“I can request another waiter.”
“Just tell me the job, Kahdem.”
He nodded, looking sad. “It’s one of my employees. A dancer. Her name is Abigail Mumford.”
“Name isn’t familiar.”
“She dances under the name Cherry Wine.”
I snapped the fingers of my good hand and grinned. “I love Cherry Wine! She’s one of my faves!”
Cherry was in her twenties, always smiling and enthusiastic, and laughed at my jokes.
“Cherry disappeared four days ago.”
“Four days?” I didn’t get it. “That’s not really a big deal, Kahdem. You, of all people, know how much money these ladies can make. She might have decided to spend a week in Vegas. Or, hell, go shoe shopping in Paris on a whim.”
“Normally, I wouldn’t worry about her. But if you know Cherry, you know what her number one priority is.”
“A boob job.”
Since I’d known her, Cherry had been saving up for implants. Her parents gave her an A cup. She wanted double D. It was something she talked about. A lot. Cherry considered it the path to a better life. Bigger tips. Fewer creeps. Hollywood and modeling auditions.
Kahdem nodded. “The surgery was scheduled for yesterday. She’s been planning it for over a year. One of the best plastic surgeons in California. His waiting list is gigantic. But she never got on the plane, never made her appointment.”
“Change of heart?” I suggested. “Dancers do go on to do other things. Maybe she got tired of being ogled and groped.”
“Does she seem like a woman who would have a change of heart?”
I considered it. As much as a client could know an exotic dancer, my impression of Cherry was that she’d never been happy with her breasts, and that even if she hadn’t danced, she still would have wanted the operation.
“Cold feet? Maybe she got scared.”
“Do you think Cherry is afraid of surgery?”
I shook my head. She had a few tats, a few piercings. This wasn’t a skittish lady.
“I’ve left several messages, and even had Parviz drop by her apartment. She’s gone.”
“So you’re thinking foul play,” I stated.
“Another dancer at the club, Puma—”
“I love Puma!”
“—is Cherry’s best friend. She told me she has no idea where Cherry is.”
“Could Puma be lying?”
Kahdem pursed his lips, then nodded slowly. “Perhaps. Everyone lies about something.”
Was he lying about that? Perhaps…
“Does Cherry have other friends at the club?”
“Everyone likes Cherry. She’s a nice woman. She tips well. The bar staff. The wait staff. The bouncers. She even buys lap dances from other girls.”
I admired that. It’s exactly what I would do if I were a stripper.
“Does she party?”
“No more than anyone else. I don’t allow hard drugs in the club. No coke, no smack, no ice. Just booze and grass, and everyone has to be sober on the clock.”
“How about stalkers?” I asked.
“She has regulars. All the girls do. But we’ve had creeps come on to some of the girls. Parviz does a good job persuading them to not come back.”
“You’ve talked to your employees? No one knows anything?”
“No one. We’re all worried.”
I mulled it over. Everything I knew about women could fit on a Post-It note and still have room for all fifty state capitals and a recipe for chicken marsala. But I was sure that not one woman would ever abandon a pet.
Which meant her disappearance was almost definitely involuntary.
The waiter came by and placed a platter in front of me.
On the platter was a sprig of parsley, a single asparagus spear, and a tiny brown lump that was smaller than the soda cracker I’d eaten.
“I hope you like lamb,” said Kahdem.
“I do. Did it fall off the plate?”
“That is the lamb, sir.” The snooty waiter pointing a perfectly manicured finger at the brown lump. “Surely you recognize a perfect cut of meat when you see it.”
I looked him up and down. “I know I recognize a bad cut of meat when I see it.”
“Perhaps monsieur would prefer something else? Something more appropriate for your limited palate?”
Starting a fight with a snobby waiter was very immature.
Luckily, I was very immature.
“Where did you learn your skills, Ernesto?”
“I attended culinary school at Château Chappeau, where I graduated meilleur cochon. I’ve also assisted the finest sommelier in Chicago, Pitre Souliers Rouges.”
