Unfinished Business - Barbara Seranella (26 page)

Fanny, Munch thought, they were serving shrimp at
that party I worked in the Palisades. She looked over St. John's
notes and discovered he hadn't been able to find anybody who had
spoken with or seen Diane after the party last Friday, yet they
believed she had been murdered sometime Sunday.

Munch found a Xerox of the guest list with the
unexplained inscription in the margin: 100,000s CARC 35% —23.
Something about it seemed familiar. She copied the numbers and
letters onto a business card and stuck it in her wallet.

In separate plastic evidence bags Munch discovered
another packet of photographs. They were Polaroids, nude Polaroids of
Diane. This must have been what St. John was mumbling about. Diane
was smiling seductively at whoever was holding the camera, a
dark-nippled pendulous breast cupped in each manicured hand. She was
obviously posing for her lover. According to the evidence tag, St.
John had recovered these pictures from Sam Bergman's safety deposit
box.

Garret had wanted to take similar-themed Polaroids of
Munch and she had let him. She wondered now if she should ask for
them back when they broke up.
When
,
she realized the word she had voiced in her head. Not
if
.

It also occurred to her,
as had no doubt also occurred to St. John, that they had found
another common thread between Diane and Robin.

* * *

It was almost ten when Munch pulled into the parking
lot of Century Entertainment. Two men stood in the doorway watching
her park. She studied them back, secure in the anonymity of her dark
glasses. Both men were in their thirties, dress shirts bulging with
fatty muscle, ties knotted around thick necks. Short, no-nonsense
haircuts. She got out of the car and walked toward them, stopping
when she was close enough to read the signs plastered to the walls of
the anteroom. Tuesday—according to the posted notices—was porn
star night. Another hand-lettered placard announced that for ten
dollars you could have your picture taken with one of the girls. An
example was included of a middle-aged man looking sheepish as some
vamp in Tina Turner hot pants wrapped herself around him.

A larger black-and-white sign listed the dress code
for patrons. It was very specific: no hats, no open shoes, no holey
shirts or pants, no gang attire. Shirts must be tucked in.

"Why the shirt-tucked-in rule?" she asked.
"You worried about weapons?"

The smaller of the two doormen, a guy with
Neanderthal eyebrows and a florid complexion, looked at her primly.
"This is a gentlemen's club," he said.

Oh, please, she thought while keeping her face
impassive. She pointed to the sign by the cash register and then
reached into her purse for her wallet. "Five-dollar cover?"
she asked.

The guy with the eyebrows spoke again. "And a
two-drink minimum. But women are not allowed in by themselves,"
he said.

"You worried about hookers?" she asked in a
confidential tone.

"No," the guy said, looking at her as if
she was dense. "Wives."

Yeah, wives could be a problem, Munch knew. "I'm
looking for a friend of mine," she said. "A girl that
dances here."

"Which one?"

Munch read the banner under a glossy photo of the
Tina Turner look-alike. "Testarosa."

"All right, wait here," he said, "I'll
see if she's free."

Munch doubted that very much.

The guy returned a minute later and crooked a finger
at Munch, indicating she could enter.

The club was dark. She was enveloped by the blackness
as soon as she passed through the heavy curtains, following the
doorman/bouncer, who said his name was Dirk. Obviously a pseudonym.
She was also momentarily assaulted by the music-rousing rock—played
loud as it should be so that it took over your senses and made you
feel like moving. Chairs were arranged in rows pointing toward the
stage where a naked woman strutted toward a chrome firemen's pole.
X-rated videos played on the televisions mounted high in the room's
corners.

Half of the tables were filled, especially those
closest to the runway. Gang-banging Cholos with shaved heads sat next
to businessmen in suits and housepainters in coveralls. Most of the
men's attention was focused on the show in progress. The woman up
there was now rubbing herself on the chrome pole with an enthusiasm
Munch was sure she'd regret tomorrow. The guys around the footlights
waved five-, ten-, even twenty-dollar bills at her.

Dirk led Munch across the floor to a majestic black
woman in a long, straight wig. He had to crane his head up to say
something in her ear. Testarosa nodded, giving Munch a once-over.

Munch felt like a wren among peacocks. She jammed her
grease-stained hands in her pockets.

Testarosa was clothed only in a thin negligee that
was slit up the thigh. It was clear that her full round breasts often
made good their threat to spill all the way out the front. Even
without her high heels she probably stood five ten. She guided Munch
over to a fireplace near the middle of the room. "Let's sit
here," she said. "It's kind of cold."

Munch was anything but cold. She shed her brown
leather jacket and set her purse at her feet.

Another girl dressed in a short teddy took a seat on
the hearth.

"Dirk said you knew me."

"I was hoping to talk to you," Munch said.
"If you don't mind."

"We're all good listeners," Testarosa said.
She held her face one inch from Munch's, speaking loudly over the
music. "That's mostly what we do here. Listen to the men's
problems. You know. Maybe their wives or girlfriends don't have the
time for them. We make them forget about their problems for a while.
It's all about the fantasy "

Munch nodded, mesmerized by this woman, who
periodically punctuated her words by pressing her large breasts
together. "I'm trying to find out what happened to Veronica
Parker."

Testarosa's manner instantly changed. A scowl
replaced her smile. "Some fool ripped her off, that's what
happened, and then dumped her on the freeway like some piece of
trash."

"You know who it was?" Munch asked.

"If I did, I'd be telling someone before this,"
Testarosa said. She looked at the girl in the teddy. "Ain't that
right?"

The girl nodded.

