by Kate Aeon
“God, please tell me that line was accidental.”
He stared down at the remainder of his coffee and grinned a little. “I’d hate to have to lie.”
They looked at each other across the breakfast table and exchanged wry smiles, and that awful sense of rightness and belonging and familiarity washed over him again.
He needed to get out of there, call Jim, tell him to find someone else to squire Jess around and do the surreptitious readings on the customers and the employees.
Except no one else could. Jim didn’t have someone else who could do what Hank did. And looking at Jess, Hank could bet Jim didn’t have someone else who could do what she did, either. They were unique in what they had to offer, and without either one of them, the mission would have a smaller chance of success. Lives were at stake.
And so was honor. Hank intended to keep the promise he’d made to himself back when he found himself handed his honorable discharge: to find a way to make civilian life matter the way the Rangers had mattered. If he walked away from this thing because he couldn’t deal with his emotions, he was done. He would be the quitter he had promised himself he would never be, and that he had promised the Rangers he would never be. He’d taken the Ranger creed, and being a Ranger was for life.
He rose, though, and cleaned off the table. “You want to get ready? We ought to be out the door soon. The listening post is going to be set up for you to go in at noon.”
She glanced over at the clock and nodded. “Considering traffic, I guess I need to get ready now.”
She rose and headed for the bathroom. “Give me... ten. Fifteen.”
She yanked open a drawer, then a tiny closet door, pulled out clothes seemingly at random, and then ran for the shower. He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes? Not a chance.
The shower started and, an unbelievably short time later, stopped. Hank rechecked the watch. Four minutes? Damn. The blow-dryer whined to life next; she didn’t spend much time on that, either. And then Hank heard silence, punctuated by the occasional thud. This would be where it all fell apart. The dressing. The makeup. The fiddling with the hair.
But twelve-point-five minutes after she walked into the bathroom, she stepped out through the bathroom door, and she was somebody else. She was almost the somebody else he’d seen in the station two days earlier. But not quite. And this woman had never met the woman in ducky jammies who had answered the door.
Jess wore silk. A light, wispy, long-sleeved off-white silk blouse with the sleeves rolled up. He could see through it enough to tell that what lay beneath was worth seeing. He got a glimpse of sparkles, and serious curves. A tiny hint of glittery blueness at her navel. The fact that the blouse didn’t cling to her the way that tube top had — and that he couldn’t see through it well — made her more, rather than less, intriguing. Her skirt, very short and beige, looked like silk, too. Classy, in a weird way. Her legs were bare, long, perfect. They went on forever and disappeared beneath the little skirt, and the tightness in his pants argued fervently for following them wherever they went.
She wore what he’d always thought of as fuck-me pumps, heels that were five inches high and spiked. But the things were beige and closed-toed. If they hadn’t had those spike heels, they would have looked at home with a business suit.
Her hair was up — the way he’d first seen it. Elegant, with some little sparkly comb thing holding it in place. She had a little makeup on. Not a lot.
He stared at her, not breathing too well, and she sauntered over to him, looked him in the eye, and smiled a devastating smile. She was an impossible combination of prim and wanton — the Madonna and the whore. “Hi,” she said in a languorous drawl a little more pronounced than the “city Southern” she spoke the rest of the time. “I’m Grace Callahan. Call me Gracie.”
And he thought, It doesn’t matter which of her I’m with, does it? The one in the jammies, the one in the blue cop suit, the one in the take-me clothes. It doesn’t matter what’s going on in her head, what’s going on in her past, what she’s doing now or what she’s going to be doing in an hour. Because no matter who she is, I still want her.
Chapter Six
Jess called Goldcastle and talked briefly to one of the dancers, who said the dance manager was in but might be leaving soon, and if she wanted to interview, she needed to come on. And that she ought to come to the side door and ask the bouncer for Teri.
Hank drove her over, and Jess did her wire test from the passenger seat of Hank’s car. Got the all-clear on her cell phone, took a deep breath, and said, “Walk me to the door.”
