you have to try?”

  I could have given a glib response – I’d given them often enough when other people had asked the same question. But somehow it didn’t feel right this time. She was asking seriously and I owed her a serious answer. “I like to think I can do some good,” I said. “Not a lot, maybe – but some. The papers, the news channels – Miranda’s only been dead a few days and they’re already onto the next story. The police, it’s the same thing. But meanwhile, a woman was murdered. She deserved better, Susan. Even if she did the things they’re saying, she didn’t deserve to die for it.

  “The way I look at it is, if I don’t do something about it, who’s going to? Now, maybe Leo’s right and I’m not going to accomplish anything, but maybe he’s wrong and I will. And if it takes me getting a few bruises to do it, well, I’m still better off than she is.” Susan didn’t say anything. “That’s all.”

  She stepped into the bathroom, pulled the door closed behind her. She put one hand on either side of my face gently and stroked the hair above my ears. It hurt when I took her in my arms. I didn’t let go.

  Chapter 16

  There was barely room in the bed for the two of us to lie side by side. She lay with her head on an unbruised portion of my chest and we breathed slowly, recovering. I stroked my fingertips along the back of her neck and she traced hers through the hair below my navel. Neither of us said anything.

  I was thinking about how much had changed, and how little. Here I was again, in the same apartment, in the same bed, looking up at the same bookshelf. The hook was still there. Only the bird was gone.

  I kissed her when she came back from her shower, then limped out to the bathroom to take one of my own. My duffel bag was still there, and I dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a warm shirt. I was still sore, but it wasn’t so bad now that some of the soreness had been gained in a good cause.

  She met me at the door to my room with a handful of notes. “Let me fill you in on what I found out last night. I made a lot of calls.”

  “Coffee first.”

  I found the filters hidden in the butter compartment of the refrigerator, next to a small bag of hazelnut coffee. It was the sort of thing I’d never buy for myself, but now, as it brewed, it made me very happy. The smell was wonderful: warm and rich and domestic.

  I poured each of us a cup, and Susan flattened out the first sheet of paper. “Steven Dubois. Runs a club outside Dallas called Cooter’s.”

  “Cooter’s.”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds. I danced there once. It’s a good place for beginners, and Steven’s not a bad guy. He won’t push you to do anything you don’t want to do. Holds open auditions and amateur nights and wet T-shirt competitions, and the crowd he gets isn’t too raunchy, more southern gentlemen than good old boys.”

  “Southern gentlemen and wet T-shirt competitions don’t sound like a natural combination.”

  “You’d be surprised. Anyway, I called him, and he said yes, sure, he remembered two Rianon girls showing up at his door in ‘96.” She read from her notes. “He said they were ‘green as grass, but gorgeous and game.’z”

  “Did he actually say that? Green and gorgeous and game?”

  “That’s how he talks,” she said. “The first night I was there, I remember when he announced me he said

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I present, from the sunny shores of Fremont, California, the feisty and fabulous Rachel Firestone.’z”

  “Ladies and gentlemen?” I said.

  “They get a few ladies.”

  “Well, I can’t argue with fabulous.” I drank some coffee. “Fabulous Firestone. I like it.”

  “You don’t think I’m feisty?”

  “You could teach courses in feisty. What else did Mr. Dubois have to say?”

  “That’s it. He remembered them, said they danced there for a couple of weeks and moved on. He said the men loved them. They did this act where they’d dance together and instead of undressing themselves, they’d undress each other.”

  I remembered the photo, Miranda resting her head on Jocelyn’s shoulder, arm around her waist. It wasn’t so hard to picture them dancing together, peeling off each other’s clothes.

  “The second place I found where someone remembered them was a club called Sans Souci in New Orleans.” She looked up from her notes. “I’m just telling you about the yesses. There were something like twenty who said no or just weren’t willing to talk to me. Your mom is going to have one hell of a long distance bill.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “So, Sans Souci. I’ve never been there, but Matt Callan – he’s a booking agent I used to work with – Matt said they hire a lot of unagented girls there. I figured Miranda and Jocelyn probably hadn’t signed with an agent at this point, although I suppose they could have. Anyway, I talked to the manager, and after I got through to him that I wasn’t looking for a job myself, I managed to get him to think back, and he remembered them, too. That act of theirs seems to have stuck in people’s minds.”

  “Was it that unusual?”

  “Two girls stripping each other? I haven’t seen anything like it. There are girl-girl acts in the champagne rooms sometimes, but that’s usually just a sex show, not a dance routine. From what people are saying, Miranda and Jocelyn had a really nice number worked out, with choreography and everything.”

  “Must have been something to see.”

  “Well, that brings us to number three. Matt told me about a guy named Morris Levy who operates a string of clubs in the Southeast. As far east as Jacksonville, as far north as Atlanta. According to Matt, he bought up a bunch of failing clubs in the eighties, renamed them Mo’s, put the waitresses in hotpants and matching Tshirts, repainted the bathrooms, and reopened. The clubs are still in business twenty years later, so I guess it worked.”

