Rest for the Wicked

by Ellen Hart

  “So you’ve been to GaudyLights?”

  “Sure.”

  Switching her eyes to Bolger, Jane said, “It’s not a strip club precisely. They call it a gentleman’s club.”

  He shot her a wry smile. “If you think there’s a difference, you really are naive. Did you know that you can’t serve liquor in a strip bar in Minnesota if the women are fully nude? The Lutherans won’t allow it. For example, the Vu doesn’t serve any booze.”

  “He means Déjà Vu,” said Cordelia. “It’s just down the street from GaudyLights. Definitely not one of my faves.”

  “I’ve been to GaudyLights a couple of times,” said Bolger. Taking a bite of his sandwich, he added, “Let’s debrief when you get back. I’ll be interested to hear what you have to report.” He winked. “Get along now, little dogies. Me and my foursquare family values will stay home and take care of the kid.”

  10

  “Oh, the agony,” bleated Cordelia, slogging along a badly shoveled sidewalk next to Jane. “My feet stopped tingling a block ago, and now I can’t feel them at all—if that’s of any interest to you.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  “My fingers are totally frostbitten. What kind of morons would choose to live in a godforsaken place like this?”

  Jane glanced at her, thinking an answer was unnecessary.

  Stepping up to the front door, they gazed up at the neon sign. Tiny lights in every color of the rainbow spelled out the name. Under it, in a lurid, Day-Glo red, were the words DANCING GIRLS!

  “Used to be an old car dealership,” said Cordelia, stomping her feet to get some feeling back into them.

  “It was a restaurant back in the early nineties,” said Jane. “Sat empty for a while. I heard the city wanted to tear it down to build a parking lot.”

  “Now it’s a flesh palace. Gotta love those city fathers.”

  The building was a two-story rectangle. The original oversized picture windows had been darkened, revealing nothing about what was going on inside. From the outside, Jane couldn’t tell if the windows had been painted over or if they’d been replaced with heavily smoked glass. The architectural details were 1930s modern. The building was covered in what looked like beige plaster, with three dark green accent lines that ran the length of the upper story. These were broken up by four round porthole windows facing Washington Avenue, also edged in dark green.

  Inside, they paid the cover charge and left their coats at the coat check, then entered the main floor near a catwalk that extended out from the main stage.

  Jane nodded to a sign that said CAFÉ BACCHUS, with an arrow pointing toward a back hallway.

  “I heard he was in town,” said Cordelia, raising her voice because of the loud music.

  Jane wasn’t at all sure what she was getting herself into. “I think our eyes will adjust to the light.”

  “Said the spider to the fly.”

  The owner had spent a ton of money on mirrors. From virtually every angle in the room, patrons could watch the dancers’ reflections. Some of the women were working the poles, others doing freeform routines. The interior was lit like a jazz club, sultry and low, although the bar that ran along the back wall had a smaller version of the neon GaudyLights sign hanging above it, along with hundreds of tiny colored lights that draped behind the bar. Multicolored neon was a motif that ran throughout, with the words WILD, SEXY, HOT, BABE, LUSCIOUS, NAUGHTY, RED HOT, and HELL CAT, affixed to the walls.

  At the opposite end of the room was the main stage, where a lone woman in a G-string and pasties gyrated to AC/DC’s “Back in Black.” The song faded before it was finished, replaced by Ted Nugent’s “Cat Scratch Fever.” The dancer edged up to a pole and began another sort of dance. The look on her face was pure punk hostility.

  “Golden oldies,” shouted Cordelia. “Good for pole moves.”

  “You know a lot about pole moves?”

  “Takes skill and great muscle tone to do it right.”

  Men lined up by the catwalk gestured for the dancers to come closer to the rail. They waved money and shouted. Some tossed bills onto the stage floor for the featured dancer. A maze of tables and padded chairs stretched from back to front, probably seventy-five feet or more. Jane did a quick count. Tuesday nights must be slow. There weren’t more than twenty-five guys sitting at the tables. The room could easily have accommodated five times that number. Some of the dancers sat with the men. A few were giving table dances, while others clustered together at tables by themselves, looking bored.

