“Just got here. Why?”
I gave her the briefest of rundowns on my conversation. “Just thought you should know.”
She said, “I appreciate it. You going to be okay there? Maybe you should bunk with me for a bit.”
“Nah,” I said. “I’ll be harder to get to at your place, and I kind of want them to make a move.”
“The better to suss out who it is.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Or to put an end to their BS straight away. Make sure you’re buttoned up tonight, okay?”
“Will do. What about Mom?”
“They didn’t explicitly threaten her,” I said. “And unless these guys are even dumber than I think, they would have noticed the 24-hour security patrols provided by her gated community.”
Charlie said, “And Kayla’s staying with her.”
“I’ll call them in the morning,” I replied. “For now, just stay alert.”
“Will do. Night.”
“Night.” I ended the call and looked to see if Boris had left a message. No such luck.
This was an interesting development, I thought as I undertook the laborious task of checking the locks on all the doors and windows. Was Boris’s apparent Russian accent a coincidence, or was I dealing with an international issue? Was he also threatening DHS folks like Hammond? Or cops like Roy? Those guys were more likely to have an impact on the case than me. I was just trying to find Mike.
Maybe Boris was, too.
“Jesus, this house has a lot of windows.” I worked my way up to second floor and seriously wondered what good it was doing. Any individual could gain ingress to a dwelling if they were determined enough, a lesson I’d learned quickly while on the force. And you didn’t have to be especially determined to bust into a house built before central air-conditioning.
Which was one of the things that made Boris’s threat against Charlie so hilarious. He was undoubtedly counting on my protective instinct as a sibling, as well as the heightened nature of the implied threat against a helpless female.
The thought made me smile as I drew the curtains on the last upstairs window. Neither she nor I had served in the military, obviously, but neither were we naive. I’d seen enough horror as a detective to tide me over for the rest of my adult life, and I don’t care what hippy-dippy impressions of the organization you might have, no one serves in the Peace Corps in Africa, as Charlie did, without seeing some shit. I only knew a few of the details, but even though she’d been posted in the relatively hospitable confines of Zambia and Namibia, that didn’t mean conflict hadn’t spilled over from neighboring countries. Conflicts which sometimes required Charlie’s … direct attention.
Besides, her house was wired for security, with cameras covering every entranceway, the backyard, and her street for a block in either direction. The alarms were loud enough to temporarily paralyze any interloper, which should give Charlie ample time to get to her panic room.
“Panic room” was a misnomer, though. The place was more a combination command center and armory. From there, she could cool her heels while talking to the cops, or grab a weapon and do some hunting. This was Texas, after all, and there wasn’t a jury between El Paso and Beaumont that’d convict a person for blowing away someone who’d broken into their house, especially after said someone was stupid enough to make threats on a phone call.
As I turned the lights off and armed my own (relatively meager) security system, I almost found myself hoping Boris et al. did try something.
I wouldn’t be surprised if Charlie was hoping that too.
CHapter THIRTEEN
In spite of all my assurances to Charlie, it actually took me a while to fall asleep, though I chose to think it was more because of the phone call than the caffeine. Once I finally drifted off, it was into restless sleep. If I dreamed, I didn’t remember it.
The sun was almost up when I woke, and I had to fumble for my phone to see what the actual time was. I don’t keep a clock by the bed because I’m an idiot. Also because I hate waking up in the middle of the night (which often happens) and seeing how many hours remain before I have to get up.
There are medications for this, I assume. For now, the phone works just fine.
The first thing I did upon rising (well, after the obvious stuff) was check the doors and windows. Everything seemed in order, so I fired up the security camera footage. Charlie set up the surveillance and was kind enough to create an icon called SNOOPY on my desktop so I could access it without having to do anything more strenuous than click the mouse.
I fast forwarded through the fairly mundane video. Aside from various cars driving by and another appearance by the big bastard of a possum who I’m pretty sure lives under the porch, the night passed without incident. Guess I’d have to wait a little longer for Boris to make his move.
I checked my email next, scrolling through the usual spam and seeing if there was anything pertaining to current or old cases. I sent a couple of invoices (resending, in one case) for services rendered, and that pretty much covered my clerical duties for the day. Now came the less fun part: talking to people.
Roy was first, as he needed to be informed about the phone call. His phone rang for a while and I had just enough time to wonder how early it actually was when he finally answered.
“Clarke?”
“Hey buddy, did I wake you?”
“What time is it?”
I looked at the clock on the desktop and cringed a little. “It’s seven … ish.”
He said, “It’s 6:40 in the goddamn morning. Who the hell calls that early?”
“I’m genuinely sorry, man,” This was mostly true. “But there’s been a development in my brother’s case.”
That seemed to placate him. “Tell me.”
I gave him what overpaid consultants like my sister refer to as the “ten-thousand-foot view” of my conversation with Boris, including the threat against Charlie, but leaving out most of my own hilarious contributions.
“Interesting,” Roy said. “How did Charlie take it?”
The man was as predictable as the tides. “She’s fine. Honestly, I think she’s hoping they try something.”
“Your family has a weird attitude toward imminent danger.”
