by Bill Bernico
Forty-five minutes later Gloria came back in carrying a package. She set the package on her desk and then hung her jacket on the coat hook.
“What’s in the box?” I said.
“You’ll see,” Gloria said, taking the box with her into the bathroom. She emerged fifteen minutes later wearing the slinky red dress that she’d tried on at Madame Michelle’s earlier. Her hair cascaded down over her shoulders and she’d made up her face like a model. She had the matching red shoes on her feet and she walked to a spot in front of my desk and slowly rotated, giving me the full effect.
I whistled a long, drawn-out wolf whistle and shook my wrist a couple of time. “Man oh man,” I said. “You look fantastic in that dress.”
“You like?” she said.
“I like,” I said and got up out of my chair and came around to where she stood, her open arms inviting me closer. I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her close, kissing her with a passion I didn’t know I possessed. When we parted, Gloria stepped back, took one look at me and laughed.
“Is that the effect I have on you?” I said, my feelings somewhat bruised.
Gloria held her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Elliott,” she said stepping aside and gesturing toward the bathroom. “Just step in there and take a look at yourself in the mirror.”
I did as she asked and I had to laugh myself when I saw my bright red lips and the smear of lipstick that continued down to my chin and up to my nose. I grabbed a tissue and wiped it across my mouth, using a second tissue to get the last remnants of the greasy paint off my face. I pulled a third and forth tissue out of the box and returned to Gloria’s side.
She looked at the two additional tissues and asked, “What are those for?”
I smiled. “I’m not done yet,” I said, and locked lips with her again. This time when we parted I sidled over to the office door and locked it.
“Why’d you do that?” Gloria said.
I pointed to the leather sofa against the wall. “We haven’t broken it in yet,” I said, lying on the sofa and pulling Gloria down on top of me.
66 - Jack the Stripper
“A little to the left,” I said, squirming in my seat. “Now up a little, that’s it, now over to the right. Ooh, yeah, right there.” Gloria scraped her nails across my back as I leaned forward in my chair. I sighed heavily when she’d finished. “You’ve got a job for life,” I said.
“Even when Clay comes back?” Gloria said.
“Well,” I said. “Maybe not as a P.I., but you have a job for life as a back scratcher. Now that’s job security around here.”
She slapped my shoulder. “Does it come with medical, dental and a pension plan?”
Clay was my father and the second generation owner of Cooper Investigations. I was the third generation and it looked as if our private investigations business would end with me. Here I was, thirty-two years old and still single. There was no one for me to pass along the P.I. baton to when I retired. Maybe there was still time for that yet. My grandfather, Matt Cooper was nearly forty before his son, Clay was born. My own dad was just thirty when I was born, so I guess I wasn’t not too far behind schedule. But before I could think about a son, I’d have to decide how I felt about marriage. It was one of the oldest traditions out there and as far as I knew, no one ever died from it, except maybe the odd wife who occasionally turned up missing or dead after her disgruntled husband had reached the end of his rope.
I smacked Gloria on her butt and she settled onto my lap, her arm around my neck. She promptly stood up and straightened herself out when we heard footsteps outside the inner office door. We pretended to be looking over a report when the knock came. I glanced up toward the door and said, “It’s open, come on in.”
A woman with short cropped red hair, who appeared to be in her late thirties opened the door and peeked her head inside. “Mr. Cooper?” she said, still not all the way into the room.
Gloria stepped aside and I rose from my chair and strode over to the door to greet the woman. “Hi, I’m Elliott Cooper,” I said, extending my hand. “And you are?”
The woman came in now and closed the door behind her. “My name is Margaret Holden,” she said. “Can we talk?”
“Certainly,” I said, handing her one of my business cards. “Won’t you have a seat?” I gestured toward my client’s chair.
Margaret Holden sat, stuffed my card into her purse and then looked toward Gloria, who was standing nearby with a report in her hand. Margaret looked back at me. “Could we talk in private, Mr. Cooper?” she said, nervously squirming in the chair.