  “Let’s get a drink,” said Cordelia, leading Jane back to the bar.

  The stools might look like expensive chrome ladder backs, but Jane had scoped out the same chairs when she was outfitting the Xanadu Club and knew they were cheap aluminum, bargain basement stuff.

  Two bartenders were on duty. The one farther away was a skinny guy with a dark scruff and glasses, who appeared to be in a heated discussion with a black woman. Jane pegged her as a manager. The other bartender was an attractive thirty-something woman, above average height, with dark brown hair, parted on one side and swept back over her ears, and large, dark eyes.

  “What can I get you?” she asked, her gaze lingering on Jane.

  “A Negroni. Don’t use the rail gin. I’d like Beefeater if you’ve got it.”

  “I want full-court Blitzkrieg,” said Cordelia, leaning her elbows on the bar and grinning.

  While the woman set up the shots and prepped the drink, Jane asked her what felt like an important question. “Do you get many women in here?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Believe it or not, some men bring their wives. College coeds drop in occasionally.”

  “Any lesbians?”

  Looking up, the bartender scrutinized Jane more openly. “Now and then.” She placed a white cocktail napkin in front of Jane and three in front of Cordelia.

  “Do they ever get table dances?” asked Jane, drawing a bowl of pub mix toward her.

  “Anything they want.”

  “What’s the difference between a table dance and a lap dance?”

  The bartender gave Jane an amused smile. “The price.”

  Jane returned the smile. “That’s all?”

  “Table dances are more, just, you know, sensual. The dancer usually stands between the person’s feet. No body contact, but she’s allowed to put her hands on the customer’s shoulders or knees for balance.” The bartender set the first of three shots in front of Cordelia. “We have couch dances upstairs. They’re done on the love seats in the VIP lounge. The girls still have to keep their feet on the floor, but it’s more intimate. A lap dance is also done on the love seats upstairs. There’s more actual, you know … contact up there. The dancers are supposed to stay six inches away at all times, but in reality, if they want a good tip, they get closer. If you’re after a bed dance, you have to use one of the private suites.”

  “That’s a new one,” said Cordelia. “What’s a bed dance?”

  Hoisting the last two shots up in front of her, the bartender said, “Use your imagination.” She pointed to each in turn and said, “That’s the Rumple Minze, that’s the Jager, and that’s the cinnamon schnapps.”

  “Excellent,” said Cordelia, rubbing her hands together.

  “And one Beefeater Negroni.” She placed the drink in front of Jane.

  Again, the song cut out before it was over. A voice came through the speakers. “Say good-bye to the beautiful Gypsy!” Some of the men clapped. Some just sat staring at the stage.

  “Not a very good vibe in here tonight,” said Cordelia.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Jane turned to watch the strippers cruising the room as the DJ’s voice called, “Put your hands together for the lovely Sharona!” A few waitresses moved between the tables, taking orders and delivering small plates of food and drinks. They were all dressed in purple leather tank tops and matching miniskirts, with purple fishnet stockings and spike heels.

  A gorgeous African American
woman in a tight red spandex dress and red platform heels stepped out onto the stage to the pounding beat of “My Sharona.” She seemed far more into the music than the first dancer.

  “Can I get you anything else?” asked the bartender, glancing briefly at Cordelia but once again lingering on Jane. “I’d be happy to show you a menu. Or if you’re interested in something more substantial, you might want to try our new restaurant. Café Bacchus. It opened a few months ago. The food is excellent.”

  Jane had heard of it, although she’d had no idea it was part of a strip club. “You’ve got a full kitchen?” she asked.

  “With an award-winning chef.”

  “What’s the chef’s name?”

  “Shanice Williams.”

  Jane did a double take. “Award-winning?”

  “That’s what I’m told. You know her?”

  “She worked for me last fall.”

  “Worked for you?”

  “I own a couple of restaurants in town.”

  She seemed even more intrigued. “Which ones?”

  “The Lyme House and the Xanadu Club.”

  “Oh, sure. I’ve heard of those. Never visited.”