“Don’t want to find out the bouncer is too friendly on your first day?”
“Right.”
“No problem,” Hank said.
He walked her to Goldcastle’s side door, but didn’t touch her. Some big, hairy Neanderthal was guarding that door. “I’m here to see Teri,” she told him.
He wasn’t one of the undercover guys. He gave her the creeps.
“Dancer?” he asked, leering at her.
God, he was scary. “Yes,” she said.
“Ri-i-i-i-ght. You go on in, sweetheart. And stop and say hello to me later. Buddy-boy back there can’t come with you, though. He wants to watch the titties jiggle, he goes through the front door and he pays like everybody else.”
Jess waved to Hank and called, “You going to wait in the car?”
“Nah,” he said. “I’ll go on in.”
“I won’t be long.”
The Neanderthal watched Hank waiting to see Jess go through the door, and after a staring contest between the two of them that Jess didn’t miss, the door guy sighed. “Left corridor, straight back,” he said.
Jess nodded. “Thanks.” She walked past the guy, feeling his stare on the back of her neck. But he didn’t touch her when she passed him, and she thought she had Hank to thank for that.
The inside of the place was... well, the only word Jess could think of was industrial. The floors were bare concrete, the walls concrete block. Someone had painted all flat vertical surfaces a hideous shade of bargain-basement peach-gone-wrong — that paint had to have been on sale as a massive mixing error, because no one would choose that color on purpose. A fiftyish woman who might have been pretty once, but who now looked hard and worn, stood next to the stage door, fixing the back of one girl’s gown. “You’re ready,” she said, and the girl nodded, and then at the sound of the deejay’s voice over the intercom, went through the door. A second later, another girl, naked except for a black G-string with money still hanging from it like tree leaves and with her arms full of pieces of a fuchsia satin costume, hurried back toward the dressing room.
The older woman looked over at Jess and said, “Can I help you, honey?”
“I’m here to apply,” Jess said.
“Dancer?”
“Yes,” Jess said.
“I’m Louella. The house mom. You need to talk to Teri,” the woman said. “She’s out on the floor right now, but I’ll see if I can track her down for you.” Louella picked up a phone, punched in a three-number code, and waited. After a minute, she said, “Teri? Dancer back here wants a job.” The house mom glanced at Jess and said, “Oh, definitely... I’ll have her wait in your office?... Right.”
She pointed with a thumb at the door with TERI on it in gold letters. “She says go on in. Give her ten.”
Jess nodded, and went into the office.
Posters and photos decorated the walls, all of them of the same sleek, gorgeous woman, shown with varying colors of hair, and eyes of such a light brown they looked amber. Some of the posters were for triple-X-rated movies, some were featured-dancer promos, and some were simply glamour shots. Some of them had been taken when the woman was in her early twenties; in some she was as old as thirty-five, Jess guessed. Jess saw half a dozen names attached to those pictures, though all the movie posters identified her as Stormy FoXXX, with the triple X at the end of the name in bigger, brighter letters.
Along the lef
t wall sat an enormous wheeled wooden trunk with a dress rack built on top. Sequined gowns hung on the rack along with a couple of risqué theme costumes. The name Stormy FoXXX decorated the battered lid, painted in large letters. Jess wished she could lift the lid and peek inside — perpetual curiosity was one of the side effects of being a cop.
The bookshelf behind the desk held some dance awards and a Miss Nude America award. Trophies, certificates. Framed photos ranging from a small one of the young woman surrounded by Shriners to a considerably larger one of her, somewhat older, striking a sexy pose while being carried through a surging horde of men. She rode on a bamboo litter carried by six muscular stud-muffins in Tarzan thongs. Studying that picture, Jess was reminded uncomfortably of a roast pig being carried to the banquet table. Or of virgin sacrifices.
She got engrossed by the photos and whatnots — enough so that she jumped when the door opened.
“My brag shelf,” the woman said. “I retired eight years ago.”