I said, “I’m not convinced there is any danger. Right now, I think there’s just as good a chance it’s a red herring as a genuine threat.”
“What kind of red herring?”
“If you’re trying to be menacing and mysterious, why pick the guy who sounds like he came out of an eighties Chuck Norris movie to make the call?”
“You don’t think there’s a Russian connection?” Roy asked.
I said, “I mean, I can’t discount any possibility. It just seems a little on the nose, is all.”
“I know someone you can talk to, if you want to follow up,” he said.
“Give me a sec.” I fished through the desk, looking for a pen. It was the curse of working with someone who used a keyboard to enter every conceivable piece of information that you couldn’t find a writing instrument when you wanted one.
“Any time,” Roy said.
“Shut up. You weren’t exactly swamped when I called.”
I finally found a pen: a promotional item from Minute Maid Park, given out at a past Astros game and festooned with orange and blue fuzz. Beggars can’t be choosers.
“Go.”
He gave me a name and an address that sounded familiar and off at the same time.
“6000 North Freeway? Is that a car dealership?”
I could almost hear his shit-eating grin over the phone. “Not quite. It’s the address for Bottoms Up.”
A strip club. I groaned. Of course. “You don’t have a home address for this person?”
“Sorry, buddy,” Roy said, in a tone that was anything but. “Bring plenty of ones.”
“Yeah, screw you too.”
“You have a great rest of your day.” He hung up.
It looked like I was going to have to
squeeze a visit there into my itinerary, presumably before the get-together tonight. That reminded me: I needed to call Mom.
She picked up on the first ring, because of course.
“Hello, Cy.”
“Mom, how are you holding up?”
She sighed. “I’m making it, which is all any of us can ask. Have you heard anything more?”
I thought it best not to bring up the phone call. “I have a lead I’m going to check out, and I’m talking regularly with the police working the case,” I said. “Charlie’s also reading through Mike’s email to see if there’s anything helpful there. We’ll find him, Mom.”
“Oh, I know,” she said. “I just feel helpless. Kayla’s staying here with Tyler, and all we can do is wait for the phone to ring and watch HGTV.”
The horror, I thought. Mary Clarke forced to go to ground in her own home was too terrifying to imagine. Maybe she was teaching her grandson some aikido.
“How’s Tyler doing?” It felt like the right thing to ask, even though everything I knew about raising kids came from watching reruns of The Brady Bunch while hung over in college.
“He’s holding up, I suppose. Do you want to talk to him?”
“What? No, that’s —” But she was already calling for him. This day was off to a bang-up start.
A child’s voice. “Uncle Cy?”
“Hey, slugger.” I think the dad from The Brady Bunch called Cousin Oliver that once. “How’s it going?”
“Okay, I guess,” Tyler said. “Do you know when my dad is coming home?”
Oof. “Tyler, your mom and grandma and me — and all of your aunts and uncles — are doing everything we can to find him. Do you believe me?”
“I guess so,” he said.
I bulldozed ahead. “Your aunt Charlie and I are working really hard over here to bring him home, okay?”
A pause. “You promise you’ll bring him home?”
Christ. “Yeah buddy, I promise I’ll find your dad.”
“Thanks, Uncle Cy. Here’s Grandma.”
“All right, pal. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
There was some shuffling as he handed the phone back to Mom. “You did good,” she said.
“I promised a little kid I was going to find his missing father. If Mike turns up dead, he’s going to hate me for the rest of his life.”
“Then you better make sure that doesn’t happen,” she said. “Do you want to talk to Kayla? I could wake her up —”
Oh god. “No, Mom, I need to get to work. Just tell me what you need me to bring over tonight. If we’re still doing this.”
“We are. The family needs to be together at a time like this. You’re on plates and plasticware duty. Also, I need you to pick up some sausage and pulled pork from Burns Barbecue.”
“There’s always a line at Burns” I said, conscious of the whine that had crept into my voice. “Hot Links is closer.”
“Hot Links is crap, and you know it,” she chided. “Are you getting a ride with Charlie?”
“Only if you want me to get there on time instead of pushing my car two miles,” I said.
“I think I told her to make the pie, but please remind her. We’ll see you at six o’clock.”
“Okay. Hey, wait a minute,” I said.
“Yes?”
“You always have Charlie cook or bake something, but I either bring plates or drinks or pick up barbecue. Why?”
Her reply was brutal in its matter-of-factness. “Because you’re a lousy cook. See you tonight, dear.”
“Take care, Mom.”
“You too.”
And it was on the heels of that heartwarming familial conversation that I made plans to visit a titty bar on a Thursday morning.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The history of strip clubs in Houston is as sloppy and confusing as that of the city itself. While they’re not as prevalent as in years past, they still occupy a distinct niche in the city’s landscape. From higher-end establishments tucked away in the Galleria area to the casino-like freeway places to the occasionally terrifying “all-nude” joints (which are BYOB, thanks to the state’s Byzantine liquor laws), there’s undoubtedly something for every prurient taste out there.
