Some Degree of Murder (8 page)

I walked half a block and followed him into the bar.

The bar was dark and dingy. A dented brass rail ran the length of the counter behind which a fat, greasy man poured drinks. My reflection shone back at me in the large mirror that hung behind the bottles of booze. Once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found the pimp sitting in a back booth.

I wandered over to him and waited patiently while he finished talking to a little Asian whore who knelt by his side. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old.

“Now, get out there and earn me some bank,” he cooed to the girl.

“Okay, Rolo,” she said and stood up. “You waiting for me?” she asked me with a smile that revealed a tooth missing on the left side of her mouth.

I shook my head and motioned towards the big man.

The girl looked back down at Rolo who nodded back. “It’s alright.”

When the girl was gone, he turned his attention to me. “You a cop?”

“No.”

“What the fuck you want?”

“Answers.”

His tongue darted over his lips. “About what?”

“About the business.”

A smile spread across his face. “You wanna start pimpin’?”

I sat across from him.

“I didn’t say you could sit down.”

“I didn’t ask.”

The smile turned into a snarl. “Be careful who you play hard with.”

I leaned in. “I am.”

Rolo smiled again and leaned slowly back in the booth. He put his hands behind his head. “What do you wanna know?”

“Who runs prostitution in this town?”

The smile faded from Rolo’s face. “You’re a cop.”

“I already told you no.”

“You tryin’ to move in on my territory then?” Anger flashed in his eyes and his nostrils flared.

“I’m trying to figure out who a girl was working for.”

“Why?”

From the inside of my jacket, I pulled out Fawn’s picture and slid it across the table to Rolo. “Because someone killed her.”

“She’s a young one. Looks like a debutante.”

“Were you running her?”

“If I was I wouldn’t tell you,” his eyes flashed up to me. “But she wasn’t in my stable and that’s the truth. But she looks familiar. I might have seen her once or twice before.”

I swirled my finger in the air. “Is this area yours?”

“It is now.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, ever since them racist motherfuckers decided to take a cut of the prostitution action.”

“Who?”

“The B.S.C. The Brotherhood of the Southern Cross.”

“They're a motorcycle gang. They don’t mess around with prostitution. Drugs, yeah, but not whores.”

“It’s part of the new world order, baby. Times are tough so the sharks are starting to eat the other sharks. They started pushing me out about a year and a half ago. They control all of the working girls from Altamont to downtown. I got the shit east of Altamont. Some other nigger is controlling the tail in downtown.”

I nodded in understanding. That’s what bugged me about the area around the Brotherhood’s club house. There were no pimps on the street. There were hookers and dealers but no pimps.

“Who’s controlling the drug trade?”

“The Brotherhood. Ain’t no shit movin’ or happenin’ in their block unless they get a piece of it. They put a couple girls in the hospital who tried to say no to their protection.” He made air quotes with his fingers when he said ‘protection.’

“They rough up the girls?”

He nodded. “Stupid cracker motherfuckers. When they gonna understand that if you damage the merchandise they can’t produce?”

“Why do the girls stay in the area then? Why not move out here to you or downtown?”

“That section of east Sprague is hot. That’s where the action has been for the past five or so years. Plus, the Brotherhood is hooking them up with cheap dope.”

“What kind?”

“Whatever the girls want. Smack, crack or crank. They got their fingers in all of the pies.”

I tapped the picture of Fawn before scooping it up. “I want you to ask around about this girl. Find out which one of the Brotherhood was running her.”

“And just why in the fuck should I do that for you?”

“Because I’ll remove your competition if you do.”

Rolo slowly moved his jaw as he thought. “How will I get in contact with you?”

“Give me your cell number and I’ll check in with you.”

Rolo stared at me for a moment and noisily sucked air through his teeth. “Alright,” he said and rattled off seven digits. I repeated the numbers to myself several times before I had it memorized.

I stood up from the booth to leave.

“I seen your type come down after these girls before.”

“My type?”

“Yeah. A daddy trying to bring his little girl home. They never go home.” His eyes didn’t brag. “I’m sorry what happened to your girl. Nobody deserves that shit.”

I stuck out my hand and he shook it. “I’ll be in touch.”

The sound
of music and the smell of smoke blasted into me as soon as I opened the door to the Tip Top. The speakers were tinny and struggled to pump out Joan Jett’s
I Love Rock ‘n Roll
. As I walked down the short corridor to the seating area, none of the six pairs of eyes seated there took the time to look over. All were glued to the small stage at the front of the large room.

I glanced up to the stage. The woman dancing there was pushing forty. Loose skin adorned her belly and the backs of her arms, but her legs were surprisingly supple. She noticed me and flashed a confident grin as she gyrated her hips to the beat. I gave her what I hoped was a professional nod.

Several patrons noticed her gaze and a few of them started eyeballing me. I’m sure they made me as a cop right away.