"We stick together," Testarosa added. "Help
each other out. If we see someone making a mistake, we try to talk to
them. You know." The tall stripper looked side to side the way
people do when they're about to let something confidential slip. "The
only way they found her is because her leg was sticking straight up.
Dude left her like that, with it all hanging out, tied up like some
dog or something."

"That's some cold shit," Munch said, easily
slipping into street vernacular.

"What's Veronica to you?" the dancer asked.

"I think the same guy who did her did some other
broads I know. He gets off on torture. He killed this one woman, a
nice older lady." Testarosa's face wasn't registering a strong
interest. Munch saw her troll the room with her eyes and changed
tactics.

"Do you have any kids?"

This brought another suspicious scowl. "Why you
want to know that?"

Munch didn't back down. "Because I've got a
little girl. She's seven. The other day I found a note pinned on her
jacket saying if he needed to hurt me, he could."

"Same freak?"

"That's right."

Dirk started coming toward them. Testarosa stood.

"C'mon," she said. "I think the harem
room is available."

She led Munch to the back of the club where there
were several theme rooms. The first room they passed had a little
girl motif complete with stuffed animals and cheerleader pom-poms;
the second resembled a torture chamber with manacles and whips
hanging from the walls. Munch paused to stare.

"We get a lot of CEO's in here," Testarosa
explained. "They feel bad cuz they got to be firing people all
the time. They like us to spank them and pull on their nipples, tell
'em how bad they is."

She led Munch to a third room decorated with peacock
feathers and large rattan fans. Testarosa crossed the Persian carpet
to sit on a large round bed covered with satin-slipped throw
cushions. She leaned back on her elbows and arched her back, which
caused her large breasts to protrude even more.

The bed was the only furniture in the room. Munch
slouched against the doorway, trying to look more relaxed than she
felt. "This is really something," she said, at a loss for
anything else to say. "You like it here?"

"It's all right. Money's good." A pause.
"Real good."

"But no actual sex."

"That's right. It's all about the fantasy "

"How long have you been, uh, performing here?"

"Eight years," she said proudly. "One
more year to go and then I'm done with this."

"Is that right?"

"Yep. A lot of these girls, they don't plan for
their futures. Spend all their money on costumes or partying, living
in them hotel rooms. I tell them they should be buying a house,
saving their money. Me? I've been going to school, getting my MBA.
Soon as I graduate, I'm joining the real world."

"Good for you," she said, meaning it. The
song blasting out of the speakers in the main room changed to "Fooled
Around and Fell in Love." Testarosa's head started nodding to
the beat.

"What did you mean about the guy tying her up
like a dog?" Munch asked.

Testarosa fixed her with a look curiously devoid of
expression. "Dude put a rope around her neck. Yanked her around
with it. Shot her with one of them stun gun things the cops use."

"Do you know how I can get in touch with her?
I'd like to ask her some questions."

"She's still hanging out with some loser used to
work here. Joey Polk, the worthless fuck. He was supposed to be
looking out for the girl. Shit, she might as well have been working
the corner. "

"You know where I can find the fool?"

"He runs a business out of his house in West
Hollywood," she said. "Takes those boudoir pictures for
womens want to give them to their men. This here is their ad."
She handed Munch a copy of L.A. Weekly. "Polk Studio he calls
hisself. Cute, huh?"

Right up there with Ginger Root and Testarosa, Munch
thought. They were all selling the same thing. "He doesn't use a
Polaroid camera, does he?"

"I don't know, he might."

"Can I have this?" Munch asked, holding up
the newspaper.

"Sure," Testarosa said. "They're
free."

"So, uh," Munch leaned in close until she
was eye to eye with the dancer, "what do you do when the guys
come?"

"They just do it in their pants."

"Oh, yeah, of course." She kept forgetting
that the guys didn't take their clothes off. She'd have to ask Garret
about this. Maybe he could explain the thrill. She handed Testarosa
one of her cards. "Thanks for your help. If you hear anything
else about this guy would you call me?"

Testarosa took the business card and put it in her
leopard skin handbag.

"And good luck," Munch added, sticking out
her hand.

"You, too, honey." Testarosa shook Munch's
hand with a limp grip, then moved aside one of the cushions to reveal
a small television. She turned it on and Munch saw that it was tuned
to a financial channel. The dancer studied the ticker tape. The
progression of numbers and letters suddenly clicked with Munch.

"One last thing," she said.

Testarosa looked up.

Munch pulled out her wallet and found the business
card where she had copied the numbers and letters that were scribbled
in the margin of Diane Bergman's guest list—100,000s CARC 35% -23.
She showed those to Testarosa now.

"Does this mean anything to you?"

"Oh, yeah," the dancer said. "I
remember this. It was in the Wall Street journal last Friday Somebody
done fucked up but good."

"Why? What does it mean?" Munch asked,
noticing how Testarosa's speech patterns wove in and out of street
slang. Munch could relate to being on the cusp of a new
lifestyle—each foot in a different world. There were still times
when she didn't know what to do with her hands when she walked.

"CARC is a Nasdaq symbol for a company called
California Recycling," Testarosa explained. "I was watching
the stock. The company was bidding for a government contract but
didn't get it. Somebody must have thought they would because you see
here," she said, touching a long lacquered nail to the first
large number, "one hundred thousand shares changed hands just
before the announcement."

"And the -23?" Munch asked.

"The stock went down twenty-three points.
Whoever bought those hundred thousand shares lost hisself two point
three million dollars." She snapped her fingers. "Just that
quick. You know some heads rolled on that one."