She had left only three days before. Too soon to have a new social security number yet, or a driver’s license. So she’d be living like she was when Piersall met her: furnished room, paying for everything in cash. No way to know if she had any cash left in the account. Del and Clancy hadn’t found her mail drop. She was pretty cagey. She’d change her looks first. Another round of surgery would cost plenty. Probably more than she had now.
Her first two jobs would be to get a new look and a way to earn money. What could she change? Hair. New cut, new color, wigs. Makeup style. Eye color. Clothing style. Faked injuries. Casts, crutches, eye patch. I’d stop by Josh Walters’s and have him do a bunch of drawings of how she might look. She needs money. Ideally lots of it in a hurry. When in doubt go back to basics. She wasn’t in a position to learn a new skill and start at the bottom. What had Jack said? Five grand a week as a nude dancer on the circuit. That’s money in a hurry.
I buzzed Larry. “I want you to call all the topless clubs in the area. Include Fairfax, Arlington, Alexandria, D.C., Montgomery, and P.G. counties. I want to know if they’ve hired any dancers this week. Use any story you want.”
“Who are we looking for?”
“Darla Jean Sarabeth Fantasia Sorenson, who else? Who are we always looking for? No paper on this one, Larry. Burn all your notes. Whenever you get any answers, call me. If I’m not in the office, use my beeper.”
I read the last report from Del. He’d watched Darla and Ellen Piersall have lunch. He’d followed Darla to Union Station where she bought a ticket to New York but didn’t board the train. Then she took Metro and a bus to my office. Del followed her back into D.C. until we contacted him and told him to break off the surveillance. Last seen she was undying her hair and getting it cut in Georgetown.
So she was staying in town. Probably until she got her social security number. Bellicosi’s story was so full of shit that he had to be up to no good. If I sicced him on her, she deserved to know about it. It was the least I could do.
I closed the file and stopped at Kelly’s desk to give it to her.
“I’m going over to the library to do some more research on Dr. McNair. If that guy Bellicosi comes back and shows you a subpoena for the Piersall file, give it to him. Get a receipt for it. I want you to Xerox the contents first and put the copies in another file. Call it Rhonda California. Also call Ellen Piersall. Tell her what’s happening. She might want to quash the subpoena. In fact, don’t release the file unless she says she won’t fight it. If she wants to, then tell Bellicosi to talk to her attorney before we’ll release the file.”
“Will you be back in the office today?”
“I don’t know. It depends on what I find at the library. If I’m not back by five, lock up and send everyone home. See you tomorrow.”
The UPS man came in and handed me a package.
“For you, Mr. Haggerty.”
I looked at the label. It was from Jack Meehof. I signed for it and followed the driver out of the office. In the car I tossed the package on to the front seat next to me. I passed the library and drove to Josh Walters’s place. He’s a freelance artist that I use to draw portraits of missing people.
He opened on the third ring. “Leo, long time no see. How you been?”
We shook hands. He bowed and waved me into his apartment.
“What can I do for you, Leo?” he rasped.
“I need some portraits done, Josh. I need them right now. Can you do it?”
“Depends on how many you need.”
I pulled the medical photos out of my jacket and handed them to Josh. “I need that face, with short brown hair, long brown hair, like the one on the right, and a long blond wig. Also change her eyebrows. Pluck them and arch them. Nothing too extreme, though.”
“No problem, Leo. Say about an hour for all three. Working from a photo makes it a piece of cake. You want something to drink?”
I tilted my head quizzically. Josh waved me off. “No. Not booze. I’m still on the wagon. I’ve got all kinds of fruit juices in there. You ever had a soursop and soda?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“You’ll like it. It’s one of my own concoctions. I’ll make one for you and get to the drawings.”
“Great.”
