The Last Clinic (16 page)

“I’m here investigating the death of Reverend Aldridge.”

He looked disappointed, but only for a second. Then he went back to his usual smirk.

“Oh yeah, I heard about that. The guy with the cross, right? Liked to bark at cars when they passed by. I had a dog used to do the same thing. Got run over one day. What can I say? An occupational hazard.”

Darla could see he wanted to snicker, a real sweetheart this Conway.

“You don’t happen to belong to Reverend Aldridge’s church do you, Mr. Boudreaux?”

“Me? No. I was raised Pentecostal. But as an adult, I developed a different set of values. Now, I’m more of a, how would you say it?”

Sleaze
, she wanted to say, but didn’t. “Hedonist?” she said instead.

“That’s just the word I was looking for.”

Sitting there on the couch, with his bony legs spread apart, his right knee started to bounce, like a kid in grade school who didn’t have the answer and was afraid the teacher was going to call on him.

She didn’t say anything. His leg continued to gyrate.

Finally, he said, “Anyway, no, I’ve never been to Reverend what’s his name’s church. So I’m afraid I can’t help you out on that count.”

“Mind if I sit down?” She could see he wanted her to leave.

“You mean there’s more?”

He shrugged his shoulders and moved the sports section off the far end of the couch.

Darla sat down. She considered taking out her recorder, but figured Conway would clam up.

“Cavannah” he said, like maybe they’d met, and he was trying to remember where. His eyes brightened and he gave her a theatrical double take.

“Wait a minute. You’re Hugh’s wife? Lady, ah…Officer, your husband, he was like my hero.”

“Mine too,” she said and let him see a little of the hurt, despite herself.

“That catch in the Super Bowl, I won five large ones that game. Wow. Hugh the Glue,” he said, lost in a private football memory or maybe it was his winnings he was thinking about.

“I’ll try to be brief. I know you’re busy,” she said.

He sat up in his chair now and seemed more attentive and respectful. “Okay, what? What do you want to know?”

“For starters I was wondering why it is that you’re the only strip joint…”

“Gentleman’s club,” he corrected her.

“Why you’re the only gentleman’s club in all of Metro Jackson?”

“You read the marquee? We got the most beautiful women in the South.” He gives her the tongue in cheek, acknowledging what they both know—that he’s cut a deal with the right people.

“Are you trying to tell me this has nothing to do with any contributions you might have made to influential people like, say, Reverend Aldridge?”

“As a matter of fact, we haven’t made any charitable contributions lately.”

“Mr. Boudreaux, do you know if any of your employees attended services at the Southern Church of the Holy Redeemer?”

“Oh, hey, we never ask about religious stuff. That’s against the law. Besides, we’re closed Sunday. This is the Bible belt.” Again with the dorky grin, enjoying his own joke.

“How do you handle tips here?”

“What are you getting at?” he said, the cockiness in his voice fading.

“I mean does each girl get to keep all the tip money she makes? Is she responsible for reporting her tips to the IRS? Or do you report the tips for her?”

“What are you, Treasury? I thought this was about a homicide.”

“I need for you to answer the question.” She let him hear the impatience in her voice, the threat that it implied.

He looked away for a second or two, as though he was composing his story, deciding what he was going to tell and what he wasn’t.

“Listen, I don’t usually go into this, not unless somebody comes in with a court order to see my books, but we do everything on the up and up at Continental Conway’s. Okay, once upon a time, I let the girls report what they wanted. It was easier that way. It turned out to be a big mistake. I got my hands slapped pretty good by the Feds. Hefty fine. They threatened to close me. So we changed. This is not really for publication. I don’t want my customers finding out. Okay? The girls pool their tips. They turn in all those bills. It’s a house rule. No matter if they’re out on stage getting g-string pulls or back in the Champagne room doing lap dances. I collect the money at the end of their shifts, pool it, make it part of their payroll, and give the IRS their cut. No exceptions. A girl gets caught holding out, she gets fired. Some of the girls don’t like it. But it’s better for my business all around. The girls don’t get jealous and try to outmaneuver one another. It promotes teamwork.”

