Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (14 page)

twenty

The Gentlemen's Club
wasn't
exactly Stringfellows of London, but it was a long way short of being a low-rent dive. On the south shore, the exterior looked like a rundown country club, a tastefully designed frontage that incorporated New England charm and Old West ruggedness. The two-story wooden structure was the size of a large barn but with a flat roof and full-length porch out front. The obligatory stars and stripes hung limp from a flagpole beside the steps. The window frames were painted dull green. Surprise, surprise: they needed repainting. The entire outside looked faded and worn. Even the parking lot was in need of fresh tarmac.

The inside of the club was anything but faded. Color hit Grant in the face as soon as he walked through the door from the foyer. It was like walking into a cinema. The reception sold tickets and popcorn. The double doors led into a world of darkness and sensuality.

He went inside. Grant felt right at home.

The doors closed behind him, and he stood with his back to the wall for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the dark. It didn't take long. That was another piece of baggage Grant carried around with him, the ability to adjust quickly. It was another thing that made him so dangerous. His eyes scanned the room. His ears waited for the inevitable musical assault that all nightclubs seemed to feel was necessary.

The aural assault didn't come. Instead, the soft thumping intro of Ennio Morricone's theme for
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
pulsed from hidden speakers. The darkness was lifted by blue neon lights surrounding a raised stage in the middle of the room. A silver pole stood out from the middle of the stage. Three rows of seats with individual tables circled the arena. The seating was about half full, but there were no empty seats in the front row. Several ceiling- mounted spotlights blinked red with each beat of the introduction. They pulsed brightly, then faded. The effect was stunning, but not as stunning as the vision of loveliness wrapping her arms and one leg around the silver pole.

She moved like a snake. Her arms slithered up the pole. Her entwined leg slowly crawled right around it. Her hips pulsated in a soft gyration that replicated gentle penetration if she'd been riding her man. The pulsing beat grew louder. The red lights grew brighter before each fade to black. Then the main theme kicked in and a brilliant white spotlight skewered the woman and she began to dance.

She was naked.

She was toned.

There wasn't an ounce of spare flesh on her, and everything on display screamed muscle and strength. She had very short bleached blond hair and piercing eyes. Her lips were savage red. Perfectly formed buttocks alternately pinched then jiggled as she rode the pole, using the strength in her legs to lower her ass to the ground, then raise it back up again. What every man watching was thinking was, “That could be my pole she's sinking down onto.”

Grant thought the same.

He kept his back to the wall and watched the show. A quick glance on either side of him for protection. The easiest time to attack would be when he'd just entered the room and before he got his bearings. Distraction technique. The woman dancing on stage was very distracting. Grant checked his flanks for enemy action. There was nobody near him. He focused on the dancer's lithe moves.

She hugged the pole and slid her hands up and down its silver length. No prizes for guessing what she was suggesting with that move. Then she locked one leg around the pole and suddenly leaned backwards with her upper body. Her torso folded in half until her head almost touched the floor. Her face was upside down. She held her arms out wide, then shook her chest. Medium-sized breasts jiggled. Even upside down there was no mistaking the truth in those breasts. They promised softness but weight. They changed shape as her body inverted, from the slight downward sag of all the weight being in the bottom to the sensual shift in weight that forced the nipples to point at her mouth. The gentle sway as she jiggled them proved they were all natural, with no artificial additives. There was no football-shaped bag of silicon or surgical scarring beneath each breast. These were real.

She snapped her body upright again, and Grant felt dizzy just watching her. She turned her back to the pole, raised her hands above her head and grabbed it higher up, then lifted her legs off the ground. They stuck straight out in front, and her stomach muscles became taught as cables on a suspension bridge. Bands of muscle stood out. Her thighs looked solid. Slowly, ever so slowly, she opened her legs.