  “You ever work at one of them?”

  Susan shook her head. “Wait till you hear why. Matt said he never books his dancers at Mo’s because Mo Levy has a habit of shooting videotapes of his dancers without their permission. Not just their acts – I’m talking about in the dressing room, the bathroom, the whole nine yards. All the decent agents avoid him, which means he has to rely on lots of amateurs and girls who don’t know any better. A couple of dropout college girls would be a perfect fit for him.”

  “What does he do with these videotapes?”

  “He used to sell them through classified ads in sex papers until he got in trouble for it. These days, I don’t know, he probably swaps them over the Internet. Or maybe he just watches them himself, or shows them to his friends. But Matt says he never stopped making them.”

  “How does he know that?”

  “I told you, they all talk to each other in this business. Word gets around.”

  “Okay. So you called Levy?”

  She nodded. “Matt gave me his number. I asked him about Miranda and Jocelyn, described the act, and he knew exactly who I meant. Said they’d worked for him for almost a year starting in 1999, going from one of his clubs to another. They’d been a popular act, brought in a lot of business. So I asked if he had a tape of them.”

  “You just asked?”

  “I told him about the murder first. I explained I was working with your firm on the investigation. He sounded honestly upset about the whole thing. Maybe he was just frightened, I don’t know. I told him it was important that he share with us anything he knew, and when he was done telling me what he remembered, I asked him whether he had any pictures or videos that would show either of the women. He said no.”

  “So he didn’t have anything.”

  “Hold on,” she said. “I told him that we knew about his history with the videotapes, we had evidence that he’d continued to make them, and now he had two choices: show us anything he had with Miranda and Jocelyn on it, or wake up tomorrow morning to the cops knocking
on his door.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I also said we’d contact every dancer who’d worked in one of his clubs and by next week he’d be buried in law- suits. While if he sent us what he had, we’d leave him alone.”

  “Jesus Christ. Leo would love you. What did he say?”

  She sipped her coffee. “He said I was a ball-buster. That was the nicest thing he called me, actually. It went on for a while. But in the end there wasn’t much he could do. He swore he didn’t have anything of the bathroom or dressing room variety, but he finally admitted he had a tape of their performance itself. You should be getting a package at your office tomorrow by express mail.”

  “He’s sending the tape?”

  “A copy of it,” she said. “I don’t know if it will help in any way, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

  It couldn’t hurt? The case, maybe. I tried to imagine what it would be like to watch Miranda perform this popular act of hers, this tandem striptease that had all the strip club patrons from New Mexico to Florida talking. Susan reached across the table to put a hand on my arm.

  “You don’t have to watch it,” she said. “I can watch it for you, tell you if there’s anything on it you need to know about.”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s just a different type of bruising I’ve got to take. Leo warned me when this all started that I wouldn’t like what I learned. Doesn’t change what I’ve got to do, though.”

  She took her hand back, folded the papers. “I’ve got some more calls out from yesterday and another twenty or so places to call today. We’ve still got three years to fill in and they’re nowhere near New York.”

  “And they’re still dancing together.”

  “Right. So there’s plenty of work left. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate it, Susan.”

  “I like it, actually. It’s interesting work, and it keeps my mind occupied. Keeps me from thinking too much about how I’m going to get by with no job, and probably no one willing to hire me.”

  “You could always go to work as a detective,” I said. “You seem to have a knack for it.”

  “What about you? What are you going to do?”

  “Murco told me she recruited the burglars at a club in the Bronx. I figured I’d pay it a visit.”

  “Be careful,” Susan said.

  I squeezed her hand.

  “If you need anything, you can give me a call,” she said. “If I’m on the phone here, you can try me on my cell. I programmed the number into your phone while you were in the shower.”

  “You think that’s safe? Trusting me with your number?”

  “I decided to take the chance,” she said.

  Chapter 17

  The Wildman was about as different from the Sin Factory as two places could get. The building was only one story tall but it sprawled over what in Manhattan would have been the footprint of a skyscraper. The parking lot out back could have fit four brownstones.

  The walls looked like they’d been made from stacked cinderblocks and the roof was just slanted enough to let the snow slide off in the winter. There was a lighted billboard out front, but no doorman or bouncer, and even standing right under the front awning you couldn’t hear a thing from inside.

  Down the block and across the avenue were car lots and a mini-mall featuring a food court, a karate studio, and a combination Carvel ice cream store and video rental place. None of these establishments seemed to be doing much business.

  Neither was the Wildman, but that wasn’t a surprise given that it wasn’t even noon yet. Only hardcore alcoholics crack their first pint in the morning, and the same was true of strip club devotees. At noon or one you might see some local businessmen taking in the sights over lunch, but in the morning the clientele was limited to the addicted, the unemployed, and a few bleary-eyed night shift workers just getting off the job.

