Strip Tease (16 page)

“Fletcher’ll be pissed,” Garcia said.

The divers debated the significance of the find. Animal sacrifice was common among worshipers of Santeria, a black magic popular in parts of South Florida. Chickens, goats, turtles and other creatures were slaughtered to appease specific gods; depending on the ceremony, it wasn’t unusual to find these grisly offerings in public places. The baseball cap was a riddle, though; none of the cops knew what to make of it. Was the hog beheaded as a curse on the Atlanta Braves, or as a tribute? For guidance the divers turned to Al Garcia. As the senior Cuban, he was presumed most knowledgeable in matters of the occult.

“It’s not a religious sacrifice,” Garcia said, winging it. “It’s a family pet.”

“No way,” scoffed the diver who’d found the head.

“Didn’t you ever watch ‘Green Acres’? They had a helluva Pig.”

The diver said, “Come off it, Al. What kind of people kill their own pet?”

“Hey, chico, we’re in a recession. All bets are off.”

On that somber note, Garcia departed the rockpit. Instead of driving back to the station, he took the turnpike north toward Broward County. On the way, he stopped at a toll plaza, phoned Donna and told her he’d probably be late for dinner.

“What’s up,” she asked.

“The usual,” Garcia said. “Murder. Topless babes. Nude oil wrestling.”

“You poor thing.”

“See you around nine.”

“Good,” Donna said. “I expect to be regaled.”

Shad was everything that Garcia had expected, and more. The man’s musculature was enormous, but typical for his line of work. The detective was more impressed by the cumulative balefulness of Shad’s presence—gleaming smooth pate, ferocious overbite, engorged but expressionless eyes. The man’s age was impossible to guess. He was not a freak so much as a living dinosaur, slow-blinking and fearless. When he spoke, the voice was low but the tone was hard. When he smiled, which was seldom, he showed no teeth.

Still, Erin Grant seemed to trust him. From this Garcia concluded that, for all his brutishness, Shad was a gentleman toward the dancers. It was a hopeful sign.

They’d found a relatively clean booth near a dance cage. Erin asked Kevin to drop the volume a couple notches so that Garcia wouldn’t have to holler over the music. The detective spread several black-and-white photographs on the table. Without prompting, Erin immediately identified the drunk with the champagne bottle.

“Except he had a mustache,” she said, pointing. Garcia looked positively delighted. “Know who that is? That’s our famous Congressman Dilbeck!”

Staring at the picture, Erin thought: Perfect. This is just my luck. “But he was a maniac,” she said. “A drunken nut case.”

The detective nodded enthusiastically. “Is it making sense yet? Your little pal Jerry witnesses the assault, recognizes Dilbeck on stage and immediately grasps the wonderful possibilities. Yet of all the blackmail options available, he chooses the most unselfish of all: arranging for you to get your child back. Or so he thought.”

Erin couldn’t take her eyes off Dilbeck’s photograph—the starched smile, the smug eyes. He had not looked so dignified while bashing Paul Guber’s skull. “Sonofabitch,” she said.

Al Garcia awaited Shad’s confirmation of the lecherous drunk’s identity. None came. “Ring a bell?” he asked.

“Nope,” Shad replied. He would need to consult with Mordecai as soon as possible. Police involvement could screw up the lawyer’s plan, and seriously interfere with Shad’s retirement.

Garcia selected a picture of Erb Crandall. “How about him?”

Shad’s brow crinkled. “I’m not sure.”

“I am,” Erin said. “That’s the one who had the gun.”

“Very possible,” Garcia said. “Mr. Crandall is licensed to carry a concealed weapon. Him and seventy-five thousand other upstanding Floridians.”

Shad asked if Crandall was a professional bodyguard. Garcia said his official title was Executive Assistant to Representative Dilbeck. “Meaning babysitter,” the detective added, tapping a finger on Crandall’s unsmiling face. “Bagman, too, according to the rumors. But that’s of little interest to us.”

Garcia quizzed Erin about the other photographs—assorted aides and cronies of David Dilbeck—but none looked familiar.

“So here’s our scenario,” Garcia said, steepling his hands. “Ms. Grant has positively identified Congressman Dilbeck and Mr. Crandall as being in the Eager Beaver on the night of September sixth. She’s also identified the congressman as the man who jumped on stage and assaulted another customer. The attack ended when Mr. Crandall displayed a handgun and escorted Mr. Dilbeck out of the club. Is that correct?”

“Right,” Erin said. She shot a suspicious glance at Shad, who shifted uneasily. It bothered him to hold out on Erin. If she and the cop only knew about Mordecai’s incriminating photo!

Garcia said, “It’s all right, Mr. Shad. If you don’t remember, you don’t remember. Think on it is all I’m asking.”

“I see assholes every night. They start to look the same.”

