by K. A. Tracy
Driving down Highway 111, the dark desert sky seemed enormous. In Los Angeles, the city lights blocked out all but the brightest constellations and planets, but here the night sky was ablaze with a blinking array of stars. It never failed to make Sam feel cosmically insignificant.
Joe twisted in his seat to face Sam. “Why did you ask if there was a storage unit at Rose’s?”
Sam turned down the radio. “Almost everybody has keepsakes and mementoes that are important to them: pictures, books, letters, diaries, a bible, porno, or whatever. Jeff Rydell came to Palm Springs from somewhere else by himself, and yet in his apartment there was nothing personal, except a generic photo of him and Ellen in front of an Elect Konrad backdrop and the letter from L. There was no reminder of any past life or times, and I think that’s unusual.”
“Maybe he wanted to forget his past.”
“Maybe,” she agreed. “But there is a difference between putting your past behind you and running away from it. A lot of people achieve the former but not many succeed in the latter. I’m thinking he kept stuff in his car. I suspect the only reason the letter was still in his apartment was because he wanted it nearby so he could reread it and feel close to whoever L is.”
The Spy Shop was located in a mall on the far side of Rancho Mirage. Sam pulled into the shopping center lot at 9:45 and found a parking space directly in front of the store. The Spy Shop’s display windows were papered in black and decorated with painted eyes peeking through Paul Bunyan-sized keyholes. Once inside you were transported into a digital wonderland. The interior design was black chrome and neon. Along each wall were monitors transmitting images from various hidden cameras in the store.
Sam went to find a salesman while Joe entertained himself at a night vision goggle display. She waited at the counter until a young man with multiple body piercings walked up. “Hi, my name is Jason,” his pierced tongue visible when he talked. “Can I help you find something?”
“I’m hoping so.” Sam pulled out the receipt, wondering how Jason ate with the rings looped through his lip. “I have this invoice, but it only has model numbers on it. I need to know for my business records what exactly was bought. Could you look these up for me?”
“Sure,” Jason took the receipt and studied it. He had a diamond stud in his nose, a bar through his eyebrow, and when he pushed the hair back from his face, Sam could see he had several gold studs forming an arc along his left earlobe.
He looked up the model numbers on the computer then handed back the receipt. “Would you like me to show you what the items were?”
“That’d be great.” Sam followed him to a large display of spy cameras. They came in all sorts of creative shapes and sizes. Sam picked up a baseball cap camera that attached to a micro recorder, which could be worn in a pouch around the waist, all for just $513. Jason stopped in front of a glass case that held an array of sunglasses, pocket protectors, and pens.
“This is our wireless selection. The more powerful ones can transmit up to a mile away, depending on building interference.”
“So what was bought?”
Jason picked up a pen designed to resemble a Mont Blanc. “This is our top-of-the-line pen spy cam. It has a wireless receiver and can be connected to a monitor and recorder.”
“So this receipt is for the pen spy cam and wireless unit and a receiver?”
“That’s right. They opted against the monitor, most likely because they used a laptop.”
Suddenly, a little credit report or two didn’t seem quite so invasive. Sam thanked him and went to get Joe. She found him in the disguises aisle. She heard him snickering as she walked up. He was standing in front of a board of fur patches.
She read the sign. “Fake chest hair?”
“I could put one of your dogs down my shirt and it would look more realistic.”
On the other side of the aisle were wigs, and on the end was a black mullet, which Joe held up in two hands. “I thought the point of a disguise was to blend in so nobody would remember you.”
“God, that looks just like the haircut my freshman gym teacher Miss Winters had, remember?”
“How could I forget? It complimented her flannel shirts so beautifully.”
Joe opened the store door and held it for Sam as they walked out. “So do you think Rydell was a jealous lover, a blackmailer, or just a perv?”
“Perv as in strategically leaving his pen in Ellen’s bathroom?”
“Or on the floor beneath her desk, on her night stand, whatever. Except at these prices it would have hardly been a cheap thrill.”