  Shanice Williams was a mistake from day one. She’d been a sous chef at the Xanadu, hired by Jane’s new partner, Barry Tune. Jane had fired her when she didn’t show up for work two days in a row and failed to call and let someone know she wasn’t coming. If she’d ever won an award, it was no doubt for throwing plates at kitchen staff.

  Using a polishing cloth on the bar, the bartender continued, “I haven’t seen you two in here before.”

  “I’ve been in,” said Cordelia, tugging on her over-one-shoulder snake print dress, “but I sat at one of the tables.”

  “You two just out for a little adventure tonight?”

  “That’s us. The adventure sisters,” said Cordelia.

  As they talked, one of the topless waitresses came by, leaned partway over the bar, and said—using her best Minnesota nasal—“Thanks bunches, Avi. You saved my ass.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Not many regulars tonight,” the waitress continued, “and the guys who are here aren’t buying jack shit. Tips are lousy. If this keeps up, I might have to look somewhere else for a job.” She glanced down the bar to the skinny male bartender. “Dorsey having a problem with Diamond?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Tell him from me to chill.” She winked and hustled away.

  “This is bullshit,” said one of the dancers, strutting up to the bar, hands on her hips. Perfume hovered around her like a fog. “I really banked on Friday and Saturday night, but tonight … what a waste of time. That dude’s murder is going to sink this place, mark my words. We’re on the way out.”

  The dancer was Hollywood beautiful—full lips, curvaceous hips, shoulder-length honey blond hair, and deeply tanned, flawless skin.

  Gazing into Cordelia’s eyes, the dancer said, “I’m Georgia.”

  Matching her phony breathy tone, Cordelia said, “I’m Cordelia.” She tossed back one of the shots. “I like your dress.”

  “This old rag?” Her ultrawhite teeth gleamed. Running her hands suggestively down the front of her shiny turquoise full-length gown, she pulled back a deep slit, revealing a silver garter stuffed with cash. “You like?”

  “I’d like to know where you bought the bustier,” said Cordelia, hoisting another shot.

  “Not interested in the fairer sex, are we? Bet I could change your mind.”

  “Oh, I’m interested,” said Cordelia. “I simply don’t like to pay to be seduced.”

  “Hell, you pay all the time. Books. Movies. TV shows. Magazines. Taking that ‘special someone’ out to dinner. With me, you get a simple transaction.”

  “Thanks, but not right now.”

  “Your loss,” said Georgia, the sparkle draining from her eyes. She sat down, letting her shoulders droop. “My feet are killing me.”

  “It’s not that I don’t find you attractive,” said Cordelia.

  “Save it. I’ve heard every incarnation of that line a thousand times.”

  “Have you been stripping long?” asked Jane.

  The woman looked over, checking Jane out. “FYI, I’m not a deeply disturbed slutty sleazoid. I am an exotic dancer.”

  “I’m not judging you,” said Jane.

  “Some people get it, some don’t. Thought I’d head your attitude off at the pass.”

  “I don’t think Georgia would mind my telling you that she’s working on a law degree at William Mitchell,” said the bartender, wiping down the surface of the counter.

  “You are?” asked Cordelia.

  “It’s not polite to act so surprised. Yes, I have a brain as well as a body. I have a BA in criminal justice, with a minor in organizational psychology.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Then buy me a drink.”

  “Whatever she wants,” said Cordelia, fingering the edge of Georgia’s gown. “I like this. Must have rayon in it.”

  “Nope. Pure polyester. Make it a dirty martini.”

  “One dirty martini coming right up,” said Avi.

  “Hey, wait,” said Georgia, holding up her hand.

  The front door had just opened, and at least a dozen preppy young men in suits and ties elbowed their way inside. They were loud and laughing, already well oiled.

  “Ah,” she said, readjusting her bustier. “Looks like a stag party.” She waited until the men were seated, then rose. “Later, comrades.” Moving past Jane, she stopped for a moment to look her up and down, from her boots to her jeans to her blue cotton shirt and short leather vest. “Nice,” she whispered in Jane’s ear, running a hand down her arm. “I’ll see you later.”

