The K Handshape

by Maureen Jennings

  Brenda was a neighbour who Paula was friendly with.

  “They’ve gone on a cruise to the Caribbean. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right. It’s good to be in my own home. Mom and Chelse should be back in a couple of hours. I’ll just have a rest.”

  “Try not to worry. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “All right. See ya.”

  We hung up.

  Staring at my desk, I saw the photo of me and Paula when we were sixteen. Chelsea minutes old, all red scrunched-up face. And the wedding photo. Craig and Paula looking like the perfect couple. She had pulled in the growing bulge that was Chelsea and as long as she didn’t stand sideways, you wouldn’t notice. Tenderly, I touched the photo. Al had looked so handsome in his tuxedo and Marion, a bit plumper then, had glowed. Her happiness at being a grandmother had out balanced some good old-fashioned Catholic principles about wedding first, then baby. I was maid of honour, looking rather skinny in the blue silk dress that Paula insisted on. Goes with your eyes was the usual remark. What the heck had I done with that dress, anyway? Oh right. I’d had it cut down to cocktail length but I never seemed to go anywhere that dressy and a few years had rearranged my waistline. Eventually I’d given it to a Goodwill charity store.

  The phone rang.

  “Miss Morris, Susan Bailey here. I’ve got the all clear from Sergeant Chaffey. Shall I pick you up out front in, say, ten minutes?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  For a minute, I considered letting Susan interview the Russian bombshell by herself. It would save some time and I could go over to see Paula. Damn. I had promised Leo I would be the one to go. I grabbed my raincoat and hurried out.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Susan was driving one of the OPP’s generic American cars that we got such a good discount on. The heater wasn’t working properly and the way it moved suggested the cylinder capacity of a motorcycle. Typical. The inside smelled as if somebody had sneaked an illegal cigarette. I glanced at her, wondering if she was the culprit. No smoking in police cars under any circumstances. Gone were the days that still existed in my time on the active force when the cars were so thick with smoke you couldn’t see into the back seat. I was a non-smoker but it never occurred to me or anybody else to complain. Smoking was the norm and you just accepted it. She glanced over at me apologetically.

  “Sorry about the cigarette smell. It’s the mechanic. He’s a chain smoker and his clothes reek. He was working on the clutch this morning and I can always tell. He must have transferred some of the stink to the car.” She wound down the window. “I’ll blow in some air for a bit.”

  Take your choice. Wet, cold air blasting you in the face or a warm odorous car. No contest. I knew I’d become inured to the cigarette smell within minutes. I told her so.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh please, don’t call me ma’am. You make me feel ancient. Sergeant is fine with me and in private we could even try Christine, if you like.”

  She grinned.

  Police protocol was fluid these days but still retained some formalities concerning rank.

  I filled her in as to our task and told her about Sigmund’s escapade with the exotic dancer.

  “Let’s hope he’s telling the truth. It’ll be terrible for Doctor Forgach if he isn’t.”

  It would indeed and I hoped I was right in my intuitions.

  The Atherley Arms was about twenty-five minutes away. I left her to negotiate getting there.

  “I just have to make a call,” I said to Susan.

  “Another case?”

  “Uh-huh. A nasty one.”

  I keyed in the Reliable Cleaning Services number and a chipper young voice answered. I introduced myself and explained that I needed a list of their employees starting from May 2002. There was a silence at the other end of the line, then she said, “How do I know you’re who you say you are? Cleaners are worth their weight in gold, you know. Anybody could impersonate a police officer and steal our list from us.”

  She had a point. “Look, I’ll give you a number to call where you can confirm who I am. Do you have another line? You can call while I wait.”

  “No, I don’t. We’re a small company. Give me the number and I’ll call you right back. Your name again?”

  I told her, gave her the number of headquarters, and disconnected.

  Susan put on her indicator to make the turn.