“Christ, I know exactly what you mean. Erin, can I have a Diet Coke?”

“She ain’t a waitress,” Shad said.

“I’m sorry, you’re right. I’ll get it myself—”

Garcia started to rise, but Erin motioned him down. “I’ve got to dress, anyway. I’ll bring three on my way back.”

As Erin headed for the dressing room, Shad began sliding out of the booth. Al Garcia grabbed his elbow and told him to sit tight. He wasn’t sure if Shad was stunned or amused by the command.

The detective leaned close. “Listen, Mr. Floor Manager, I don’t know your angle, why your memory suddenly is so shitty. That’s your business and you sure don’t owe me a goddamn thing. But I know you care about that pretty lady, am I right?”

Shad’s huge neck throbbed, all veins.

“Here’s the deal,” Garcia said. “She got herself tangled in a blackmail. Not her fault—just some love-crazed customer trying to play hero, trying to get the lady’s daughter back from her ex. You’re familiar with Mr. Darrell Grant, no?”

Shad nodded, barely.

“Ha! Your recall’s improving every second.” Garcia let out a grand laugh. “Anyway, the idea was to put the arm on the congressman, make him pull a string with the divorce judge. The lady gets her little girl, the customer gets to be Sir Galahad. Except somebody whacks him first, which is why I’m sittin’ here.”

“You’re saying Erin’s in trouble.”

“Could be,” the detective said. “It’s an election year, which is no time for a sex scandal. They might figure, hell, who’s gonna miss a dead stripper?”

“She ain’t a stripper. She dances.”

“Point is, you don’t want her to die. Me, neither. She’s a nice person, works hard, loves her kid, et cetera. So if anything important shakes loose inside that incredible bulbous noggin of yours, gimme a ring.” Garcia stacked the photographs and slipped them into his coat. He said, “In case you didn’t notice, I need all the fuckin’ help I can get.”

Shad’s expression was stone, but his gut was churning. A keen judge of cops, he knew this one was no bullshitter. Erin might be in real danger, and over what—politics? The woman was a dancer, for God’s sake. All she wanted out of life was her daughter.

Insanity is what it was. A world gone mad. Shad felt a strange fever in his breast.

Garcia stood up and laid a five-dollar bill on the table. “Have my soda,” he said. “You look thirsty.”

Moldowsky’s greeting confirmed the mood: “Good morning, shit-for-brains.”

“Hello, Malcolm.”

“Erb told me about your evening.”

“I’m sorry, Malcolm. I got swept away.”

“Know what we need to do? We need to teach you to masturbate creatively. Then maybe you wouldn’t bother women.”

Crandall said, “Those blow-up dolls might do the trick. We’ll order him an assortment, all shapes and colors.”

Dilbeck felt dizzy. Slowly he lowered his pounding head to the pillows. He was relieved to see that he was in his own bedroom, not a hospital. From this he concluded, perhaps prematurely, that his injury wasn’t so serious. Touching the bruise, he moaned melodramatically; the knot was huge.

He said, “Don’t I need a doctor?”

“Been here and gone,” Crandall reported. “You’re a very lucky man—no concussion, no brain damage.”

“As if we could tell,” Moldy said.

The congressman pleaded for them to lay off, his head was killing him.

“But you’ve got a fund-raiser tonight, David.”

“No way, Malcolm. Look at me. Look at me!”

Moldowsky moved to Dilbeck’s side and hovered gravely, like a dentist. “Under no circumstances will you miss this function, understand? The marquee is Bradley, Kerry and Moynihan, who don’t wish to be stood up. More important, we’ve got six potential sugar votes coming down from the Hill.”

“Those fellows, they’re still pissed about the pay raise—”

“Extremely pissed,” said Moldowsky. “That’s why we’re flying them first-class. That’s why we’ve got Dom and fresh citrus waiting in their suites. It’s suck-up time, Davey. Everyone’s counting on you to make things right again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means the senior Rojos called, among others.”

Overwhelmed by Moldowsky’s musk, Dilbeck began to sneeze violently. Moldy backpedaled, shielding his mouth and nose from flying germs. When the congressman regained normal respiration, he announced that he wouldn’t be seen in public looking as pitiable as he did.

Erb Crandall said, “It’s not the public, David, it’s thousand-dollar-a-plate suckers. Tell them whatever you want. Tell them you got hit with a fucking golf ball.”

“We’re locking out the media,” Moldy added. “Feel free to lie your ass off.”

David Dilbeck grimaced as he fingered the bruise. “What about X-rays?” he asked. “How can they be sure about concussions if they didn’t take X-rays?”

“The doctor checked your ears,” Crandall explained, “for fresh blood.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

Dilbeck’s whining grated on Moldowsky’s nerves. “We’ll ice your fucking head, all right? Spend the day on your back, and by tonight the swelling’s gone.”