I ignored their attention and most turned back to the spectacle on stage as I walked toward the bar. Out of habit, I moved to the end of the counter. Bartenders guard the turf behind the bar fiercely, but George didn’t react when I slid around the corner and stood behind it and looked out over the room. The patrons seemed to have forgotten me, except for the guy with a ponytail and three days of beard in the corner. He pulled down his John Deere hat and slumped in chair, rolling up his shoulders and turning his face away from me.

Odds were, that guy had an arrest warrant.

Two stools down, a dancer sat sipping a glass of water through a small red straw. She was slender, with her black hair cut in a short bob. A deep scar ran from beneath her left eye and arced across her lips to her chin. She looked me over, and then noticed me staring at her. She flashed a weak smile and looked back down at her glass.

George finished serving a guy at the other end of the bar and took the long walk down to my end. His large frame reminded me of a Middle Ages innkeeper. His face was more worn and haggard than I remembered, but it had been a while.

“Officer, how’s it going?”

“You remember me, George?”

He cocked an eyebrow at the sound of his name. Rubbing the gray stubble on his cheek, he looked me up and down for a few moments. The song playing ended and there was a few seconds of blessed quiet. Hardly any of the patrons spoke.

“You look familiar…” he said.

“I worked patrol about twelve years ago. Used to do a walkthrough here about once a week.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I think I remember now.”

He didn’t, but that was fine. The guy had seen a lot of faces in the last twelve years.

“Back then, that little redhead was dancing here. Marsha or something?”

He smiled. I saw that one of his front teeth was broken off and the tip was blackened. “Miss Marsha Mason,” he said. “I gave her that name after my favorite movie star. Yeah, she worked here for a long time.”

Joan Jett’s
Do You Wanna Touch Me
began blasting out of the speaker system.

I thumbed toward the stage without looking at it. “Who’s that one?”

“Oh, that’s Patti. She’s been here eleven, twelve years now.”

“Obviously a Joan Jett fan.”

He nodded but said nothing.

“Look, George, I’m investigating a case. I need to talk to you about this girl.” I showed him Serena Gonzalez’s California driver’s license photo.

No one in the bar was looking directly at us, but I knew everyone was watching out of the corner of an eye.

George knew it, too. He looked at the picture too long before handing it back to me.

“You want some coffee, officer?”

“No, thanks. Do you know this girl?”

“Is she in some kind of trouble?” he asked.

I motioned for him to lean in close. He looked at me reluctantly for a second then leaned in a few inches. I watched his eyes while I spoke.

“George, this girl was murdered.”

His eyes flared with surprise and he leaned back suddenly. “You’re serious?”

I nodded.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. He ran his hands through his hair and when he looked back up at me, his eyes were watery. “Are you serious?” he asked me again.

“Yes. I’m trying to find her killer. I need your help.”

“Yeah, yeah. You bet. Whatever you need.”

“So you knew this girl?”

“Sure. She works here. I mean, she did.”

“What’s her name?”

George gave me a confused look. “You don’t know her name?”

“What name did she give you?”

“Serena. Hernandez or something like that.”

“Gonzalez?”

“Yeah, that was it. Her stage name was Rena.” He wiped his moist eyes and blew his nose into a light blue handkerchief. “I can’t believe she’s really gone. What happened?”

“I can’t go into that with you, George. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Oh.”

The small dancer from two stools down moved down to the stool directly across from me. “Are you all right, George? What’s wrong?”

George looked at me for permission. I nodded and watched her.

“Rena’s dead,” he told her.

Surprise registered on her face, followed quickly by tears. George handed her his handkerchief.

I turned my eyes to the stage to let them both get composed. A group of three men in their early twenties were hooting and hollering at Patti. One grabbed the hat off another’s head and tossed it onto the stage. Patti sauntered over to it and scooped it up. With surprising grace, she made a slow turn, putting her back to the group. Looking over her shoulder, she slowly bent over and placed the hat squarely on her ass. The men went wild and she worked them by dipping her knees and gyrating, keeping the hat balanced on her backside.

When I looked back at the small dancer, she had covered her face with her hands. George had his hand on her elbow and was patting it.

“It seems like you all were pretty close to her.”

“Gina here was, more than anyone. Rena was just a nice girl, that’s all. One that made you wish…” he trailed off.

“Wish what?”

“She was a nice looking girl, officer. She could bring in a good crowd. But she was so nice, I almost wished she never got mixed up in this line of work, you know?”

I wondered what Gina thought of his comment, but she didn’t react.

George was looking at me, so I answered him. “She was nice?”

“Yeah.”

Gina looked up from her hands, her face streaked with tears. “She was very sweet. She was…” Gina stopped and covered her face again. Her shoulders shuddered as she cried silently. George patted her elbow again.

“How long did she work here?” I asked.

George took a deep breath. “Oh, jeez. About a month. Six weeks, maybe?”

“Do you have her employee information in the office?”

George stopped patting Gina. “Well, not really.
I mean, kind of.”

“What does that mean?”