  “Let me make one more call,” I said and keyed in Barbara Cheevers’s number. A mechanical prompt answered. “The party you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message at the tone or try your call again.”

  Damn.

  Susan pulled up into a parking space. The Atherley Arms had a neon sign across the roof, a bosomy girl bent over to touch her toes and peered over her shoulder in jerky repetitions. There were some clumsy paintings on either side of the door, both of semi-nude girls looking coy. Tuesday night was lady’s night, half price for escort. Gorgeous girls, exotic dancers. Pole dancing and lap dancing. There were only two other cars parked in the lot. Perhaps a bit early for erotic arousal.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Susan and we got out of the car.

  At the same time the door opened and a chunky dark-haired man emerged, buttoning up his raincoat. He saw us and an expression of uneasiness flashed across his face. We were obviously not his usual clientele.

  “Can I help you, ladies?”

  “Are you the manager?”

  “That’s right. I’m Clive.”

  I took out my ID card to show him and introduced myself.

  “We’d like to have a word with one of your employees. She goes by the name of Natasha.”

  He frowned. “She don’t work here anymore.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since this morning… What you want her for?”

  “We just want to ask some questions concerning an investigation we’re conducting.”

  “Drug squad?”

  “No, actually. Is that why she was fired?”

  “No. I don’t allow drugs here. It causes too much problems. My girls are clean. No, she didn’t get along with the other girls, so I had to let her go.” He shrugged. “You know how it is with these Russkies, they’ll do anything the men want and I draw the line. No screwing, pardon the language. No kissing or fondling. They’re paying for a dance and that’s it. Lookee, lookee is all they get. The girls complained that Natasha would go all the way, so of course she got more customers. Too much trouble. I didn’t want to lose my best girls and I keep my place in bounds. I know the law.”

  “Where can we find her?”

  He fished in his pocket and took out a notebook. Flipped the pages.

  “She lives on Ogden street. Number 67. Just go back along the Atherley Road heading toward the town and turn left at the first street then left again.”

  “Thanks. By the way, do you know anybody by the name of Sigmund Forgach? He’s a regular customer.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Medium height, kind of plump. Wears sideburns. A sort of Elvis look-alike. He says he was here on Tuesday night.”

  Clive shrugged. “I keep the lights low on purpose. Keeps it cozy. I didn’t see nobody like that.”

  “He sometimes drives a red sports car or a beige Nova.”

  “No, sorry. I don’t ever see who comes in what. They could walk here for all I care. I’m busy inside.” He made a point of consulting his watch. “Is that it? I’ve got a dentist’s appointment and I’m gonna be late.”

  “One more thing… you said you fired Natasha this morning?”

  “That’s right. She came in and I gave her the heave-ho at once. No point in delaying it, was there?”

  “Was she bothered by that?”

  “Yeah. But she knew it was coming. She’ll get a job. She’s a good-looking girl. Okay then? I gotta go. My tooth is killing me.”

  I released him and he headed for one of the two other cars that were in the lot. Susan hadn’t said anythin
g, just stood by and observed.

  We walked back to our car. “I have to tell you, Chris, I don’t get this stripper business. Why pay to see a girl’s nude body? These days, you can get it for free. Just walk downtown in the summer, even here. They don’t leave anything to the imagination I can tell you.”

  We had a chuckle together about male foibles.

  Natasha had located herself within walking distance of the strip club and number 67 was one of the most decrepit buildings not yet condemned that I had ever seen. There were blankets and sheets covering the windows, any paint on the door and frames had long been burned off by the elements and the front yard looked like a local “bring your own garbage” dump. A fridge without a door was tipped on its side and as we approached some creature that was using it for a home darted away. I didn’t see what it was and didn’t want to know.

  I’d asked Susan to wait in the car. I didn’t want to scare off our subject. Cautiously, I walked up the rotting stairs to the front door. There was a list of at least seven names, all handwritten, tacked to the mailbox. Natasha was in the basement. In pencil beside her name was written Side Door. I signalled to Susan and she got out of the car while I went down the short flight of stairs to the door and knocked hard.