Jess turned and recognized the woman in the door as the one in the pictures. Her eyes, in real life, were less amber and more light brown. Her black hair fell loosely past her shoulders in tumbling waves, untouched by gray. Or maybe touched by a good hairdresser. She was still stunning, in her early forties but with an excellent figure shown to best advantage by a tremendously sexy red satin dress. She didn’t look well preserved. She simply looked good.
Jess found herself hoping she held together so well at that age. “Grace Callahan,” she said, reaching out. “Mostly Gracie.”
The other woman hesitated for an instant, a puzzled expression on her face. And then she put her hand out and said, “Ekaterina Thomas. Call me Teri.” They shook hands briefly. “I’m one of the owners, and the only hands-on one. I wear a number of hats — tour guide for prospective members, mediator for problems with irate clients, club promoter. But for your purposes, I’m the women’s personnel manager. I hire and fire Goldcastle’s dancers and drink servers and make out schedules.”
Jess said, “Then you’re the woman I need to see. I need a job.” She smiled, waiting to be asked to sit down. But Teri didn’t ask her. She stood there looking at Jess with a penetrating, critical stare that Jess found unnerving.
“You’re twenty-seven? Twenty-eight?”
“Thirty-four,” Jess said, and watched Teri’s eyebrows lift slightly.
“Hold out your arms, forward together and with your wrists facing up.”
Teri demonstrated the position she wanted, and Jess held out both arms.
Teri leaned forward and studied the skin of her inner arms from biceps to wrist. “No tracks. Good. Doesn’t mean you’re clean, and I’ll tell you right now that if you get caught using drugs here, you’re out. We don’t require a urinalysis, but you’re an independent contractor and we can fire you at any time for any reason. Where have you danced?”
Jess swallowed hard, remembering the details of her cover story and hoping she could sell it. “The Doll House and Carolina Girls. Both up near Fort Bragg in North Carolina. A lot of years ago. In college. I’ve only been a house dancer, and when I finished college and paid off my tuition, I quit.”
Teri nodded. “You’re in luck. I have some openings at the moment. Our minimum for any one dancer is usually three days a week, but considering our scheduling issues, even that’s a little flexible at the moment. Your tip-out is fifty dollars, and we offer eight-hour shifts. You can work less, but you still owe the full tip-out. That covers the house and me, and community supplies like clean towels for the showers, deodorant, toothbrushes and toothpaste, and tampons if you forget yours. You’re also responsible for tipping the deejay, Louella, and any drink servers you team up with to sell drinks. You already know that you can’t ask a patron to buy a drink for you, but that a drink server can suggest that your client buy one for you — and that if you get your card punched with enough drink sales, you don’t owe your tip-out?”
“I know how it works,” Jess said.
“We offer lockers. Dancers who are here at least five times a week get their own. If you use one, bring a good lock.”
“Personal belongings wander out?”
Teri gave her a sidelong glance and an amused smile. “Only if you don’t bring a good lock.”
“Got it,” Jess said. And held her breath. She was going to do this. She was going to strip. If she chickened out at this point, she didn’t think Jim would hold it against her.
But Jess stood there, eyes half-closed, thinking of Ginny. And, oddly, of Hank. She thought about how she would be letting everyone down, no matter what they thought, if she didn’t go through with this — her fellow detectives, the dead girls, their families, the girls who would die if no one caught the bastards doing this. But Hank seemed as much a pressure pushing her to do this as her sense of mission or her obligations to everyone else... and that she couldn’t explain. She didn’t owe Hank anything.
She sighed. “What do I have to do to get myself on the schedule?’ she asked.
Teri laughed grimly. “First, under no circumstance ask that question in those words when you go up to talk to Lenny.”
“Lenny?’
“The club manager. He’s a slimeball. He handles the nonentertainment employees, the money, ordering food and booze, bringing in high rollers. And if you say those words to him, he will convince you that only sexual favors will get you on our dance card.”
“But you said you do the hiring for the dancers.”