“Exactly,” Crandall said. “You’ll be as dashing as ever.”

“Stop making light of the situation.”

Moldowsky twisted the cap off a pill bottle and tapped out two orange tablets. He instructed Dilbeck to swallow them for his headache: “Erb told me what happened. In my view, you’re lucky that girl didn’t stomp on your balls.”

As usual, the congressman remembered almost nothing of the incident. He asked, “What was her name?”

“Jeanne Kirkpatrick,” said Erb Crandall. “A very hot number.”

“Seriously, I can’t recall a damn thing. Her name. What she looked like. Was she blonde or redheaded, Lord, it’s all a blank.”

“Keep it that way,” Moldy said. He closed the drapes to darken the room. “Get some rest. You’ve got a big night.”

“Malcolm?”

“What is it, Dave?”

“This is the last time, I swear to God. I’m cured.”

“I’d love to believe you, I dearly would.”

“On my mother’s grave, Malcolm. Never again. Never! I hurt so damn bad.”

Moldowsky said goodbye and left the room. His aroma, however, lingered like an industrial smog. Crandall packed a towel with ice cubes and placed it on the congressman’s forehead.

“Erb, you believe me?” Dilbeck asked. “It’s out of my system for good.”

“Sure, it is,” said Crandall. “I’ll be in the hall if you need me. Try to sleep.”

As David Dilbeck slept, psychedelic visions flashed and popped behind twitching eyelids. Eventually, jumbled star-bursts gave way to soothing scenes. The congressman dreamed of a lovely dancer with rich brown hair and small round breasts and a smile that could stop an executioner’s heart.

When Dilbeck awoke, the ice in the towel was melted and the pillowcase was soaked against his cheek. His breathing was hot and irregular, but his head no longer throbbed. He bolted upright, energized by the knowledge that the woman dancing in his sleep was real, that he couldn’t have dreamed such a smile.

He had seen that dancer somewhere: a radiant moment, buried deep in submemory by a drunken blackout.

Yes, he’d seen her. And she most definitely smiled.

“What did she mean?” In a sing-song tone, the congressman addressed silent walls. “Who is this lovely?” He shook off the sheets and hopped from the bed. The room rolled under his legs. He stumbled to the bathroom and flipped on the lights. Anxiously he examined both ears for signs of blood, but found nothing but clotted wax.

“Who is she?” he cried to the mirror. “What does she want with me?”

After less than a week, Marvela quit the club and defected to the Flesh Farm. The enticement was a $500 signing bonus, Mondays off and a new wardrobe. Orly was livid. To all who would listen, he declared that the Ling brothers henceforth were dead men—gator bait, orchid fertilizer, breakfast sausage, D-E-A-D. Orly said he was calling Staten Island and arranging a murder contract. Nobody stole his dancers and got away with it!

The next day, he installed a wind machine among the footlights on the main stage. He said it was part of a new campaign to make the Tickled Pink a classier joint—new name, new spiffy image. Erin and the other dancers suspected that Orly was upgrading mainly to compete with the hated Lings.

The wind machine was a hooded electric fan, aimed at an angle to blow and swirl the dancers’ hair. The desired effect was an untamed, sultry look. “I got the idea from Stevie Nicks videos,” Orly told Erin. “You go on and try.”

She danced a short set in front of the wind machine. The air hitting her face made her blink continually. She didn’t feel particularly sexy.

Afterwards, Orly said, “It’s your hair.”

“Oh, here we go.”

“Just listen for once. Would it kill you to grow it down past the shoulders? Or at least get a perm?” He knew better than to suggest a dye job.

Erin said, “Stevie’s got her look, I’ve got mine.”

“I also bought smoke canisters and a neon blue strobe.”

“You’re really trying,” Erin said, “and we all appreciate it.” Now if he’d only eighty-six the damn oil wrestling.

Orly opened a box of the new cocktail napkins—pink, naturally. “Notice anything?” he said. “Lookie: No tits. No snatch.”

The club’s previous napkins had featured drawings of saucy nudes in feathered hats and spiked heels. Erin favored the plain pink. “These are elegant,” she said, “relatively speaking.”

Orly was pleased. “It occurred to me, why overdo it with the tits and so forth? No sense staring at poon on a napkin when the real McCoy is wiggling right in front of your nose.”

“Good thinking,” Erin said. Orly was hopeless, but at least he was making an effort. In fact, the long-haired dancers and those with lush wigs did seem to enjoy performing in front of the wind machine. Only Urbana Sprawl declined to use it, complaining that the fan aggravated her allergy to dust mites. She said there was no tactful way for a naked person to cope with a runny nose, especially while dancing. Orly grudgingly agreed.