He paused, looking for a reaction. She kept her poker face.

“You don’t believe me, check with the IRS. I’ve been audited three times. I passed with flying colors each time.”

It was a case of simple misdirection. She’d led Conway right where she wanted him to go.

“Mr. Boudreaux I’m going to need you to explain to me how it is that four bills, three twenties and a ten—tips your girls received at this club—found their way into an envelope the police discovered in the glove compartment of Reverend Aldridge’s truck Monday morning?”

Conway stood, straightened his tie, walked to the cabinet, pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker Gold and poured himself a stiff one, his hand shaking as he poured.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about three thousand dollars in an envelope that you or your bag man handed to Reverend Aldridge.”

He swirled his drink and took a swallow.

“What is this, a shakedown? Maybe I should call my lawyer.”

“Three thousand dollars. Was that the fixed amount? What? Monthly? Weekly? The way I figure it the payments started about a year ago?”

She looked straight at him. Conway looked like he been punched in the stomach by one of his bouncers and couldn’t get his breath.

She continued.

“About a year and a half ago Reverend Aldridge started a campaign to close down all the gentlemen’s clubs in the county. Articles in the
Jackson Crier
started appearing. He ran ads about moral corruption. About the same time, he hired Bobby Goodhew to lobby for a city ordinance to close down all the adult entertainment venues in Jackson. In a matter of three months, they’re all gone except you. The Reverend pushes harder. Your business is way off. You’re on the verge of shutting down. Stop me if I’m getting this wrong.”

Conway didn’t say anything.

“Then, as if by magic, the pressure stops. There are no more articles, no more ads, and no more city ordinance. Apparently, Reverend Aldridge has a change of heart. That was about a year ago, and for the last year, the former moral crusader has zip to say about the evil presence of pornography. Last Monday, we find three grand in the glove compartment of his SUV with some of your customers’ first names and phone numbers on some of the bills. It’s tip money for your dancers, which, as you just said, they turn over to you. My guess is that those bills were part of the cash you used to pay Reverend Aldridge off. And it’s been going on for what, about a year now?”

Conway took a final swallow of his drink and dropped back down to the couch. “What are you, a fucking psychic?”

“I’ve got a good assistant, Mr. Boudreaux. Plus, I’m from Philadelphia. I know a shake down when I see one.”

He let out a long slow breath.

“Okay, okay. The money was from here. But understand, technically speaking, I didn’t do anything illegal. I made a contribution, that’s all. Three large a week. Cash. The money came from my own pocket, if you want to know the truth. I offered to make it a taxable contribution to the church and write them a check. That would have been better for me, IRS-wise. Aldridge, he wanted cash. He claimed he didn’t want a paper trail connecting the club to his church. He said the church treasurer wouldn’t put up with it. So I gave him cash.”

“And Reverend Aldridge shut down his campaign?”

“He talked to his friends on the City Council and that lobbyist, Bobby Goodhew.”

“Who delivered the money?”

“I did. He said he didn’t want anybody else knowing. We’d meet in the parking lot of a gas station over in Clinton every Sunday night after midnight. Just the two of us. You’re from a big city. You know how it goes. It’s just part of business.”

“Do you know what he did with the money?”

“He never mentioned and I never asked. Like I should give a shit? All I care about is the club. Look, I’m the one who’s being shaken down by Reverend Self-righteous. I’m the victim here, right?

“That depends on where you were Monday morning between six and sis-thirty?”

She saw his face relax for the first time.

“You think I was the one who shot him? I got an alibi. I was in the hospital. UMC emergency. I was there from five a.m. till noon. Go ahead and check. It took them that long before the ER doc could get the sock on my right foot.”

She waited for him to explain.

“I got gout. I get these flare-ups in my right little toe. It swells up like a damn melon. The pain. You have no idea. Too much of the good life, I guess. That’s what they tell me.”

“Okay, so maybe you’ve got an alibi for the time, but you still have plenty of motive. Reverend Aldridge was shaking you down for over a hundred and fifty grand a year. A man in your position must know people?”