I watched Josh walk into the kitchen. His sobriety was part of his recovery from a failed suicide attempt. To celebrate forty-three years of self-hatred, he threw a rope over the open beam in his living room, made a reasonably good noose for a novice hangman, adjusted the height, slipped the noose over his head, and pulled it tight. He slid the knot over to the side so he’d die of a sudden broken neck. Nice and clean, not a slow, flailing, gurgling death by strangulation. Those last minutes clawing at the rope wondering what the fuck you’d done. Failed hangings never try it twice. Oh, they may commit suicide, but they never use the rope again.
Josh hadn’t checked his rope well enough. He kicked off into space and headed straight down. The noose cut a crease into his throat you can still see. Then it snapped. He went straight through his coffee table, breaking his wrist and giving himself a concussion.
When we found him, we called for an ambulance and he went straight into Fairfax Hospital. After they stabilized him, he did thirty days in detox and thirty days on the psych ward. Aftercare was therapy and AA. He’d been sober and alive for fourteen months now.
I dropped onto his sofa, took the drink as he walked by, and watched him go into his office. I picked up the remote control and lit up the screen. A talk show host was interviewing a member of Groupers Anonymous. He identified himself as a self-help group survivor who finally acknowledged his addiction to self-help groups. He’d been grouping six or seven times a day without relief. This was after he’d lost his job and his wife. She’d met a guy in her codependency group. Groupers Anonymous had him down to four meetings a week. And no, he’d never be cured, but he’d be weaned down to one meeting a week in about a year.
Eventually Josh came out. He handed me the drawings and the photos.
“Great, Josh. Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it. How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll bill you.”
“No. No bills on this one. In fact, you never saw me today. You never did this work.”
“I see. How about a hundred?”
I slipped one out of my wallet and handed it to him.
“You expecting anybody in particular to come around?”
“Maybe a guy named Bellicosi. D.A.’s office in Los Angeles. I can’t even describe him to you. He’s the personification of Alzheimer’s disease. He turns around and you can’t remember who you were talking to.”
“I can hardly wait. Good luck on whatever it is.”
“Thanks, Josh. By the way, the soursop and soda was good. I’m glad to see you doing so well.”
“Thanks, Leo.”
We shook hands and I went out to the car.
CHAPTER 18
Larry had generated a list of clubs in the area with exotic dancers. He’d even narrowed it down to the three that had hired new dancers this week.
One club, Sapph-fires, had a star next to it.
“What’s that for?”
“That’s where our girl is, unless she’s been able to change her race. The other two clubs hired new girls but they were black.”
“She’s good, but not that good. You find out anything else?”
“Yeah.” He smiled and checked the tops of his shoes for the joke. “It’s a lesbian club. Three, four hundred women there weekdays, over a thousand on weekends.”
“Okay, so I’ll have a little trouble fitting in. A good detective is adaptable to the needs of the occasion. What else do you know?”
“Good place for her to be. Auditions are a walk-on. Strut your stuff, if you look like you can boil blood, you’ve got a job. No papers, just proof of age. It’s a day labor job—strictly cash. Fifty bucks a night plus tips. They run one hundred to three hundred a night. Let’s figure she’s too new
to have any fans yet, make it a hundred a night. That’s nine hundred a week if she works six nights. She stays awhile she makes a couple of grand a week.
“Also, all women. Pretty hard for a guy to get close to her.”
“What story did you use?”
“We’re looking for Dorothy from Kansas, disturbed girl, underage, trying to pass for twenty-one with fake IDs. Her family wants her home with them. The manager was sure all their girls were of age but said you could come down before the show, see if little Dorothy was there.”
“Okay, what time is the show?”
“Ten P.M. to two A.M.”
“Good work, Larry.”
At a quarter to nine I stepped out of my car. Slid the pictures into my jacket pocket and walked over to Sapph-fires.
It was a square, two-story box without windows. My first lap around it showed me the back entrance for the performers to come and go. Very gently I tried the door. It was locked. If security was any good, there’d be a guard right inside. I went back to my car, parked where I could watch the door, and waited.