  Music was blaring from the other side of the door, a hard-beat aerobic style. I wasn’t sure she was going to hear anything above the din. I thumped as hard as I could, thought I heard somebody shout, “Just a minute,” and finally the door opened a crack and a young woman peered through the chain.

  “Yes?”

  I showed my ID. “We’re police officers. I wonder if we could have a word with you?”

  She didn’t budge. “What about?” She hadn’t lowered the music at all and it was hard to hear her.

  “Can we come in? I’d rather not explain standing out here.”

  Not to mention having to compete with some track way over the legal decibel limit.

  She thrust a skinny bare arm through the gap in the door like a tough-minded Gretel trying to put off the witch. “ID. Gimme your ID.”

  I handed it over and she studied it carefully, looking at the photograph then at me then back at the photograph. I felt as if I was going being checked out by a particularly obsessive customs official. Yes, I did pack my bags myself. I’ve always wanted to know if anybody answered no to that question.

  “Hers!” she pointed at Susan, who promptly stepped forward, and Natasha did the same scrutiny on her, not opening the door any wider than it already was. I wondered if this was peculiar to Russian girls or to her specifically.

  Satisfied, she stepped back, slipped the chain off and opened the door so we could come in. The music was deafening and the room reeked of sweat and reefers. There appeared to be only one room and a small one at that. Natasha was dressed in skimpy workout clothes, her hair pulled back tight with a pink scrunchy. She was anything but voluptuous, with thin arms and legs, no bosom to speak of, and wide hips. I guess some exotic dancers rely on other charms to attract the guys, beauty of movement perhaps.

  With obvious reluctance, she went over to a boom box, which was perched on top of a minuscule fridge, and lowered the music. I’d have preferred it if she’d turned the whole thing off but that was too much to ask. She picked up a tea towel and wiped her face. She’d been working hard, I’ll give her that. She didn’t invite us to sit down so I took the initiative.

  “Do you mind if I move these clothes?”

  There was only one chair and a two-seater couch in the room which I assumed pulled out into a bed. An old-fashioned wardrobe dominated one corner but either Natasha had a lot of clothes or she hadn’t got around to putting them away yet. Jeans and tops, tights and underwear were scattered everywhere.

  “Help yourself.” She went over to the tiny sink and poured herself a glass of water.

  I took the chair and Susan the couch.

  “So why you want talk to me?”

  Her accent was actually slight, just a v instead of w.

  “We’re investigating a serious crime and we’re verifying statements.”

  She was continuing to towel off with a casualness that reflected her profession. Armpits, inside her tights to get at her rear end and crotch, but she halted when I said that.

  “You’ve come about Siggy’s sister, haven’t you?”

  “If you’re referring to Deidre Larsen, yes, we have. Mr. Forgach told you what has happened, did he?”

  “Oh yes, he was very disturbed. Tragic event.”

  “Can you tell us when you were together?”

  She stared at me. “Why?”

  “As I said we need to verify statements.”

  “You not suspect Siggy?”

  “It’s not a question of suspecting anybody. This is standard police procedure.”

  I admit I was fudging. These days of tight budget, it’s standard procedure only if we do suspect somebody but I could sense Natasha had, shall we say, an aversion to police authority.

  “What you want to know?”

  “As I said, when you were last together?”

  “Yesterday. He came here in the morning. I didn’t have to work until six so he stayed with me for the day.”

  “When did he leave?”

  She shrugged. “Not until after midnight. He came with me to see the show.”

  She gulped back some more water. “Did that prick at the Arms tell you I was fired?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “I went to pick up wages and, bam, he gave me the can. Said I didn’t get along with other girls, which is bullshit. They are jealous because I steal their customers. They so timid these Canadian girls.” She went into a falsetto. “Oh no, I’m a good girl. I can show you my pussy but I won’t, no I simply won’t let you touch.” She mimicked a hand slap. “No, no, naughty man. Lookie, no touchie.”