“Everybody knows people. Listen to me. I love what I do for a living. I’m a cunt hound, okay. And okay, I wasn’t wild about parting with my money. But a hundred and fifty large a year, it’s not going to break me. Besides, as it turned out, I got fair value for the money. Like you said, Continental Conway is the last man standing. My competition is gone, and I’m the only gentleman’s club in town. Aldridge put the rest of the joints out of business. Plus, he had a lot of pull with the other ministers in town. They looked up to him. He promised to keep them in line for me. Same with the bunch at city hall. Now that he’s dead, some asshole zealot could come along and try to shut me down for good. And maybe the next guy won’t take money. See what I’m getting at? Anyway, if I was going to pay for a hit, do you think I’d give him three thousand dollars on the night before I was going to have him offed?”

The story made sense, and Conway, sleazy as he was, didn’t come off as someone who’d resort to murder, even contract murder. He didn’t have the balls.

“That will hold for now,” she said, but then remembered Reverend Aldridge’s porn habit—the adult sites he’d visited. There was also Conway’s comment about the reverend being a hypocrite.

“Did Reverend Aldridge ever come here as a customer?”           

“I wish he had. People like him are easier to deal with when they take it out in trade. Know what I mean? But it didn’t happen. He never set foot in the place.”

Conway’s smirk returned.

“He called once though, about six months ago, looking for…”

“For what?”

Conway made the time out sign. “Understand something. We don’t do escort stuff here. That’s not my business. I mean, nothing against it. Just too hard to control. Too many things that can go wrong. There are liability issues.”

“But you are saying that’s what Reverend Aldridge called about? He wanted an escort?”

“A private function, you might say. But not just any girl. He had some very particular needs.”

“You mean he wanted a woman of color?”

“You really are good, you and this partner of yours. But it wasn’t just a black chick he was after. He was looking for something, very, well, something very Southern. And he wasn’t looking to have the standard kind of a party. In fact, there’s only one place I know of where they offer this kind of thing.”

“What kind of thing?”

“Put it this way, it’s not something you’d find up in Philadelphia, or even Philadelphia, Mississippi.”

“Exactly what are you talking about?”

Conway leaned back, folded his hands behind his head.

“You know what? I’m not going to say any more. It will be better if you go see this place in person. It’s the kind of operation you have to see to appreciate. It will give you a little insight into the Southern male mentality.” He winked at her again, Mr. Cool Guy. “It’s over near Natchez. A couple of hours down the Natchez Trace Parkway.”

He pulled a business card out of his bulging wallet and gave it to her. Hemings Mansion the card said in embossed type. There was no phone number, just a set of driving instructions from downtown Natchez on the other side.

“I’ll call tonight and let them know you’re coming. Be sure to mention my name at the door. They’ll see that you’re directed to the right person.”

“Will I need to take someone with me? A back-up?”

“Nah, Hemings Mansion is nothing like that. These guys are gentlemen. I mean, are they ever. But go during the day. They’ll have more time for you.”

“And you’re saying Reverend Aldridge was a customer of this Hemings Mansion, whatever it is?”

“All I’m saying is I told him about this place. I said they dealt in the kind of thing he was looking for. That’s all.”

Darla pocketed the card. “For your sake, Mr. Boudreaux, I hope you’re being straight with me.”

“Just tell your boss, Shelby Mitchell, I cooperated with you, okay?”

“I’ll tell him you were a model citizen.”

“And don’t tell him I offered you a job. I don’t think he’d like that.”

“Any other special favors you’re looking for?”

“I heard Tommy Reylander was working this case.”

“Tommy a friend of yours?

“I wouldn’t call him a friend exactly. I’ve known him since high school. He never could sing worth shit. I let him try out here once, between acts. It didn’t work out. Actually, I had to ban him from the place. But that’s another story.”

She got up to leave and offered him her hand, which he looked at for a second and then shook.

“Take care of your girls, Mr. Boudreaux, especially Tiffany, Misty, Belinda and…” she didn’t know the fourth girl’s name. “Just, take care of all of them.”

He followed her out of his office and down the hall to the exit. She could feel him watching her hips sway, locking the sight in his memory.

When she was about to leave, he called out.