  But “24-Hour Action!” was one of the things the Wildman advertised on its sign, so it had to be open for business. I pushed through the door, paid the twentydollar cover to the man behind the barred bank teller window, and stepped through the curtain of heavy plastic strips that separated the front room from the back.

  My eyes took a moment to adjust. This room took up most of the rest of the building’s space, with five platform stages and a long wooden walkway snaking from one to the next. At the far end there was a full-sized stage with a red curtain and no one in front of it. Two of the five platforms were occupied, one by a tall woman with a Grace Jones flattop and small, natural breasts, the other by a woman closer to my height, chunkier, wearing silver hoops through her nipples and an ankh tattoo at the base of her throat. Her breasts looked natural, too. I hadn’t realized you could still find strippers with natural breasts in New York, even if you went to the Bronx at eleven in the morning.

  A few of the stools were occupied, though most were still stacked upside down on their tables. In one corner of the room a bartender was setting up, ripping open boxes of beer bottles and packing them into a cooler. There was a wooden bowl full of nuts and pretzels, and I grabbed a handful, popped them one by one while I waited for the bartender to come over.

  “Not open yet, champ,” he said. “Another half hour.”

  “Danny Matin around?”

  “This early? You’re joking, man.”

  “So who’s here?”

  “You and me, man.” He finished the box of Budweiser, started in on a box of Coors. “What you want Danny for anyway?”

  I flashed my wallet open and shut, giving him a glimpse of something that might have been a badge. “Girl who used to dance here was involved in a robbery, later turned up dead downtown. We’re investigating the connection.”

  “You talking about Jessie? That girl was bad news.

  Everybody knew it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He came over, rested his forearms on the bar. “She was always asking for trouble. Guys you wouldn’t want to run into on the street, she’d take them in the V.I.P. room two at a time. Nice little white girl like her and she takes these guys twice her size in the back. More prison tats they got, more she likes them.”

  “And what would she do back there?”

  “I don’t know, man, but whatever it was it must have been good, since most of the time they came back for more. Wasn’t the type of repeat business Danny really wanted. He was glad, I’ll tell you, when she stopped showing up. Although we was worried maybe she’d got herself hurt or killed. Which I guess she did.”

  It fit. If she was trying to recruit a pair of strongarm types to carry out a job, this was the sort of place to do it. It sounded like she’d had her pick of the Bronx’s tough male population.

  “What shift did she work?”

  “It varied. Some weeks, she’d be working now, ten to three. Some weeks she’d do the graveyard shift, two a.m. to seven. Never saw her work prime time. She wasn’t a prime time kind of girl.”

  That fit, too: she couldn’t be in two places at once, and the hours he was calling prime time were probably the ones she spent at the Sin Factory.

  I took out a photocopy of the picture that had run in the Daily News, unfolded it, and handed it to him. “Just for the record, is this her?”

  He only looked at it for a second. “Yeah. I mean, she looked different when she was dancing here, but yeah, could be her.”

  “Could be?”

  “Man, you show me a xerox of a photo from a newspaper from when she was in, what’s that, high school? College? Best I can say is could be. You show me a black girl, I’d say couldn’t be.”

  “So all you’re really saying is that this girl and the one you knew as Jessie were both white?”

  “No, man. That girl looks right. I don’t know.” He looked at the picture again, handed it back. “It’s just that she’d grown up a lot since that picture was taken.”

  We all have, I said. But I said it to myself.

  I left a card with him to give to
Danny Matin when Matin got in. Martin was the owner; I didn’t expect him to be able to tell me anything more than he’d told Catch, assuming he ever called, but you never find out if you don’t ask. I hadn’t gotten much out of the bartender, but I didn’t consider it a wasted trip. I’d wanted to see the place Miranda had danced, the place where she’d picked up the men who’d robbed Murco. When you put together a puzzle, not every piece is equally important – some just show a bit of the sky, not George Washington’s head. But you don’t have a complete picture until every piece is in place.

  I rode the subway back to Manhattan. It gave me plenty of time to think. When I’d called Murco to get Matin’s name, I’d also asked him for Miranda’s address, and that’s where I was headed now. What would I find there? Probably nothing, because that’s pretty much what Catch had found when he’d searched the place. But again, I wanted the whole picture, and for that I needed to see the place where she’d lived, the place where Murco’s money had gone missing.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Murco had said. “We’ve already been over the place. There’s nothing to see.”

  “With all due respect, you’re not a detective, and neither is your son.”

  “The police have been over it, too.”

  “You’re going to tell me the police never miss anything?”

  This got a laugh out of him, or something like a laugh. It was a nasty sound. “You can look if you want, Mr. Blake. But the clock’s ticking, and I’m not a patient man.”

  “Neither am I,” I said.

  I wondered what he would do if I did find something and what I found suggested that the person who had tipped Miranda off about the buy was someone close to him. A betrayal by one of the men he bought drugs from might not come as a surprise, but what if it was his own son or the club manager he’d worked with for years?

  “How sure are you that Miranda got half the money?”

  “Very.”