Darla arrived at nine, lugging a shoulder bag that probably had her outfits, makeup, and hair stuff. She was wearing a short clingy white dress, white heels, a Raiders’ cap, and black shades. Her hair was long and dark. I figured I’d wait until she was half dressed. Make her less likely to run.
The front door had panels of etched glass, showing women with their arms around each other’s waists, raising cups to each other’s lips. There were others with their heads together holding hands.
Across the top the word SAPPH-FIRES was spun out of pink neon tubing. Between the syllables was a giant blue neon gem sitting on a bed of red flames. In the center of the gem, outlined in white filigree, was the figure of a woman, arms outstretched, beckoning one to enter.
I pulled open the door and stepped inside. The space was cavernous at the end of a short corridor. I walked down to where the hostess’s lectern stood. The woman standing there did her best to be welcoming.
“Can I help you?” she said, but her eyes hoped not.
“I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No. I’m hoping to avoid one. Would you get the manager, please?”
“Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”
“Of course.”
She trotted off to the left toward a pair of doors on the front wall of the club. I took the time to familiarize myself with the layout.
It was a single room. A huge dance floor, open in the center, then dotted on the perimeter with tables for the customers and raised cubes for the dancers. Long bars with stools ran along each wall. At each corner a spiral staircase wound up to the second floor. There were tables all the way around, looking down over a brass railing to the action on the floor below. The DJ’s sound system was in the center of the back wall. Next to it an unmarked door that probably led to the performers’ changing room.
While I waited I watched waitresses setting up tables, bartenders checking stock, cutting fruit, drying glasses.
“Can I help you? I’m the manager,” a throaty voice said.
“Yes. My name is Leo Haggerty. I’m a private investigator and I’m looking for this woman.” As I moved to take the photos out of my jacket, another figure swept the manager aside, got a good grip on my larynx, and whispered, “Don’t move a muscle.”
I smiled into emerald-green eyes that were surrounded by freckles and a cascade of red hair.
“This is Colleen MacNamara, my chief of security,” the manager said as Colleen smoothly removed my gun from its holster and set it aside.
“I have a permit for that,” I said.
“Not from me, you don’t” was her reply. “No weapons are allowed on the premises. Period. If you want to stay in here, I’m going to have to search you.”
“Do your job.”
She motioned me to lift my arms and then patted me down. “Spread ’em.” I did and she didn’t miss an inch.
“He’s clean.” She hefted my pistol. “This will be returned when you leave.” Colleen stepped off to the side.
“Now, you were saying,” the manager began again.
I took the picture and handed it to the manager. She was a head shorter than Colleen or I, pale-blond hair, soft brown eyes. She scanned the drawings and handed them back to me. “And?”
“And my investigation led me to believe that she’s in quite a bit of danger. I came here to try to warn her about it. That’s all.”
“And what kind of danger would that be?” she challenged me.
“A crazy fan of hers. She used to dance in clubs in California. This guy was obsessed with her, followed her everywhere, attacked her a couple of times.” What the hell, her story was as good as any.
“I don’t think we have much to worry about, Marge. How many guys come here anyway? Ten maybe? A couple of lost straights. We’ll get a description. If he shows up, we’ll refuse him admission and notify the police. I don’t see a problem, Mr. Haggerty, but thanks for your concern,” Colleen said.
“You don’t see a problem because I didn’t tell you everything I know. Now, do I get to talk to her or not?”
“I haven’t even said that we have this girl working here.”
“You don’t have to. I know she’s here. I saw her come in the back way. I could have dropped her in the alley if I’d wanted to.”
The manager gave Colleen a tired look, the how-much-trouble-is-this-going-to-be look. “Okay, Mr. Haggerty. Do you have anyone we can use to check on your bona fides?”
“Preferably a D.C. cop,” Colleen chimed in.
“Yeah. Call Horace Wisinski, I think he’s a sergeant this week, district one.”