The music was building to a crescendo of screaming and whistling. The pulsing beat in the background grew louder. The dancer's love mound was completely shaved. The softness of it pulsed in time with the background beat. Her stomach tightened, then relaxed, pulling her hips away from the pole then settling back against it. Using just the strength in her arms, she slowly twirled around the silver rod, giving everyone a view of what they could never have. It was cruel. It was sensual. It was what the punters paid for when they came through the double doors. It was what some of them might pay more for after the show.

The music stopped, and a thunderous round of applause broke out. There were a couple of wolf whistles. The dancer strode around the edge of the stage, doing a lap of honor, then she sank to her knees, folding her feet under her, and let the grateful audience tuck twenty-dollar bills into an elastic belt Grant hadn't noticed around her waist. There were cries of encore, encore, but she ignored them. A few minutes later she stood up and bowed to her viewers, both towards them and away from them, giving one last glimpse of her gleaming sex before she strode off like a tiger in the jungle. Like a predator.

Grant watched the house lights turn up a couple of notches but not enough to banish the dark completely. He scanned the rest of the room. An outer circle of dining tables surrounded the stage area. There was a brightly lit bar to one side. There were several pedestal tables with three barstools each dotted around the bar. There were no barstools at the bar itself. Waitresses who were almost as beautiful as the dancer ferried drinks to the tables, mostly the ones around the stage. Anyone dining at the outer circle was served separately.

Grant went to the bar.

There were two bartenders, both male, both young. They were a nonthreatening presence that wouldn't scare the punters. The heavyweights stood in the shadows against the walls around the room. Grant had pinpointed them when he'd come in, and that was why he'd chosen his spot at the wall. Nowhere near any of them. In the bright pool of light at the bar there was no danger, only drinks, nibble trays, and something else.

Grant ordered a Coke with ice, no lemon. He took a handful of peanuts from one of the nibble trays. Then he looked at the neatly stacked tray of matchbook condoms that he had seen several times before.

A crash of cymbals
and the haunting strings of Lalo Schifrin's opening theme from
Bullitt
came over the speakers. The house lights dimmed as another dancer took to the stage. This one had long dark hair tied back in a single ponytail. Her head was lowered so that the ponytail hung forward between her ample breasts. The red lights pulsed as the intro shifted gears, adding elements of jazz. A sharp note sounded. The dancer flicked her head, turning the ponytail into a whip that encircled the pole. She gyrated her shaved pussy against the silver shaft and tightened her buttocks until they looked as solid as rock.

The single white spot highlighted her performance.

In the shadows around the walls, classic movie posters Grant hadn't noticed when he came in explained the choice of music. He'd never been in a movie-themed strip club before. The music was more relaxing than the usual thumping pop songs that drilled into your brain and precluded any kind of conversation. The gentle rhythm added a sensual tone to the dancing. Slow and eager.

Grant concentrated on the condoms on the bar.

He picked a pack up from the tray. It was black, with a swirl of flame forming a symbol in the middle. The flame held a silhouette of a naked woman at its heart. It reminded Grant of one of the James Bond teaser posters back when Pierce Brosnan had been playing Bond. The name on the bottom wasn't the Gentlemen's Club. It didn't say CVS Pharmacy. It said nothing. Three times.

TRIPLE ZERO
Gentlemen's Services

Not as catchy as Double-Oh-Seven but catchy enough that Grant remembered the name. He'd seen it in Sullivan's property bag at District E-13. He'd seen some at Flanagan's Bar, even though he hadn't paid any attention. He'd worn one twice. More than twice actually. A couple of times at the Airport Hilton and once at the Seaverns Hotel. Terri Avellone had provided them. Judging by the packaging, they weren't available at the pharmacy. Judging by the address on the back, they didn't come from Jamaica Plain either. He didn't recognize it. Somewhere in downtown Boston, he presumed.

He wondered how widely available they were. He hadn't noticed any at O'Neill's. None at Costello's either. If they were a promotional tool, they were probably only dispensed at point of sale, like the peanuts. Designed to get you eating for free so you needed a drink to quench your thirst. Between the condoms and the lap dancers, there would be plenty of thirst to quench. Paying for the drink was what ended up costing you.

