Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers (6 page)

Twenty minutes later, I pulled my Mini Cooper into the parking lot of Guys & Dolls. The dark gray building that housed the club was windowless, as if trying to keep its dirty secrets hidden inside. A black sign with red neon letters spelling
GUYS
&
DOLLS GENTLEMEN’S CLUB
hung over the double front doors.

Gentlemen. As if, huh?

I cut my engine and took a deep breath to ready myself. Sure, I’d seen these types of places portrayed on TV and in movies, but I’d never actually been inside a strip club before. I wasn’t a prude and had no qualms about baring my body back in high school gym class or now at the YMCA, but a ladies’ locker room was a nonsexual environment. None of us had been looking at each other. I wasn’t sure what to expect from a place where women danced topless with the explicit intent of being ogled by men.

I made my way to the front door. A bouncer with biceps the size of bowling balls stood at the entrance. His unkempt shoulder-length locks gave him a Tarzan-like appearance. He wore a black T-shirt stretched tight across his chest. The word
SECURITY
was printed in white across the front. He opened the door for me, releasing the sound of Christina Aguilera’s hit “Dirrty” and shooting me a lascivious grin. “So you like the ladies, too?”

“Actually I’m here to interview for the bookkeeping job.”

His grin faded. Looked like I’d killed his lesbian sex fantasy.

He stuck out a beefy hand. “I’m Tyson.”

He’d always be Tarzan to me.

“Sara.”

As I shook his hand, I noticed an electronic keypad was mounted on the outside wall next to the doors. I supposed it made sense to have a keypad instead of regular door locks. Given the turnover in the club, it would be much easier and cheaper to change the access code when an employee quit or was terminated than it would be to change locks and distribute new keys.

The bouncer stepped in after me, calling out to a cocktail waitress. “Yo, Tiff. This chick needs to see Merle.”

Chick?
What the cluck?

The young blonde waved me in. “This way.”

The inside of the club was decorated in black and gold, with elevated black vinyl booths around the perimeter and black-topped bar tables closer to the stage. The platform was T-shaped, like the runway in a fashion show, with the main part centered along the back wall and an extension jutting out into the room. The effect was phallic. Three poles graced the stage, one at each end of the T.

Only one of the poles was in use at the moment, the one at the tip of the T, closest to the buffet where the late lunch crowd was filling their plates with all-you-can-eat cocktail shrimp for $4.99. A tall Asian woman with black hair that hung well past her tatas gripped the pole with one hand and slowly bent and straightened her knees in a slow-motion repetitive crouch, as if she were riding an invisible carousel horse. She put the “ho” in “Hi-ho, Silver.” Another dancer, this one with shoulder-length brown hair and an athletic build, gyrated at a table for a trio of businessmen peeling shrimp and dipping them in cocktail sauce. The men cast occasional glances at her between bites of seafood and bits of conversation.

The club’s wallpaper featured a ziggurat motif typical of the Art Deco style. A number of wide mirror panels hung behind the stage and along the walls, probably as much to make the place seem bigger as to reflect the dancers, make the patrons believe they were getting more boob for their buck. As if the nearly naked girls onstage and their writhing reflections weren’t enough, an abundance of nude statutes stood around, the subjects shamelessly showing off their bodies. All of the statues were female, not a Penis de Milo in sight. Talk about your sexist work environments.

The waitress led me past the restrooms to a door marked
PRIVATE—EXECUTIVE OFFICES
, which was guarded by another keypad and another long-haired goon. When the waitress informed the guy why I was there, he stepped aside wordlessly, punched a series of four numbers into the pad, and opened the door.

“In there,” the girl said. “The room on the left.”

“Thanks.”

The goon closed and locked the door behind me. I found myself in a small, dark hallway. The door to the right bore a fancy gold nameplate for
MR. DONALD GEILS, PROPRIETOR
. The plaque should have read
PIMP AND DRUG LORD
. The door on the left contained a small, square reinforced window panel and was unmarked, neither of which was surprising for an office in which a lot of cash was handled. A security keypad was mounted next to each door.

I knocked on the door to the cash office and waited.

A few seconds later, an older man’s round face appeared behind the glass. “Are you Sara?” came his muffled voice.

No.
“Yes.”