“I’m sorry, Miss Holden,” I said. “Where are my manners? This is Gloria Campbell, an associate here at Cooper Investigations. We usually work together on our cases. Anything you can say to me, you can say in front of her.”
Gloria offered her hand to Margaret, who reluctantly took it and gave it a single pump. Gloria put the report down on her own desk, picked up a clipboard with a yellow legal pad clamped onto it and pulled up another chair beside us.
“Now,” I said. “What is it we can do for you today, Miss Holden?”
“Actually,” Margaret said, “It’s Mrs. Holden, Mrs. Jack Holden.”
“All right, Mrs. Holden,” I said. “How can we help you today?”
Margaret looked at Gloria and then over at me. “I’d like you to help me find Jack,” she said.
Gloria and I exchanged glances and then I said, “Excuse me?” I said.
“Jack’s missing,” Margaret said. “I came home from work this evening and he was gone without a word. I’m worried, Mr. Cooper.”
Gloria leaned in and said, “Mrs. Holden, do you suspect foul play in Jack’s disappearance?”
“What do you mean, Miss Campbell?” Margaret said.
“Are you thinking that maybe someone kidnapped him?” Gloria said.
“I don’t think so,” Margaret said. “No one has called with any demands and some of Jack’s clothes are missing. Would kidnappers let him take extra clothes along? I don’t think so. I think Jack may have left on his own and I need to know where he is and if he’s all right.”
“Okay,” I said. “You don’t suspect foul play and if Jack did leave under his own power, what makes you think that he’s not all right or that he wants to be found?”
Margaret squirmed some more and bit her bottom lip. “Maybe he left to get away from Billy,” Margaret said. “Maybe he just couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t know. But if that’s the case, I’d like you to find him and tell him I understand and that I’d like to go with him, wherever that might be.”
“Who’s Billy?” Gloria said, making notes on the legal pad.
Margaret turned to Gloria. “Billy Gibson,” she said. “He was Jack’s manager.”
“I can see this isn’t going to be easy,” I said. “Suppose you start at the beginning and tell us what you know about all this. Then maybe we can understand what it is you want and how we can go about getting it for you. First tell us why Jack has a manager.”
Margaret took a deep breath and let it out. “All right,” she said. “Jack is an entertainer and Billy Gibson is his manager. Billy owns a club on Sunset called Beefcakes, Unlimited. It’s a ladies strip club. That is, it’s a club where ladies can go to watch male strippers.”
“And Jack’s a stripper?” Gloria said.
“That’s right,” Margaret said. “Jack used to work in the construction business and then one night when he was drunk, he got up on the stage at Beefcakes, on a dare. When he finished, Billy Gibson took him backstage and told him how much he could make stripping for a living. Well, the construction business is not at all stable. Some weeks he’d make good money and then there’d be no work for months at a stretch, sometimes longer. Billy’s offer was twice what Jack was making even when times were good, so he dumped his tool belt and took up stripping. That was six months ago and he’s made himself a ton of money since then.”
“And the problem here is what?
” I said.
Margaret hung her head. “Billy was after Jack in a different way,” she said. “And Jack is not like that at all. Most of the other strippers are, but not my Jack. I don’t know what kind of arrangement Billy made with Jack, but it seemed like Jack was feeling trapped in something that was making him uncomfortable and I guess he just wanted out.”
“Did he use his real name on stage?” Gloria said.
Margaret shook her head. “No, Billy dubbed him ‘Jack the Stripper’ and gave him some old English outfit, like Jack the Ripper from way back when. I guess Jack was making a lot of money for Billy and Billy wouldn’t want to lose his golden goose.”
“So what have you done so far?” I said. “Have you asked Billy about this?”
“Yes,” Margaret said. “And after a few minutes of talking to him, I’m convinced that he doesn’t have a clue, either. No, I’m sure Jack just took off on his own. That’s why I need your help, Mr. Cooper.”