Sam seemed doubtful. “My impression is that Ellen would be sensitive to that kind of creep factor. So, no, I don’t think he was trying to get crotch shots of her. But yeah I do think Jeff was spying on someone. Maybe for blackmail, maybe for some other reason.”
“Maybe he was making secret recordings of girls he had over.”
“It just seems like a lot of money when you could buy a $150 video camera and hide it behind a few books on the desk.” Sam unlocked the car doors. “What I want to know is where did all this equipment go? His desktop did not have wireless, so I’m betting he had a laptop. But neither it nor the car has turned up, which leads me to believe whoever killed him took the car and dumped it somewhere. If they did and the equipment was in there, we may never know what he was up to.”
There were just so many more questions and loose ends than answers. But Sam knew from experience the only thing to do was keep tracking down each lead and see where it led. And right now, it led back to Indio.
Chapter Nine
Although the streets around Crazy Girl seemed exponentially dodgier at night than during the day, the club itself looked almost festive with its garish neon sign and the white lights strung along the top of the front wall. Sam drove through the gate into the fenced-in parking area and looked for the closest spot to the entrance. There had to be at least one hundred cars in the lot, so she settled for a space next to the fence because it was slightly more illuminated from the street. She popped the trunk and retrieved a steering wheel lock. After securing it, she locked the console and glove box then grabbed her bag.
“Ready?”
Joe stared at her. “No barbed wire car cover?”
“I just don’t know the neighborhood.”
“You do realize you’ve always had an unhealthy attachment to your cars?” he asked as they walked in. Joe stopped and looked around the dilapidated foyer.
“It’s really not as bad inside.” Sam handed him a $20. “Here, I’ll let you go pay the cover charge.”
He took the money. “This is truly a first.”
While he was at the cashier’s booth, Sam wandered over to a bulletin board covered with notices. There were flyers urging people to fulfill their potential and earn $10,000 a month working from home, house cleaning ads, moving sale announcements, credit card applications, and rental listings. Except for the 800-numbers listed to call for penile enlargement and in-home “therapeutic” massage, it was pretty much the same stuff she saw posted on the bulletin board outside her local grocery store.
A flyer in the lower left hand corner caught her eye. It offered an array of high-end professional software for an on sale price of $150. Lesser titles were offered for $69 and under.
Sam remembered there had been a similar flyer among Rydell’s papers. She opened her backpack and found it in the second envelope. They were identical except the bottom of Jeff’s flyer with a phone number and instruction to “Ask for Argo” was torn off.
Joe walked up. “What are you looking at?”
Sam held up the flyer in her hand and pointed to the board. “That flyer is the same as this one that was in Jeff’s stuff. Ellen told me Jeff had installed a bunch of programs on her computers at home, and I’m thinking this might be where he got them. Especially since Argo is the name of a bartender who works here. If he did business with this Argo and they knew each other from the club, then maybe Argo is someone who can te
ll me something about Rydell. It’s certainly worth talking to him. Let’s go see if he’s here.”
Sam put the flyer away and led Joe to the red velvet curtain. The doorman stamped the inside of their wrists with the initials CG and waved them through.
Joe looked around. “It looks like a lot of gay bars I’ve been to. Well, except for that,” he gestured toward the stage.
A slender redhead with small breasts and deathly pale skin was joylessly grinding her hips to an old Donna Summer song. She would periodically touch herself with all the eroticism of a self-breast exam. Although a few men had dollar bills in their hands, the majority of those in the ringside seats looked indifferent. Sam didn’t blame them; the young woman was either bored, drugged, jaded, or some combination of all three.
“She really needs a new choreographer,” Joe observed.
He grabbed them two seats at the bar. They had a clear view of the stage but were far enough away from the speakers that they didn’t have to yell too loudly to be heard. The song ended and there was a polite smattering of applause. The girl retrieved her few tips then disappeared behind the curtains. The stage lights went out, the DJ turned down the volume, and a Blake Shelton song came on.
Sam was waiting to order when a waitress walked up with a tray of empty glasses. September looked at her and smiled. “Hey! I recognize you. Did you ever find Kona?”