The dead bolt slid aside with a click and the door opened, revealing Merle. He looked like an aged Charlie Brown, with a boxy build, short arms, and a disproportionately large head that was entirely bald except for three dark hairs curling haphazardly across his forehead. He wore gray pants and a thin white dress shirt, slightly wrinkled and open at the throat. No tie. No jacket.

His gaze went up and down, taking all of me in, though the assessment was in no way sexual. When his eyes returned to my face, he said, “You look like a girl who’s got her head on straight.”

“Thanks.”

He held out a hand. “Merle Vasilakis.”

His last name sounded like a venereal disease or a medication for yeast infections, but at least his hand looked clean. I gave it a firm shake.

Merle stepped back and gestured to a rolling chair positioned in front of the smaller of two basic desks in the crowded room. “Have a seat.”

As I slid into the chair and swiveled to face him, several things caught my eye. The first was a security camera mounted in the corner, spying down on the room. The second was that the top half of the interior wall was a one-way mirror looking out onto the bar. I would’ve preferred a view of real mountains rather than the not-so-grand Tetons bouncing up and down on the stage, but at least the window made the small room feel less confining. The third thing I noticed was a faded photograph of Merle and Bernice on his desk.

Though Bernice hadn’t changed much over the years, I hardly recognized Merle at first. He still had hair when the picture was taken, as well as the glow of youth. His current glow came via a highball glass, which sat next to the framed photograph on his desk. I might’ve assumed the golden-brown liquid in the glass was soda or tea if not for the bottle of Crown Royal sitting next to it.

Merle picked my resume up from his desk. “Pappy Henderson gave you a good recommendation.”

Looked like Josh had pulled it off.

“I’ll miss working for Pappy,” I said. “He was a great guy.”

Merle asked whether I was familiar with the club’s bookkeeping software. Fortunately I was. Several clients at Martin and McGee had used it.

Merle made a note on my resume. “We need someone for the six
P.M.
–to-midnight shift, Monday through Saturday. Those hours work for you?”

“Sure.” The late schedule wouldn’t interfere with the trial in the mortgage-fraud case and would enable me to take care of other investigations during the daytime hours. Of course, it also meant I’d be pulling double shifts. I should talk to Lu about that. See if she’d give me a raise.

“Why do you want to work here?” Merle’s brows lifted in anticipation of my response.

Surely the guy realized it was nobody’s dream to be a bookkeeper at a titty bar. Why put on a façade? I shrugged. “Because I like to have food to eat, gas in my car, and a roof over my head.”

The eyes crinkled now with humor. “You’re a straight shooter, Sara. I respect that.”

He had no idea how straight a shooter I was. Best marksman in my group of trainees.

“Could you start tomorrow?” he asked.

“No problem.” The sooner the better.

“Mr. Geils will want to take a look at you.” Merle picked up the phone and punched a button. “Got a minute?” he said into the receiver. “I’ve got a girl here for the bookkeeping job who seems to fit the bill.” He listened for a second, followed up with a “Yes, sir,” and returned the phone to the cradle.

He jerked his head toward the door. “Come with me.”

As we stepped across the hall, I noticed Merle walked with a slight limp in his right leg. Arthritis perhaps?

Despite the fact that Geils was expecting us, Merle knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter. When Geils called “Come in,” Merle opened the door and held out a hand, indicating I should precede him into the room. Perhaps there was a gentleman in this gentlemen’s club after all.

Geils’s space was twice as big as the cash office, with luxurious furnishings, including a broad desk, a cushy high-backed chair, and a leather couch. Like the cash office, the upper half of the interior wall was a one-way mirror, allowing Geils to keep an eye on the activity in his establishment. A large-screen TV was mounted on the opposite wall. The set was tuned to ESPN. Between the boobs, the booze, and the basketball, this place was pretty much guy heaven.

Donald Geils stood from his chair, but didn’t bother extending a hand to me, as if I weren’t worth the effort. He wore a silky maroon shirt and a gold pinky ring in the shape of Texas, a diamond marking Dallas. He was short for a man, only about five feet five, though the three-inch stacked heels he wore—without socks—added a little height. Coarse black hair covered his head and arms. Add in the upturned nose and the five-months-pregnant paunch and the guy looked like a potbellied piggy, one that had indulged in a bit too much roast beef before he went
wee-wee-wee
all the way home. Little did he know I was here to huff and puff and blow his house down.