“Impressive. Is that where you got your sneering lessons?”
“Monsieur, I do not sneer,” he sneered.
“Gotcha. No lessons. So being a condescending prick just comes naturally.”
Kahdem made a snorting sound.
Ernesto maintained his superior gaze. “Perhaps I can persuade the chef to make you a cheeseburger.”
“I’ll stick with the lamb. And I’ll take my drink, if you’re not too busy looking down your nose at me.”
He stuck his chin up and walked off. I popped the whole pieced of lamb into my mouth. It tasted mealy.
“So you actually like this place?” I asked Kahdem.
He shrugged. “The coffee is good.”
“For twelve bucks, it better be good. For that much, Juan Valdez’s happy ass better jump up from the cup and French kiss you.”
I killed the taste of the lamb with some beer.
“If I were to hire you, Mr. McGlade, what would you do to find her?”
“Same as I always do. Talk to people who know her. Track her credit cards. Check her social media for clues. Call the hospitals. Tell me, Kahdem, are you romantically involved with Cherry?”
Kahdem seemed insulted by the notion.
“I don’t do that, Mr. McGlade.”
“What’s the point of owning a gentlemen’s club if you don’t date the employees? It’s like owning a brewery and being sober.”
“It’s complicated.”
I killed the rest of my beer. “I gotta say, Kahdem, it’s really suspicious for a boss to take this much of an interest in an employee who’s only been missing for a few days.”
He paused. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “In Iran, my mother was a professional bandari dancer. It is known as the Persian belly dance. When done correctly, it is graceful, elegant, beautiful.”
I made a mental note to Google it.
“She was stoned to death. By a group of Islamic extremists who considered her impure. I was a child at the time. Shortly after, my father and I moved to the United States. My father opened the club. He always respected, and protected, his employees. Since his passing, I have taken up his work ethic. It is the only way I know.”
“So you’ve never gone out with one of your dancers?”
“Never. I am… already in a committed relationship.”
I wanted to call bullshit, but something about the speech reeked of sincerity. And then it hit me.
“Parviz,” I said.
Kahdem didn’t respond. But his eyes told me I was correct.
“You’re a lucky dude,” I told him. “Parviz is super hot.”
“He’s a nice man. We have a lot in common.”
“Sure. And the six pack abs don’t mean anything to you.”
Kahdem cracked the smallest of smiles. “His abs are… nice. But relationships centered on physical attraction don’t last, Mr. McGlade.”
“I know. But they’re great while they do.”
Ernesto returned with my drink. He set the snifter down in front of me.
“Would monsieur care for a straw?”
This guy.
“You don’t have a sippy cup?” I asked, batting my eyelashes. “One with the round bottom so it won’t tip over?”
He smiled blandly. I killed the snifter, which tas
ted like brandy—go figure—and held up the glass for him. Ernesto took it.
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “You can’t catch super herpes just by touching my glass. You should wash your hands, though. Fast.”
Ernesto, eyes widening, immediately dropped my snifter, which shattered on the floor.
Everyone in the dining room stared at him, and our snooty waiter turned a lovely shade of stop-light red.
“It’s okay!” I told the gawkers. “You’re probably all safe from this waiter’s super herpes!”
Ernesto scurried away. Several diners stood up to leave. At least two women dug into their purses for hand sanitizer.
“Mr. McGlade,” Kahdem said, “you are abrasive, rude, and seem to delight in causing trouble.”
“That’s how I roll. Deal with it.”
Kahdem raised his glass. “You’re hired.”
I took Kahdem’s glass, finished his liquor, and leaned closer to him. “I get five grand a day, plus expenses.”
“I’ll give you five hundred.”
“Deal. I need a ten day retainer to start.”
“Five days.”
“Done.”
“Is cash okay?”
“Cash is always welcome.”
“What else?”
