My Soul to Keep (35 page)

I began stopping at each one, hitting all the businesses on the south side of the street. At every stop, I went inside and spent a couple of minutes talking to whoever was behind the counter, asking them about the
white Fairlane. They’d all seen the news reports. The ones who spoke English took my card and said they’d call if they saw or heard anything.

I was just about to give up my quest when I spotted one business I knew a little about—a strip club called Caligula. Gordon Pryne had been a customer there, which meant it was a hangout for users and dealers. Exactly the place where the guy in the sketch would hang out.

I pulled into the club parking lot and sat there for a while, watching men park their cars and walk in. After a few minutes, I threw my weight against the squawking truck door, squared my shoulders, and went inside.

Caligula is on Northwest Highway—a major thoroughfare situated between the wealthier parts of Dallas and DFW airport. It’s one of those places you drive by regularly, averting your eyes, and then forget about as soon as you’ve made it around the bend. Among strip joints—already a foul business, to my mind—Caligula had a reputation for being one of the seediest. The Metro section of the paper referenced it occasionally as a crime scene. I knew it had been shut down for a number of years—the door boarded, the sign dark—until a year or so ago.

At any rate, suffice it to say, I’d never been to a strip joint, never considered what it might be like to go into one. And never imagined myself stepping into this one, of all places. But here I was, yanking the door open and stalking up to the bouncer like I knew what I was doing.

I stopped short. The man’s biceps were the size of melons. His black T-shirt and jeans were stretched taut over a superhero body—enormous shoulders, muscular bulges, tiny waist, and chiseled quads. Beside him stood a live Barbie doll—Strip Club Barbie. Same measurements as Malibu Barbie but a tinier, sluttier outfit. I’d never seen that particular shade of blond hair, but it was somewhere between egg-yolk yellow and cream-cheese white. Tattoos fanned out from her bellybutton to her G-string.

Strip Club Barbie looked me over. “Twenty-dollar cover.”

I felt my face flush. “I’m not a really a customer.” I looked around, as though someone might catch me here and send me to the principal’s office. “I just wanted to ask the manager a couple of questions.”

“Twenty-dollar cover,” she said again.

I reached in my bag, found a ten and nine ones. “All I have is nineteen.”

Her face didn’t move.

I leaned in. “Listen. Do I look like your regular customers?”

A barely perceptible smile. “You’d be surprised.”

“I doubt it. But I’m not here for the show. I swear. I’d just like to ask the manager some questions.”

“Reporter or cop?”

“Psychologist.”

The man with the melon biceps raised his eyebrows. “You a shrink?”

“Yep.”

“I got a problem with my wife,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I can’t get her to leave me.” He threw back his head and laughed.

“I can probably help you with that.”

He cocked his head toward the door, waving me in. “Straight through, all the way to the back on the left. Name’s Hardy.”

He refused my nineteen bucks, so I stuffed it back in my bag, pulled open the door, and stepped inside.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark. I found myself in a small entryway dominated by an enormous fish tank. A thick velvet curtain walled off the little room from the rest of the club. I’d have to pull back that curtain—touch it personally with my hands—if I wanted to get back there. I grabbed one of the free newspapers from the stand by the fish tank and used it like a glove, shoving the curtain aside and stepping into what my grandmother would have labeled dramatically, a “den of iniquity.”

The music was loud and thunky, the room’s air stale and humid, the lighting nonexistent except for the spots aimed at three long runways jutting out into the room between tables with weak candles on them. A few women were gyrating on the runways.

In spite of myself, I stopped and stared.

I should add here that it is an essential truth in the universe that all women obsessively compare themselves to one another. Why we engage in such futility is one of life’s great mysteries. But as any married man knows, this should be accepted as fact without argument.

It’s inevitable. It’s a reflex. Just make peace with it now.

So as I stood there, mouth open, staring at the room in front of me, I gave the dancers the once-over, looking for the usual suspects: sag, cellulite, poor muscle tone, jiggles. I’m happy to report that all the dancers checked out as completely average in every department. Except, of course, in the areas that were surgically enhanced. But that’s another conversation.