He chewed a toothpick and looked me over as if I were a used car. If I’d had tires, he probably would’ve kicked them. He narrowed his dark eyes at me. “You gonna steal from me, pipsqueak?”

My head jerked back reflexively. I hadn’t expected such a blunt and accusatory question, especially not one followed by an insult. Obviously this guy hadn’t learned proper manners at Miss Cecily’s Charm School like I had. “No, sir.”

He jammed the wooden pick between his front teeth and wiggled it. “You gonna be on time?”

On time to build a case against you, jerkface? You bet!
“Yes, sir.”

“You gonna do a good job? Things gotta be done right. I don’t put up with no nonsense, ’specially when it comes to the bookkeeping. The last thing I need is the goddamn IRS snooping around here.”

Oh, really?
“I won’t let you down.”
Though I just might take you down.

He frowned, as if he still wasn’t impressed but had to settle for me. “All right. Ten fifty an hour. No benefits. First three months you’re on probation.”

Seriously? I’d have to be a desperate idiot to want to work for an ass like Don Geils at the crappy wage he offered. A desperate idiot or an undercover agent for the “goddamn IRS” looking for an in. “Okay.”

Geils tossed the toothpick in his trash can. He put his middle finger and thumb together and thumped Merle on the chest. “Show the pipsqueak around.”

Fury burned in me, both for myself and for Merle. No one should have to put up with these indignities. Insults? Chest thumps? Who the hell did Donald Geils think he was? But if there was one thing I’d learned since I’d joined the IRS, it’s that people with inflated egos think they’re smarter than they really are and often don’t see their own weaknesses. The ego that makes them uppity is often the very thing that brings them down.

Merle held the door open for me as I stepped into the hall. “Let me show you around, Sara.”

“That would be great.”

As we stepped out of the locked hallway and back into the bar, Merle raised his hands above his head. The bouncer gave him a quick pat down, then turned to me and gestured for me to raise my arms, too. He gave me a quick frisk. When the palms of his hands brushed the sides of my breasts I had to fight an instinctive urge to put a knee in the guy’s nuts. Thankfully his hands ventured only as low as my pants pockets. If he’d discovered the Glock in my ankle holster I would’ve been up shit creek.

Satisfied I’d hid no stacks of twenties in my bra or pockets, he held out a hand for my purse. “Let me take a look in your bag.”

Fortunately, I’d removed anything identifying me as Tara Holloway. I handed my purse to him and he rummaged around, unzipping the inside pocket and peeking inside. Assured I hadn’t shoved stacks of money into the bag, either, he handed it back to me. “You’re clean.”

Ironic words given that having his hands on me had made me feel dirty.

Merle led me past the mirrored wall of Geils’s office. I wondered if Don Geils had watched through the mirror as the pat down took place. The skeevy perv probably got off on it.

Merle stopped in front of another door and typed in a four-digit code on the pad. The door opened onto an L-shaped hallway that led to the dressing room.
Un
dressing room would be more like it. The music from the dance floor was indiscernible in here, though the bass line could be heard and felt. A cacophony of scents assaulted my nose, everything from hair spray, to antiperspirant, to a medley of colognes and perfumes. The room was typical, with a built-in countertop running along one wall, topped with mirrors and bright lights for applying makeup and doing hair.

A couple of young women moved about inside, one in a plain white bra and panties, the other wearing only jeans and a pair of blue star-shaped pasties over an enormous pair of breasts. It seemed odd that a man would be permitted in the room, but since the women paraded around in nothing but a G-string in the bar, I supposed it didn’t much matter whether men were allowed to see them more fully dressed in here, huh?

Merle introduced me to the two girls, both blondes, one natural, one bottle. The natural blonde was Chloe, the bottle blonde was Ashlynn. Without their stage makeup on, they looked almost wholesome, like the kind of girls I’d known back in college.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking their hands, all the while wondering whether either of these girls worked the VIP room and where their hands might have been. Ashlynn’s stars jiggled up and down along with the movement of her hand as she shook mine. Again, I tried not to look. Again, it was like a train wreck.