“I do. But Lenny has connections to the other owners. And he has a veto. I’ll send Louella in with you when you go to tell him I’ve hired you. Do not go into the room with him before she does, and do not stay after she leaves. He’s... a problem. And, as you know if you’ve done this before, this is not a job where anybody takes sexual harassment seriously. Once Lenny has okayed you, get out of there as fast as you can. Do not stay to hear any of his special offers. When you’re dancing, stay down here or out on the floor in one of the two public rooms, or the downstairs private dance rooms — though I don’t recommend them. If you accept invitations up to Lenny’s office, you do so with the full understanding that I wash my hands of you and any problems you may incur. Are we clear on Lenny?”
“Yes.”
“I stand between the dancers who are here to dance and all the people who would like to turn them into whores. Within that realm, I have enough financial clout to protect my turf. If you have problems with anyone — anyone — come to me. However, if you decide to step outside the house rules and I find out about it, I’ll fire you. Right then, right there, without question.”
“I’m fine with that,” Jess said.
“Good, Grace. I’m glad to hear it.”.
Teri settled into her comfortable-looking leather chair. Crossed her legs, leaned back, steepled her fingers together and rested them beneath her chin. “Incidentally, you do not have to audition for Lenny. When he suggests that you do, tell him you’ve auditioned for me.”
Jess nodded.
“On to the actual work, then. We are one of the few clubs in the area that does not offer full nudity. Because of that, we have to bring more to the table. First, Goldcastle only hires the best dancers. We fire butt wrigglers. Second, our dancers are focused on the customers. They are friendly, they smile, they are kind and courteous and clean, they make our customers feel special and welcome. Legally. The dance area is no touch, no excuses.” Teri’s voice went sharp when she said that.
Jess did not miss the implication of either the words or the tone of voice. Noting specifically that touch was off-limits in the dance area, Teri implied that the club had places that were not no touch, no excuses. Places outside Teri’s turf. And Teri, part owner of the business, did not like this fact. To some extent, that put Teri and Jess on the same side.
“My hires do not work the Weekenders.”
“Weekenders?” Jess asked.
“Goldcastle hosts big parties several times a year at our manager Leonard Northwhite’s man
sion. They are attended by the rich, the famous, the degenerate, and Lenny’s dancers; they last all weekend long; and they are one of the big draws for the special upper-tier membership level. They are essentially orgies. I voted against them, I consider them a threat to the legitimacy of this club, and if I hire you, you will not be a participant in them.”
“That’s fine,” Jess said. “They are not what I’m looking for in this job.”
She and Teri spent a long, awkward moment, studying each other.
Teri seemed to make up her mind about something. She nodded and said, “Oh. We don’t take dancers with tattoos. You have any tattoos?”
“No.”
“Good. So we’ll be hiring you. I’ll pass on the audition today — I’m pressed for time and you have experience. I’ll watch you your first time out on the floor and make sure you’re dancing appropriately. If you have costumes, I can put you in this afternoon for a couple of two-song stage sets. Since it’s... ahh... been a while since you’ve danced, I’m guessing you may not have costumes anymore.”
“I don’t,” Jess said. “Before I invest, do you have any forbidden costume themes or dance routines?”
“A few, actually,” Teri opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a couple of photocopied sheets. “This is the list of house rules, set rules, costume rules, client rules, the schedule of tip-out breaks you get for selling drinks and how we recommend you sell them.” She smiled a little ruefully and handed them across to Jess.
Jess dropped one of the pages, and while she was bent over, planted a bug on the bottom edge of the modesty panel on Teri’s desk.
“When I was dancing,” Teri said, “everything was simpler. More disorganized, but simpler.” Teri sat back in her chair and said, “I’m curious. Why are you doing this? Now?”
And Jess grabbed onto her story like a lifeline.
“I have a lot at stake,” she said. “My brother has non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. At this point his prognosis is good if he can get treatment. But he has no insurance, and I want him not to have to worry about anything but getting well. So if I’m going to help him out, I need this job. It’s the only work I could think of that I could do that would pay well enough to...” Her nervousness caught up with her, and suddenly she felt shaky. Her voice trembled, which worked well enough for selling her story.