  Jane watched her walk all loosey-goosey up to the tables. The other dancers who’d been cruising the room also descended like vultures to fresh carrion, but Georgia seemed to cause the greatest stir.

  “She’s good,” said Avi. “She’ll bleed them for every dime they’ve got, and they’ll love every minute of it.”

  Jane watched a minute more, then turned back to the bartender. “You have an unusual name.”

  “Avi? It’s short for Avigale. My father’s Jewish. Mother’s Hispanic, born in Guatemala.”

  “Not a natural-born white-bread Minnesotan,” said Cordelia. “You don’t make hotdish or say ufda?”

  “Say what?”

  Onstage, a new dancer appeared. “Let’s hear it for the enchanting Burgundy,” came the DJ’s voice. Pink’s “Raise Your Glass” boomed over the loudspeakers. When Jane turned to take a look, she noticed a man in a tan suit and a dark shirt open at the collar step out onto the floor from a side door. He had a square, boxy build, not exactly fat but moving in that direction. With his silver hair combed straight back from a high forehead and thick black eyebrows and goatee, he had a certain gravitas about him. “Who’s he?” asked Jane.

  Avi removed the two empty shot glasses from the counter in front of Cordelia. “That’s Vince Bessetti, the owner.”

  Bessetti inspected the room, paying particular attention to the knot of dancers surrounding the four tables newly claimed by the stag party, then headed up an industrial-looking staircase to the second floor.

  “You know,” said Avi, pointing at the last shot glass in front of Cordelia, “you’re supposed to drink those fast, in order, one after the other.”

  “If I did, I’d be on the floor.”

  “She’s the artistic director of the AGRT in St. Paul,” said Jane. “She has an image to protect.”

  “That repertory theater? Wow, I’ve got some high rollers in here tonight.”

  “Let me ask you something,” said Jane, taking another sip of her drink. “The dishwasher who supposedly murdered the man outside the club, did you know him?”

  “Elvio? I knew who he was. I don’t think I’d ever talked to him.”

  “Is there anyone here he did talk to regularly?”

 
; She glanced at the other bartender. “Dorsey. I think he knew him pretty well.”

  “Have you heard any scuttlebutt about why he might have done it?”

  “No.”

  “No opinions at all?”

  “Sorry. None.”

  Two waitresses descended on the bar with drink orders from the stag party. Avi and Dorsey immediately went to work.

  Jane was frustrated by the interruption. Someone around this place had to have an opinion on the subject of Elvio Ramos. Turning to Cordelia, she said, “Let’s order something.” She opened the menu and placed it flat on the counter between them. “Will you look at that,” said Jane, disgusted. “Shanice stole some of the recipes from the Xanadu. Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  Finishing her last shot, Cordelia said, “Yup. The Prawn cigars. And the shrimp-stuffed deep-fried wontons. You serve them with that Bloody Mary cocktail sauce, heavy on the horseradish.”

  “I suppose we could order a plate of each. See if she’s done any damage to our recipe.”

  Cordelia pointed to the hot roast beef sliders. “Let’s get those, too.”

  “Can you eat that much?”

  “Is rain wet? Do vacuum cleaners suck? Do cheerleaders, like … you know … whatever.”

  Avi sailed by, reaching for one of the beverage guns. “You two planning on sticking around?”

  “I guess we’re going to try some appetizers.”

  “Good choice,” she said, a smile spreading across her face when she looked at Jane.

  * * *

  While they waited for their food, Jane excused herself and moved down the bar, where she sat by the male bartender.

  “People call me Dorsey,” he said after Jane had introduced herself.

  “I was hoping to ask you a few questions about Elvio Ramos.”

  “You a cop?”

  “No. I’m a friend of the dead man’s uncle.”

  He digested that. Resting his elbows on the bar, he said, “Shoot.”

  “Did you ever see Elvio and DeAndre Moore talking?”

  “Nope.”

  “What kind of man is Elvio?”

  “Hard worker. Religious. Got a wife and kids. I liked him.”

  For a bartender, Dorsey wasn’t much of a talker. Maybe Jane was reading him wrong, but she had the sense that he was almost angry with her for bothering him.