“Mrs. Holden,” I said. “Could you excuse us for just a moment while we confer on this matter? You can wait in my outer office. It won’t take but a minute or two.”
Margaret looked at me and then shifted her gaze to Gloria before she finally stood and walked out to my outer office without further comment. Gloria took the seat that Margaret had just vacated and I returned to my own chair.
“What do you think?” I said. “Is it just me or does something not ring true here?”
“What do you mean?” Gloria said.
“I mean, it doesn’t sound like she thinks Jack has been kidnapped or that there’s any foul play at work here,” I said. “Guys leave home every day and they don’t call out the riot squad. What’s so special about this guy that this woman would be willing to dish out somewhat big bucks just to know where he is?”
“I see what you mean,” Gloria said. “And if it turns out that she’s after him for more than just her own curiosity…” Gloria didn’t have a finish for her sentence.
“I think we need to do a little preliminary legwork before we get into something here that we may regret,” I said. “Don’t you agree?”
“Totally,” Gloria said.
“What do you say we go see this Billy Gibson character before we give Mrs. Holden an answer one way or the other?” I said.
Gloria nodded in agreement. “And it might not hurt to do a little background check on Margaret as well,” she said.
We stood and headed for the office door. When we opened it, the outer office was empty. I looked at Gloria. She shrugged and spread her hands. “Now what?” she said.
“Suppose we stop in and see this Gibson guy?” I said. “Right now.”
I locked up the office and walked with Gloria to the elevator. We rode it down three floors and exited through the back door to the parking lot. Gloria said she’d drive her car. She slid beneath the wheel and I slid in beside her. I knew where this Beefcakes strip joint was located on Sunset. I had driven by in several times in the past. I gave Gloria directions as she pulled out onto Hollywood Boulevard. She took Hollywood Boulevard west to Cherokee and then south two blocks and then turned left and pulled up in front of 6650 Sunset Boulevard. It was an unassuming building that looked like a solid cement wall or some German bunker from World War II with no windows and only a single glass door with the street numbers above it. The second floor sported just one set of double windows with curtains over them. I pictured Billy Gibson either living upstairs from his strip joint, or at the very least, letting his strippers take customers up there after hours for some extra income.
Above the street numbers, painted onto the cement itself was a simple two-word business name—Beefcakes, Unlimited. It was painted in a glittery gold pattern and outlined in a blood red color. There was no neon, no lights of any kind, save for a pair of mounted spotlights that lit up the painted name after dark.
The most ironic part of this business was its location. Directly across the street stood a salmon-colored Catholic Church with a tall stained glass window in front, flanked by two sculpted statues. I couldn’t help but think that the owners of Beefcakes, Unlimited chose this location specifically to stick it to the church and perhaps to try to embarrass them somewhat. I tried to imagine the looks on the parishioners’ faces as they arrived at church and looked across the street. In their minds were probably words swirling around that you’d never hear inside the church.
I could envision women stepping into the confessional, trying to clean their slates after having impure thoughts about being in the audience at Beefcakes, Unlimited and stuffing dollars that were originally slated for the collection plates that morning, into g-strings.
Gloria stuck a quarter in the meter and we both walked into the darkened bar. It took our eyes a minute to adjust to the dark atmosphere inside. We walked toward a lighted area where we could make out a stage with a circular bar in front of it. It appeared that we were the only patrons in the place, but then again it wasn’t even noon yet. I spotted a guy behind the bar polishing highball glasses with a white towel. He stopped polishing as we approached.
“We’re not really open yet,” he told me, and then looked at Gloria. I could imagine what was running through his mind just then.
“Well,” I said, “We’re not really looking for drinks or entertainment, either. Would you happen to know where I could find Mr. Gibson?”
“Who?” the bartender said.
“Billy Gibson,” I said. “Would you know where he is?”