Feeling better about my thighs than I had in months, I sauntered back to the office, past a succession of seemingly regular-looking men. None of them were drooling or making inappropriate sounds or gestures or anything like that. In fact, several tables held groups of men who weren’t watching the dancers at all. Stacks of paper covered one four-top, its occupants punching numbers into calculators just like they were sitting around a conference table at the office.

I shook my head—not exactly the scene I’d expected—and found the office door. A sign on the door read “Private—Do NOT Enter!”

I knocked.

No response.

I knocked again.

Still no response.

The third knock was the charm. I heard someone push a desk chair back and stalk to the door. It flew open, and I was staring at a lovely woman in a tailored business suit. She was about my age.

“Um, hi. I’m looking for … the manager? Mr. Hardy?”

“I’m Eileen Hardy. What can I do for you?”

I failed to keep the raw consternation out of my voice. “You’re the manager?”

She shifted her weight to one foot and crossed her arms. “Can I help you with something?”

“Could I come in?” I glanced back at the dance floor. “It’s a little loud out here.”

“You a cop?”

“No. Just an interested party.”

“Interested in what?”

“Nicholas Chavez.”

I couldn’t tell if the name registered, but with the last week’s news coverage, unless she’d been in a coma the past week, it should have rung a loud, clanging bell. Eileen Hardy stepped back. I walked in and looked around the room. I could have been standing in any office—drab furniture, industrial fluorescents, putty-colored file cabinets. A whiteboard on the wall had a list of girls’ names, along with their shifts. I scanned the list: Bambii, Freedom, Sugar. There were fifteen of them.

She led me to a seat, then settled herself in opposite me, crossing her legs and waiting for me to begin. Her gaze was steady. If I didn’t know what she did for a living, I’d have thought she was a lawyer or something. I probably would have invited her for coffee.

“I didn’t expect you to be a woman,” I said at last.

“Surprise, surprise.”

“Are you the owner? Or what?”

“I’m the manager and part owner.”

“Do you mind if I ask how you got into this line of work? I mean, I’d think places like this would be managed by men.”

“Now why would you think that?” she said, clearly enjoying my discomfort. She got up, walked over to a credenza, and poured us both some Pellegrino. She handed me a glass and sat down again.

“Well, uh, I guess I assumed since it’s a club for men … I mean …”

“Ninety percent of the employees are women,” she said. “Don’t you think they could benefit from female management?”

I let out a breath. “I hadn’t thought about that. Good point.”

She pointed toward a stack of paint swatches and floor plans piled on her desk. “If you know this place, I’m sure you know the old Caligula. We bought it last fall. We’re gutting the place next month—completely
redoing everything. We’ve hired a new chef, and we’re holding auditions for new dancers. Our goal is to elevate the whole place to a new level.”

I tried to look enthusiastic. “Wow. Great. Good for you.”

“I know Caligula has always had a bad reputation—”

“Terrible.”

“But we’re changing that.” I could see her considering what to say next. “I knew the dancer who was killed this winter. And I know her killer met her here.” She said it like she was confessing.

“She was a nice kid.”

“She was.”

“It was terrible, what happened to her.”

“We’re looking to attract a different crowd now. Nothing like that should ever happen here. These girls should be safe.”

I didn’t say anything. If she was looking for absolution, she’d come to the wrong place.

“Our target market is men ages twenty-five to sixty-five with incomes of forty-five thousand or more.”

I sighed. I hadn’t come to discuss her business plans. “Do you remember a customer named Gordon Pryne?”

“Very well.” She sipped her Pellegrino. “No longer our target market.”

“He’s back in Huntsville, so I don’t think you’ll need to worry about it.”

“Did you want to talk to me about Gordon Pryne?”

“Not exactly. I’m actually wondering if any of your customers drives a white Ford Fairlane.”

She gestured toward the walls. “We’re a business with no windows. I come early. I leave late. I eat at my desk. You looking for anyone in particular?”

I pulled out my sex offender list and read her the names.

“I don’t recognize any of them.”

“It was worth a shot,” I said. “I thought maybe there was some connection.”

“To what?”