They want customers inside. That's when they start ripping you off.

Gerry O'Neill had been right, only he wasn't talking about peanuts to drive your thirst. What they were selling here cost more than a pint of Tetley's. That didn't bother Grant. If the urge became too great and there was no woman in his life, he had no qualms about engaging professional help. It cleared his head, didn't involve commitment, and you weren't stuck with saying goodbye in the morning. What did bother him was how this related to Freddy Sullivan getting blown apart and his brother getting shot.

Grant flicked open the lid. In all those private investigator movies, the clue was always inside the flap or in the name of the premises giving away free matches. He wondered how PIs ever solved a case without the aid of a fortuitously placed book of matches. There was nothing on the inside of this one. The matchbook produced more questions than answers. He closed the flap.
Bullitt
continued to play. The dancer continued to dance. The fine structure and prominent cheekbones suggested Eastern European, but that could just be Grant clutching at straws. She certainly had the tight body and perfect breasts of a professional. Whether she was an imported professional remained to be seen.

No point asking the bar staff. The waitresses either. They were just window dressing for a service industry that gave good service. Too many questions in the wrong place could get his ass kicked. If anyone wanted to try. He turned his back to the bar and scanned the pedestal tables. An overweight guy was sitting alone, leaning on the table as he concentrated on the dancer. He was wearing a crumpled business suit with the tie undone and collar open. He looked like a regular. Grant took a dish of peanuts and his drink and sat at the next table.

Bullitt
finished, and the dancer did her lap of honor for tips. The house lights came up. The front-row patrons waited eagerly for the next act. Grant dropped a handful of peanuts in his mouth. They were dry and salty. He swilled them down with ice-cold Coke. The man stretched his back without standing up. No wonder he was overweight. Grant raised his voice but kept it conversational. “They sure know how to throw a party, don't they?”

The man looked startled at being spoken to. Grant supposed a lot of men came here for solitude and female entertainment, not conversation. Guilty husbands getting a look at what their wives wouldn't provide. Lonely men watching what they could only dream of having. Grant didn't fall into either category. He liked sex and wasn't ashamed of it. It's what red-blooded males were all about. Anyone who said they didn't think about sex when they saw a beautiful woman was a liar.

“Corking norks.”

“Pardon me?”

Grant held his hands curled and upturned in front of his chest as if cupping a pair of heavy breasts. “Sorry. Arthritis.”

The man still didn't understand.

“Nice tits. Nice rack. That's what you call 'em over here, isn't it?”

The man looked embarrassed but no longer scared. He relaxed slightly. “They most certainly are.”

Grant ignored the peanuts and took another drink. “You know what they say. Save a mouse, eat a pussy.”

The man laughed. The blush left his cheeks. “Good one. Never heard that. Save a mouse. Funny.”

The man didn't introduce himself, and Grant didn't push it. This wasn't the sort of place most customers wanted to be exchanging names and addresses. He didn't look intimidated anymore, though. That was a good sign. Grant kept his tone light. “You ever hear them talk? The girls—they look foreign.”

The man gave Grant a look, his confidence rising. “Compared to you, do you mean? You're not from around these parts.”

“Very astute of you. No. Across the pond.”

“North shore?”

Grant feigned a laugh. “Not Jamaica Pond.
The
pond. The Atlantic.”

“English. Well, not being Irish makes you foreign around here.”

“So I've discovered. You can be an unforgiving bunch.”

“Not me. I'm third-generation Canadian. In Boston on business.”

So, not a regular. Shit. “Then we're all foreign, then. What about the girls, though?”

“No clue.”

The lights dimmed, and the blue neon took over. The red spots pulsed twice, then a familiar voice boomed across the room.
“Ah, ah, I know what you're thinking. Did he fire six shots or only five?”

A tall, leggy blond walked confidently up to the pole and spun her back to it, folding her arms around the shaft behind her. She tilted her head backwards and stuck her breasts out. Grant was right. Corking norks. Some wag in the audience shouted above the speakers. “I'd like to fire six shots.”