“I need some pictures of Cherry, her address, and a list of friends. Regular pics in street clothes, not pics of her dancing.” I realized what I’d just said. “Actually, if you have pics of her dancing, I’ll take those, too.”
I took a cab from Le Femme to the car repair shop, where a big wad of Kahdem’s money went to new wheels, new lug nuts, a new custom lug nut wrench, and a cardboard air freshener that was supposed to smell like vanilla, but instead smelled like vanilla’s fat, ugly brother, the one who was behind in four child support payments and thought wearing socks with sandals made him some kind of rebel.
Then I was on the case.
My first stop was Cherry’s apartment in Streeterville.
She wasn’t there.
I wasn’t actually expecting her to be there. That would have been too easy. But I wanted to look around her place, and the only way to do that was to break in. There were many ways to break into a—
“You looking for Abigail?”
I turned to look at the guy standing in the hallway. I deduced he was really high, because his eyes were so red they would stop a car, and he was wearing a shirt with a pot leaf on it, and he absolutely reeked of weed.
I almost asked who Abigail was, and then remembered that was Cherry’s non-stripper name.
“Yeah. I’m her…” Father? Brother? Uncle? “Fabruncle.”
“Cool. She was with some dude and went to her friend Meredith’s place.”
Meredith. That was Puma.
“Thanks. If you see her, tell her that her fabruncle stopped by.”
“Cool. Got any chips or cookies or snacks of any kind?”
“No.”
“Cool.”
Puma and family lived in a neighborhood known as the Gold Coast. Apartments and condos here went all the way up, giving you breathtaking views of Lake Michigan and the city. Puma’s apartment was on inner Lake Shore Drive and Goethe, which I’d heard pronounced gear-tay, go-thee, geoth, and that street with the G. I didn’t know which was correct. Can’t say I cared too much, either.
The high rise had a circular driveway in front of it, and was swanky enough to have surveillance cameras on the outside. Probably to alert the attendant who was camped out inside, ready to open your door and park your car in the underground lot. I did just that, and the doorman came up to me. He was in one of those silly old-fashioned doorman outfits, with the red cap and a zillion gold buttons on his matching vest. He looked sad, as most doormen do. Probably because they had to wear that silly outfit.
“Are the Stars home?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer. I showed him my P.I. license, which didn’t seem to impress him.
“I don’t answer questions about the tenants,” he said.
“What’s your name, friend?”
“Jasper.”
“Nice to meet you, Jasper. I’m Harry. And I’d like to introduce you to a close friend of mine.”
I showed Jasper a hundred dollar bill. After he got a good look at Mr. Franklin, I ripped it in half and gave him Ben’s profile.
“Mr. and Mrs. Star are on vacation,” he said.
The magic of Benjamin Franklin.
“How about Meredith?”
“I believe Miss Meredith is home.”
“Have you seen this girl around with Meredith?”
Kahdem had texted me several pics of Cherry. I found one of her in a sweater.
“That’s Meredith’s friend. She’s here right now.”
Another case solved. I was simply that amazing.
“Has she been staying here?”
“No. She just showed up a few hours ago. A young man in a black Jeep dropped her off.”
“Did you get the plate number?”
“No.”
“See his face?”
“No.”
I batted around the new information. Puma had lied to Kahdem about knowing where Cherry was.
Why?
I supposed I could ask. But I wasn’t being paid to find out why Cherry was missing work. I was only being paid to find her.
Which I had done.
But if I told Kahdem where she was, he’d probably want the rest of his retainer back.
I didn’t like that idea. I had a horse to feed.
Also, I wasn’t sure telling Kahdem was the right move. Yeah, he was the client. And he seemed like a decent guy. But maybe I read him wrong and he was a crazy psycho who was in love with Cherry and wanted to cut off her head and keep it in his freezer, and that’s why she and Puma were keeping away from him. If that was the case, it wouldn’t do much for business, or my stellar reputation, if I just handed her over.