“Nicholas Chavez’s kidnapping. I’m sure you’ve heard about that. The kidnapper drove a white Ford Fairlane, we think, and may have lived in this neighborhood.” I took a sip from my glass. My stomach hurt. “I think this was a wild goose chase. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

She stood and offered her hand. “You didn’t introduce yourself, by the way.”

“I’m sorry.” I extended my hand. “I guess I’m a little overwhelmed. This is not exactly familiar territory for me. I’m Dylan Foster.”

“You’re not a cop. A reporter?”

“Just a friend of the family.” I handed her a business card. “Will you call me if you hear anything about that white car? Or anything about Nicholas?”

“Of course.” She walked me to the door. “Did you talk to Wayne yet?”

“Who’s Wayne?”

She pointed. “The bartender. He knows more about the clientele than I do. If there’s anything to find out, he’s your man.”

“Thanks.”

I kept my head down as I walked to the bar. I didn’t want any more images from this place in my head.

I sat down on the edge of a bar stool and worked on maintaining as unfriendly a demeanor as I could muster to discourage anyone from even thinking of hitting on me. Since I’m naturally hostile, this was the one part of my evening that was a snap. I was careful not to touch the bar—I didn’t want to contemplate where the customers’ hands had been. As I waited for the bartender to come my way, I glanced up at the bar. My rotten luck was holding. The bar was mirrored to make sure patrons seated there could have a full, unobstructed view of the dancers behind them. I grimaced and looked away.

The bartender made his way over. “What can I get you, little lady?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions. Do you have a minute?”

He gestured toward the packed bar.

“Do I look like I have a minute?”

“Please? It will only take a second. Eileen Hardy suggested I talk to you.”

He leaned on his elbows and looked at me. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you know if any of your customers drives a white Ford Fairlane? Probably a ’63 or ’64?”

He jerked his head at the wall behind him. “See any windows? I’m behind the bar pulling drinks. Why don’t you talk to Rocky?”

“Who’s Rocky?”

He nodded toward the door. “Bouncer. He keeps an eye on the lot. He might know about a car like that. You don’t see many of ’em.”

“Thanks. I’ll check with him on the way out. I don’t suppose you’ve overheard anyone talking about Nicholas Chavez?”

“The kidnapped kid? That’s what you’re after? You a cop?”

“No.”

“Private detective?”

“Just a friend.”

“I haven’t heard a thing. I guarantee you if I had, I’d a called it in first thing. That’s sick, taking a kid like that. They ought to string that guy up by his—”

“Any of your regulars stop showing up suddenly?” I asked. “The kidnapping happened last Saturday.”

He looked up toward the ceiling, thinking. “Not that I can think of, off the top of my head. With a little time, I could give you a better answer, probably.”

“Any of your customers Phoenix fans?”

“Suns or Diamondbacks?”

“Both.”

“Lots of ’em, probably.”

“If I have someone bring you a sketch of the suspect, will you look at it and see if you know the guy?”

“Sure. What’s he look like?”

“He has a Phoenix Suns jersey, number thirteen.”

The bartender nodded enthusiastically. “Steve Nash. Point guard. Leads the NBA in assists.”

“I know. Great floor vision.”

“What else you got?”

“He’s kind of scrawny. Probably a meth addict. Narrow, sharp features. Sallow complexion. White guy, or maybe Hispanic. And he wears cowboy boots. We think he wears long-sleeved collared shirts. Lots of plaid. All old and worn out. And he wears an Arizona Diamondbacks cap. A black one, we think. The one with the snake head on it.”

“Sounds like Googie.”

My heart stopped. “Googie who? Do you have a last name? Address? Anything?”

“Never heard a last name. He comes in here every now and again. Dealers don’t sit still. He never stays long.”

“You don’t have a credit card slip, do you? Anything?”

“Dealers always pay cash. Besides, I haven’t seen that much of him since … oh … January? Used to come in here with his running buddy.”

“Do you know why they stopped coming?”

“I think his buddy got sent up to Huntsville. Doing time for rape.”

I could feel my hands go cold. “What’s his buddy’s name?”

He cocked his head again, thinking. “Jeff? George? No … Gordon. I think it was Gordon something.”