Discussion of the new wind machine continued all evening in the dressing room. Most of the dancers considered it a worthwhile investment; it was heartening to see Orly spend on capital improvements. Preliminary feedback from customers was positive, too, judging from the tips. For club regulars, windblown hair was an exotic diversion from leaden footwork and half-hearted pelvic thrusts.

“Speaking of customers,” Erin said, “remember Mr. Peepers?”

The two Moniques said they did. Erin asked if they recalled seeing him on the night of the champagne-bottle attack. Monique Jr. said yes, she was giving him a private dance at table three when the fighting broke out. She remembered it well because Jerry Killian had scurried to the main stage to see the commotion, leaving her unpaid and dancing on an empty table.

“I was pissed,” Monique Jr. said, “but he came back later and gave me a whole ten dollars.” She rolled her eyes in disdain.

“Did he say anything?” Erin asked.

“He said I had bold nipples, whatever the hell that means.”

“No, did he talk about what he saw—the fight?”

“He asked did I know the guy with the bottle, and I says no. Then he asked do I know what chivalry is, and I said sure I know what chivalry is. ‘Well,’ he goes, ‘you’ll be glad to know it’s not dead.’ And I said great, glad to hear it. Then he started on again about my nipples.”

Urbana Sprawl was impressed by the junior Monique’s detailed recollection of a three-week-old conversation; most dancers ignored the idle babble of customers.

“I always remember the shitty tippers,” Monique Jr. explained, “just like I remember the good ones.”

Erin fluffed her hair, touched up her lipstick and headed for a three-dance set in the cage. Kevin cued up one of her favorite Allman Brothers cuts, and Erin blew him a kiss. Long songs were bad for business, but occasionally she needed one to help her disconnect from the routine, drift away with the music.

Tonight she used the time to think about murder. The facts seemed to fit Sgt. Al Garcia’s scenario: Killian was in the audience when the horny congressman sailed off the deep end. The little guy probably recognized Dilbeck, ratty mustache and all, and hatched the idea for a blackmail.

And days later he was killed…

Erin was so absorbed that she didn’t spot the customer right away. He stood below the cage, staring at her bottom, waiting for her to spin in his direction. Finally he called Erin’s name, and she danced up to the bars. He reached up and folded some money in her garter. It was a fifty-dollar bill. Erin smiled and crossed her arms over her breasts, teasingly love struck. Later she sat down at his table to say thanks, a strip-joint ritual when a customer gives an exceptional tip. A three- or four-minute visit was considered sufficient; any longer took precious time off the dancer’s clock. Chatty friendliness inevitably gave way to salesmanship, and experienced strippers were masters of the blend. A good table dancer could work the same customer for a half-dozen private numbers between performance sets. That was how most of them made their money; Erin was the only one who got by on stage tips alone.

This big tipper was in his mid-fifties, and dressed like a senior loan officer. He was sipping a Jack Daniels too carefully, and hadn’t bothered to loosen his necktie. Obviously he had plans for the evening. When Erin thanked him for the money, he reached for her hand: “If that’s how much I’ll pay just to look, imagine how much I’ll pay to touch.”

Another smoothie, Erin thought. She tried to pull away, but the man wouldn’t let go. She said, “Obviously this is your first time here.”

“How’d you know?”

“I’m guessing the Midwest—Chicago, Minneapolis?”

“St. Paul,” the man said. “You’re pretty good, honey pie.”

“Honey Pie? That’s the best you can do?” Erin wasn’t in the mood for dumb banter. It had been many months since she’d been groped by an out-of-town creep—Sweetie Pants, he’d called her. That one was from Syracuse; the hairiest arms she’d seen outside a zoo.

“Please let go,” she said to St. Paul.

“Dance for me.”

“I did.”

“Not here. I’ve got a room on the beach.” His grip was dry and firm. “A room with a sauna.”

“No, thank you.”

“For two thousand dollars?”

“I’m not worth it, believe me.” Erin dug her fingernails into the soft underside of the man’s wrist. He yelled angrily and let go. As she pushed back from the table, the man’s leg shot out and kicked her chair. Erin went over backward.

The customer’s laughter died with an epiglottal peep. Erin rose to see the man’s face pinched in the crook of Shad’s arm. The face was bloody and full of deep remorse. Shad was punching in his usual calm and methodical way, but in his expression Erin saw genuine rage, which was rare.

“That’s enough,” she told him.

Shad let the man fall, face-down. The customer rolled onto his back and blubbered something about a lawsuit.

“Really?” Shad said. “You wanna call your wife? I’ll bring the phone.” He nudged sharply with a boot. “Well?”

Ten minutes later, the man from St. Paul was strapped in his rented black Thunderbird. He adjusted the rearview mirror to check the condition of his nose and lips, which were swollen to the size of wax party gags.