  “But you do let them touch do you?” Susan asked. She looked tense.

  Natasha shrugged. “What’s the difference? All of it is lies, one big fucking fake. I don’t care what they do as long as they pay for it.”

  I figured she must be twenty-five years old if that. I’ve encountered many prostitutes before and I know what a hard bunch they can be and also what troubles they’ve often got to deal with. This girl bothered me. She was talking tough and perhaps she was. Perhaps I was being fooled by her athletic build and wholesome appearance. I probably wasn’t the first person to wonder what the hell she was doing on the game. She must have sensed some of what I was feeling because she said, “I’m getting out as soon as I have enough money. I want to be a manicurist, get a job in a rich ladies’ spa. Do French polish instead of… never mind. I’m going to school next year. In the meantime, I live in rat hole like this, give men whatever they ask for, and then … boom, I’m gone. New life, new place.”

  I wondered where Sigmund fitted into her plans.

  “My name not really Natasha. That is stage name. My name is Irina Petrova. I’m glad nobody knows it. When I start my new life, nobody will know.”

  “Will Sigmund Forgach be part of your new life?”

  “Of course. He is my fiancé. We will be married one of these days.” She grinned and was transformed from scrappy street kid to mischievous school girl. “His mother will have what you call a conniption, don’t you think? She expects he will be at her beck and call until she dies but now he has met me, and boom, out goes the mother, in comes the wife.”

  Susan met my eyes and I saw the cynicism in them, which was probably reflecting mine. Hollywood aside, a stripper who goes the limit for money and an uptight bank manager with a controlling mother had a slim chance at lasting happiness, although in this case I’d like to be proven wrong. Natasha/Irina was so unabashedly herself she was appealing.

  I came back to the issue at hand.

  “Miss Petrova, may I just go over what you have said? Sigmund Forgach was with you continually from ten o’clock yesterday morning until midnight.”

  Another cheeky grin. “Well he did go tak
e a leak once or twice so he wasn’t with me then but otherwise, yes, constantly. He sat in the front row at the Arms where I could see him and when I wasn’t dancing we were in the back room. That asshole, Clive, makes sure no customer sits too long without paying for a private dance or two.”

  Now was the time to slip in the crucial time. “Other than yesterday, did you spend time together last week?”

  “Yes. He came to the club on Tuesday night. I danced for him then as well. He likes it. It makes sure nobody else is getting me. I’m happy with that.”

  “What time were you together?”

  “It was a weeknight so he was there just after eleven o’clock and stayed until well after two, maybe later.”

  “You’re sure about the times, are you?”

  Again she flashed the impish grin. “You are wondering if I am simply, what you call it, corroborating his alibi. But it is truth. You can ask that prick, Clive. He will tell you the same and probably if you ask the other girls they will say so. They always have their eye open for customers so they would have tried to get him to buy a dance. You can ask them.”

  “I will. What names do they go by?”

  “There were only three of us on that night. Belle, the one with the ginormous tits, not real; the blonde, not real, is named Starr; and the other, the short stubby one with no ass, is Lulu. In the dressing room they’re Sharon and Louise but I don’t know their surnames. Mr. Asshole will know.”

  I stood up. “Thanks for your help.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope you find your murderer. He should be hung, the bastard.”

  Much more friendly now, she opened the door for us. I followed Susan up the steps and out into the wonderful fresh air.

  “Well, I guess that puts our prime suspect in the clear, doesn’t it?” said Susan.

  “I’d say so. The coroner was pretty sure Deidre died around two o’clock. We should follow up with the dancing girls just to make sure.”

  “I’ll give that relationship six months, max,” said Susan.

  Before I could put in my own two cents, my cellphone rang. It was Leo.

  “Chris, get over here as fast as you can. Joy’s vanished.”