“Depends,” he said, continuing with his glass polishing. “Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Elliott,” I said and pointed to Gloria. “And this is my manager, Gloria. I wanted to see Billy about a job?”
“Stripping?” the bartender said, looking me over like a side of beef.
I nodded and Gloria stepped in between me and the bartender. “Look, Mac,” she said, “I don’t have all day to play footsie with you. Is Gibson in or not? If not, I have several other establishments interested in my client.”
The bartender stopped wiping again and held one hand up. “All right, all right,” he said. “Don’t get your undies in a bundle. Wait right here a minute.” He disappeared behind a curtain and was gone for thirty or forty seconds. A different man emerged from the behind the curtain this time. He had a shiny bald head and wore a tight white tee shirt, tucked in at the waist and rolled up at the sleeves. Muscles bulged out from under the white fabric.
“I’m Gibson,” the man said. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Gloria…”
“Not you, doll,” he said, looking at Gloria and then turning to me. “You.”
“My name’s Elliott,” I said. “I…”
“Wait,” Gibson said, holding up his hands with the thumbs touching, like some old-time director framing a shot. “Uh huh. Yeah, I can see you have real potential, pal. Elliott, you say. Hmmm, you could take the stage name Elliott Nest. You could be dressed like a G-man with a trench coat and fedora. Maybe even a Tommy gun, and when you take it all off, all you’re wearing is some little bird’s nest over your goodies. Clever, huh?”
“Mr. Gibson,” I said.
“Billy,” he said. “Call me Billy. No one calls me anything but.”
“Look, Billy,” I said. “I only told your bartender that I was here looking for a job so that I could talk to you. I’m no stripper.”
“That’s what they all say the first time,” Billy said. “But once they see how much they can make, well, it doesn’t take ‘em long to do the math and come around.”
“But I already have a job,” I said. “In fact, Gloria and I are private investigators. We’re here looking into the disappearance of Jack Holden.”
“Jack the Stripper?” Billy said, smiling. “Now there was one of my better gimmicks, if I do say so myself. He had women lining up against the bar to get a look. I know, it’s probably a bit on the morbid side, but hey, whatever works, you know?”
“Billy,” I said. “Jack’s wife asked us to look int
o his disappearance and I’d just like to ask you a couple of questions, if you don’t mind?”
“Jack’s what?” Billy said. “Did you say Jack’s wife?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
Billy threw his head back and laughed a hardy laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Gloria said.
“This guy,” Billy said, gesturing at me. “Jack’s wife, that’s a good one. Jack isn’t married.”
Gloria and I exchanged glances and then both looked at Billy. “Then who?” I said, hiking my thumb over my shoulder.
Billy held his hand up flat, indicating a height measurement. “Are you talking about some goofy red-headed broad about this tall, late thirties, early forties?”
I nodded.
“Goes by the name of Margaret?” Billy said.
I nodded again. “That’s her.”
“That’s not Jack’s wife,” Billy said. “Oh, I’ll bet she wishes she was. She’s in here every night, standing right about where you’re standing now. She’s always got a fistful of singles and is quick to stuff them into Jack’s g-string. We had to escort her out a few times for getting too grabby with the dancers. But as far as I know, she’s nobody’s wife.”
“And Jack?” I said. “Is he really missing?”
“That part, I have to say, is true,” Billy said. “He took off three nights ago after his show and I haven’t seen him since. I wouldn’t mind knowing where he is myself. If I could get him to come back, I’d give him a raise and a bonus. He’s made a lot of money for me and I don’t like to lose money makers like Jack. If you want my advice, you’d be wise to steer clear of this Margaret dame. Personally, I think she’s got a screw loose. Now, on the other hand, if you two really are private eyes looking to make a buck, I’d hire you to find Jack and persuade him to come back. I’d pay your regular rate and a bonus if you can get him back here by this weekend. I’m expecting a packed house on Saturday. We got this new guy I just hired last week, goes by the name of Attila the Hung.” He looked at Gloria. “Need I say more?”