I fished one of my business cards out of a jacket pocket and gave it to the doorman. “Can you call Meredith, tell her I’d like to speak to her? If she’s nervous, you can be there when we chat.”
The doorman nodded, and went into the building.
A few minutes later, he came back out.
“She doesn’t want to speak to you,” he told me.
“Did you let her know I was charming, and devilishly handsome?”
“She’s not taking any visitors. I’m sorry.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I began to roll up the window. He rapped a knuckle on it and showed me the half a Franklin.
“Hey, what about this?”
“Can’t do much with that,” I said. “I’ll give you ten bucks for it.”
He looked insulted. I rolled up the window and began to pull away. He chased me down and knocked again.
I gave him the ten bucks for the half a bill. Worked every time. But before I let him take it, I threw him a bone.
“If that Jeep comes back, call me and I’ll give you the other forty bucks.”
My next move was to wait. For Cherry to come out. Or for the Jeep guy to come back. Or for the doorman to drop dead of a heart attack, stroke, or some other lucky physical defect.
I pulled over to the other side of the street, next to a fire hydrant, and parked the Vette where I had a good view of Meredith’s building.
Then, I waited.
I kept an emergency stakeout kit in my car for times like this. It consisted of five candy bars, a six pack of diet pop (I’m a Chicagoan, we say pop not soda), a plastic container for biological unpleasantries, two pairs of binoculars (in case I lose one), two walkie-talkies (though I haven’t ever used them because I have no partner and work alone, so that was more wishful thinking than necessity) and a pen and notepad. Once upon a time I also kept dirty magazines on hand to kill time, but invariably I’d get absorbed in them because nudity is more entertaining than surveillance, and whoever I was watching would slip by unnoticed. So now I amuse myself with counting to a million b
y threes, and listening to music.
But first, I had to deal with a pressing bit of adultness. Last night I’d gotten a little too drunk and came home with a dwarf miniature pony. Even though I made that purchase during a bout of alcoholic bad judgement, I needed to own up to my responsibilities and make sure the animal was adjusting to his new environment.
But I couldn’t leave the stakeout because; money. So I called my condo and left a message.
“Hey, horse. It’s me. I hope you’re okay, and that hearing your master’s voice has a calming effect. I’ll be gone for a few hours, so rewind this if you get lonely.” Then I added, “It’s Harry.”
My duty to the horse complete, I popped in a CD of The Beginner by Bob Walkenhorst, and let his dulcet, sexy tones stimulate me as I eased into surveillance mode. Then I popped open a can of diet, keeping one eye on the door, and the other on cops looking to ticket me for illegal parking.
Ninety minutes passed. I had to move twice so I wouldn’t get fined by Chicago’s finest. Once upon a time, I was a cop in this city. I’d had my career cut short because I was a maverick rogue lone wolf who refused to play by their rules, and because I abused my allotted sick days by a factor of two. Since I was fired, I got no pension, and had to somehow make ends meet with the millions I was pulling in from the TV show. Luckily, I had a good accountant who’d convinced me to put my extra funds into a surefire, guaranteed investment; Beanie Babies. It was the one toy that would never go out of style. The current market was rather bearish, but I anticipated a rebound any day now.
I’d finished my third pop and was pissing in the plastic container when a black Jeep pulled up to the building. Two seconds later, a woman darted out of the lobby, hopped into the vehicle, and they sped off like they were late for life-saving surgery.
It was a bad moment for me, because I’d just hit that point in my stream where stopping was difficult, bordering on impossible. I managed to barely rein it in without my bladder inverting, then looked for the lid.
The lid wasn’t around.
Did I even have a lid?
In the meantime, the Jeep was blending into traffic.
It was hard choices like this that separated the men from the boys. The plastic container was three-quarters full of urine, and I didn’t want to spill it in my car, or on myself. I never wanted to be called Pee-Pee Harry again, stemming from a youthful incident of my school years. One little bathroom accident and your fellow twelfth-graders never let you forget it. Kids could be cruel.
Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3) Page 34