“Hoss the Boss? I know him. Let me have your ID, and I’ll call him.”
I gave it to Colleen and waited while she checked me out. A couple of minutes later she returned, handed me the card, and said, “Hoss says he’s legit, and a straight shooter. Even backed up some of his story.”
“Okay, Colleen’ll show you back to the dressing room. You can talk to Sindi back there.”
I followed Colleen across the huge dance floor. At the door next to the DJ’s stand she motioned for me to wait. A minute later “Sindi” pushed through the door.
She was wearing skyscraper heels, thigh-high mesh stockings, and a black teddy that barely covered her breasts and was so tight in the crotch that it outlined her lips. Her long straight black hair fell to her shoulders, and she had changed to metallic wraparound sunglasses.
“What the fuck do you want with me?”
I pulled her aside so MacNamara wouldn’t hear us.
“Look, I just got a visit today by a guy looking for you. Not your crazy fan. Which I’m sure is another load of shit you dumped on us. This guy was a cop from the D.A.’s office in L.A. And he was not kosher. I think you’re in big trouble. That much I believe and I’d like to help you, because this guy’s story was worse than yours.”
“So? He won’t find me. He doesn’t know where to look.”
“You’re dreaming, princess. He’s trying to get into the file on you. When he gets to Ellen Piersall he’ll know you’re on the run and need money in a hurry. You only have one way to earn it: dancing. There’s no porno business here. You can’t risk a bust for prostitution. He’s sitting in a hotel room somewhere making the same calls I did. Eventually he’ll get here. Somebody cares enough to send him across the country to find you. He’ll take the time to go to every dance club in this town. He’ll find you. If not today, then tomorrow.
“I don’t care how slick the Gaelic Maiden is. He’ll flash her that badge of his and she won’t be able to keep him out. He’ll get your description from Ellen Piersall. With that, your wig and shades won’t cut it. He’ll make you and then one night follow you home from here. You tell me, what happens then?”
Sindi didn’t say a word.
“I can’t hear you. What happens then?”
�
��Shit. Shit. Shit.”
“Listen, I know you’re in trouble, but he’s acting like he’s the one with something to hide. Give me a chance, maybe I can help you. What have you got to lose?”
She shook her head sadly. “This job if I don’t finish my makeup. I’m first one up tonight. Maybe you’re right. You sure have fucked up my plans big time. Maybe you can do the same to other people.” She sighed in defeat. “All right, why don’t you hang around? I’ll go with you after the show.”
“You sure that’s a smart idea?”
“No. I’m not. In fact, if what you said is right, it’s probably fairly stupid. But I need the dough. You got two hundred and fifty bucks to give me?” I shook my head. “I didn’t think so.”
“Fine. I’ll get a seat out of the way and wait for you.”
When Sindi went back in to finish getting ready, Colleen came out and escorted me across the dance floor. I stopped at the hostess and said, “I’ll be staying for the show. What’s the cover?”
The hostess glanced at Colleen, who knew they couldn’t discriminate against me, and shrugged her shoulders.
“Men’s cover charge is twenty-five dollars.”
I gave it to her and asked for an out-of-the-way table. A quick discussion with the waitresses created a little two-seater in the far right corner. I nursed a salty dog. Colleen stopped by and returned my gun.
“You can pick up the clip on your way out.”
“I appreciate your professionalism.” I lifted my drink.
“And I yours. Have a nice evening.”
I spent the next four hours in the corner nursing my drinks, smiling at angry stares, and imagining what names they were calling me.
Sindi was a crowd favorite and throughout the evening money disappeared into her cleavage and was tucked into her stockings. Her dancing was punctuated with a lot of self-enjoyment, as she ran a finger up the inside of her thigh and under the edge of her teddy, or down over her breasts. The rest she did with her eyes, moving through the crowd, finding eyes yearning to be found, binding them with a smile or parted lips, sending them off with her churning hips, and starting the search again.
Mexico Is Forever Page 9