The city ordinances concerning so-called sexually oriented businesses are similarly all over the place. Dancers have to maintain three feet of distance from patrons, unless you’re one of the baker’s dozen clubs that sued with the city and won the right to ignore the so-called “three-foot rule,” provided they donate a chunk of their proceeds to an anti-trafficking fund.
What else? Your club also has to be at least 1,500 feet from a school, church, public park, or day care. And if that sounds like no big deal, you’ve clearly underestimated the number of churches and parks in this town.
What shouldn’t be glossed over is the role these places play in trafficking. Beverly Hills Cop notwithstanding, as someone who’s occasionally been tasked with tracking down runaway kids, I know better than to blow off a lead just because it’s going to take me to a ”gentlemen’s club.”
The name Roy gave me was “Nevaeh,” which is — you guessed it — “heaven” spelled backward. New to me, but a cursory web search showed it growing in popularity in recent years. Beats “Chardonnay,” I guess.
Bottoms Up didn’t open until 11 a.m., and even that seemed weird. I mean, I’ve heard of guys who eat meals at strip clubs; I just assumed they were mythical creatures like leprechauns or honest city politicians. I figured the best course of action was to get my dinner errands out of the way and call in the sausage order so I wasn’t cooling my heels at Burns for an hour.
As is often the case when you’re not actually in a hurry, both of those things took me less than 45 minutes, and so it came to pass that I found myself parked in the Bottoms Up parking lot at 10:30, looking not at all like a stalker lurking in wait for the ladies.
The club itself was nondescript. “Gentlemen’s clubs” in this city either advertise their intent in the most garish way possible or attempt to stay under the radar, and Bottoms Up had evidently decided it was better to try and avoid the notice of ordinary commuters or evangelicals. The stucco facade was the sort of dull brown that could have been intentional or merely the result of proximity to freeway exhaust from I-45.
It was also, as is the case with most such establishments, completely lacking in windows. I don’t have a lot of rules I live by, but “avoiding bars without a line of sight inside” is one. The other is “never ask a woman if she’s pregnant.” Trust me on that one.
There were a handful of cars scattered near the rear of the parking lot, and I assume they belonged to the kitchen or cleaning staff. I was checking my phone for the weather forecast when I heard footsteps in the gravel approaching the driver’s side of the car.
I turned, and only the fact I had left the window down kept me from exclaiming in surprise and/or fear. The man outside my car was almost as wide as he was tall, with a regular tossed salad of a face (cauliflower ears, potato nose, tomato complexion). His hair looked like his mother had skipped the customary bowl and instead stuck his tongue in a light socket and hacked away at the strands as they stood straight up. His arms drooped so low I began to question mankind’s inability to find the missing link.
In short, this was not an attractive man.
“Morning!” I offered. It was worth a shot.
“What do you want?” It came out more “whuudyawunt,” but I got the gist.
I chin-pointed to the front door. “Just waiting for y’all to open up. Got a hankering for some prime rib.” I hoped the online flyer I’d seen advertising their lunch specials was current.
Kong Jr. didn’t say anything; he just blinked a few times before turning and continuing to the front door of the club. I checked my rearview mirror and looked behind me but didn’t see a car. Almost like he’d … materialized out of thin air.
Or gotten off a bus. That seemed more likely.
I watche
d him trudge up the stairs and knock on the door. It opened after a second and, after a last glance in my direction, he entered. If that guy was floor security, this was going to be a hell of a visit.
Minutes ticked away and some of the dancers started showing up, one or two in cars, the others dropped off by (I assumed) significant others. How does that conversation go, I wondered? “Have a nice day at work, try not to let any truckers stick a finger in your ass”?
I didn’t see anyone who looked like a “Nevaeh,” but then, Roy hadn’t bothered with a description. Undoubtedly, he found the idea of me wandering through a dimly lit bar and clumsily asking every girl their name hilarious.
I waited until about ten minutes after eleven to get out of my car, reasoning that no one inside would be especially enthusiastic about the Thursday lunch crowd. And sure enough, I was the only customer in sight as I approached. Screwing my sense of fatalism to the sticking place, I walked up the steps and tried the door. It swung inward.
If you’ve never been in a strip club, the first thing that’s likely to strike you is the darkness. They keep the lights way low in these places, for a variety of reasons. Romantic types would say it’s to preserve the mystique of the exotic beauties on the prowl therein. Assholes like me would speculate it’s a lot easier to table dance for Jethro and his oilfield buddies if you can’t see their acne scars and ingrown hairs.
As my eyes adjusted, I realized the shape in front of me wasn’t a chest of drawers, but was in fact my old buddy from outside. He was wearing a name tag that read “Nigel,” and my faith in the inherent comedy of the universe was restored.
He looked me up and down. “Ten bucks.”
I craned my neck past him and the lady in the cashier booth. It looked like there was a large center stage and at least one side stage in view. Neither were occupied at the moment.
“Ten bucks? You expect me to dance as well?”
Nigel looked over at the girl in the booth who was doing a hell of a job avoiding his gaze, then back at me. “Ten bucks.”
I wasn’t looking forward to getting in a scrape with this guy, especially before I’d even set foot into the club proper, so I took out a twenty and handed it to the cashier. She placed it in a drawer and asked, “You want the change in ones?”
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