He wiped his mouth. “These girls aren’t actually employees of the bar. They’re independent contractors, so all I have is her signature on the agreement.”

“Independent contractors? That sounds like someone who might build my deck or finish my basement.”

“It works best this way.”

“How’s it work?”

“They pay a set fee to the bar for however many hours they want to work. They get to keep all tips and fifty percent on the drinks the customers buy them.”

“Drinks? You mean the
Cokes or 7-Ups that cost five bucks a piece?”

“Look, they’re paying for the company more than the drink. The drink is a timer. Buy the girl a drink and talk to her until the drink is gone.”

“Is there a hospitality room in the back?” I asked.

George shook his head. “No. Just the dancers on stage and a shared drink. Nothing else.”

When I worked patrol, there wasn’t a room in the back, either, but a number of the girls worked as call girls on the side. George always said that he’d fire a girl if he ever found out they were doing that, but I never heard of him finding out or firing anyone. Drugs were about the only reason he ever canned a dancer.

The song ended and I waited for another to start. True to fo
rm, Patti hit the Joan Jett trifecta as
Bad Reputation
squawked out of the speakers. The irony was lost on the patrons.

“Was Rena popular?” I asked.

“Very. If she wasn’t on stage, she was almost always occupied with a customer.”

“Any of those customers get too attached?”

George shrugged. “Who can say? She was a cut above the girls most of these guys ever get to talk to. So some of them may have gotten a little attached to her, yeah.”

“She ever see any of them outside the bar?”

“Not that she said.”

“She never did,” Gina said through her palms. She pulled her hands away from her face and wiped her tears with George’s handkerchief. “She never saw anyone from here outside of the bar. Not even the other dancers.”

“Why?”

Gina shrugged, but I knew the answer. Because she was a cut above, and everyone knew it.

“Any of these guys ever get weird about her?” I asked them both. “Follow her? Try to monopolize her time here?”

George shook his head. I looked to Gina.

She shook her head, too, but smiled through her tears. “She was popular, that’s for sure. She was always the first one to get asked for a drink. Almost always had good nights.”

“Yeah,” George said. “She was making money.”

“She always spoke with a really thick accent with the customers,” Gina said, still smiling. “You know, like Mexican or something? They ate it up. But she spoke perfect English with us. No accent at all.”

“Did she ever talk about her family?”

Gina answered, “She had a cousin she was close to. She talked about her sometimes.”

“What was her name?”

“Lucy. No, it was a little different than that. Something Spanish.”

“Lucinda?” I guessed.

“Nah, but it was something like that. Anyway, she was the only one I ever heard her talk about. I got the impression she wasn’t close with the rest of her family.”

I took out my notepad and jotted the name down and a few other facts. “Did she say where she was from?”

“Some town in California. She only just left there a couple of months ago.”

“Salinas?”

“Yeah, that was it,” Gina said. “You know a lot about her.”

“I don’t know enough yet. When did she last work here?”

George thought for a moment. “I think it was Saturday ni--”

Gina interrupted him. “No, it was Sunday. You were off. Pearl was tending bar.”

“How late?”

“She left early,” Gina said. “It was slow. It was around eight or nine when she left. I only stayed another hour myself.”

“Any customers bother her that night?”

“Unh-uh.”

“Anyone leave right after her?”

“I don’t think so. There were only two guys in here and neither one was spending any money. I was on stage when she left and they both stayed through my set. In fact, they were both still here when I left.”

The music stopped and there was a smattering of applause and some more enthusiastic hollering from Patti’s Hat Brigade. Patti blew them kisses and pranced off stage.

“Gina, you’re up,” George told her.

I expected her to argue, but she didn’t say a word. She wiped her eyes once more with the handkerchief and hopped down from the stool. Her body was slender and shapely. She gave me a sad smile, making the scar tissue on her face stretch slightly. “The show must go on, you know?”

I asked her first and last name and her date of birth. She answered quickly and I scrawled the information on my notepad. As soon as she finished with my questions, she trotted up to the stage door, passing Patti on the way out. A couple of patrons whooped at her as she entered the door to backstage.

Patti approached the bar, wiping sweat from her body with a towel. She wore a flimsy half-shirt over her breasts. Despite her lined face and her flab, she radiated confidence. She gave me a sure, seductive smile.

“I didn’t do it,” Patti said, leaning over the bar and holding her wrists out to me. “But if I did, would you handcuff me?”

“Patti,” George said sharply. He motioned to the end of the bar. “Go sit with Tim.”

Patti gave him a dirty look but obeyed. She swayed down the bar, casting a glance back over her shoulder at me.

Racing guitar music came through the speakers. I recognized the song immediately.
Sweet Child O’ Mine
. One of Guns ‘n Roses’ first big hits. I glanced up at the stage as Gina moved gracefully onto it. Her arms moved in rapid, arcing patterns as she stepped to the center of the stage. Her face bore a faraway look and she ignored the hoots and waving dollar bills from the small crowd.