Kona? Sam’s memory kicked in. “You mean Alison. Yes, I did. It all worked out. Thanks for your help.”
“So you came back to see the show?”
Sam swiveled around so September could see Joe. “I have a friend in from Chicago, and he was curious to check it out. Joe, this is September.”
“What a lovely name,” he said.
“Oh, thanks. Well, you came at a good time. Our two most popular dancers are up next.”
“Together?”
“I don’t think so,” September laughed and rolled her eyes. “No, Lavender is on next then Money performs after her. That’s why the stage seats are already filled. The guys come early to get seats just to watch them. I hear Money’s breaking in two new songs tonight so it should be pretty good.”
Sam motioned toward the nearest bartender. “Alison told me to make sure to introduce myself to Argo. Is that him?”
“No, Argo only works weekends now ‘cause he started some other job. Lucky him. Hey, can I get you guys a drink? The show is about to start.”
“Yes, please.” Sam ordered a Jack and Diet for herself and a vodka tonic for Joe.
“So that isn’t Argo?” Joe asked.
“I’m afraid not. I’ll call the number on the flyer tomorrow and see if he calls back. It’s just easier to make someone talk face to face.”
“Sure, because on the phone they can hang up when you badger them.”
“I don’t badger, exactly. I’m…persistent. But maybe I can still corral Lavender or Money. Speaking of which…”
The strobe lights made swirling patterns on the stage and Christina Aguilera’s “Fighter” blared from the speakers. Lavender came through the curtains, and the crowd broke into cheers that were somehow louder than the music. Tall and pretty with short dark hair, she was dressed in purple silk boxers and matching robe with purple boxing gloves hung around her neck. She strutted down the runway in time to the music.
Some of the younger men in the audience danced along to the song, as did the bartender behind them, making the atmosphere more dance club than strip club. Joe leaned over again. “Do you suppose performers have any idea their songs are used for this? I think K-Tel should put out the Girlie Bar Collection.”
Lavender pulled off the belt and put it around her neck, the robe falling open just enough to show flashes of cleavage. Unlike the sickly first dancer, Lavender radiated health. She looked to be in her early thirties, with clear eyes and a smooth complexion. Sam wondered what circumstances led her to work here.
The next song was an old disco classic, “Come to Me,” by a one-hit wonder named France Joli. Joe sat forward on the stool. “I love this song.”
Lavender showed off some obvious dance training, mixing spins, kicks, and jazz moves into her routine. Halfway into the song, she walked the perimeter of the stage, collecting money, occasionally exchanging a few words with the customers, and once good-naturedly wagging a finger at a man who tried to put his hand up inside her boxers.
When the music changed to the hard rocking beat of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” Lavender ripped off the robe and threw it into the crowd. She had a slim body with slender hips, a lean torso, and surprisingly generous breasts. Sam glanced around. Some men watched with fascination, some with casual interest, and some stared with lust-hardened eyes.
During the chorus, the DJ turned up the volume and the crowd sang along with lusty fervor.
“Pour some sugar on me…”
Lavender shimmied out of the boxers revealing a purple thong. Pointing to a group of customers at the foot of the stage, she ran her other hand over the front of her thong slowly and suggestively to the lyrics—I'm hot, sticky sweet; From my head to my feet—then winked and walked away laughing.
Seductive, sexy, and in total control of herself and the crowd Lavender interacted with the customers, graciously fueling their fantasies. Sam noticed even Joe seemed mesmerized. There was so much money being shoved into her thong that she had to take some out to make room for more. The cheering continued long after the music stopped and only ended when Lavender disappeared behind the curtain.
“She was hot,” Joe announced.
“She was fun to watch.”
“Not your type?”
“I don’t have a type.”
Joe took a sip of his drink before answering. “Everyone has a type.”
“Well then, I suppose breathing and ambulatory would be high on my list.” She stood and stretched, ignoring his exasperated expression. “Watch my bag. I’m going to find a bathroom.”
“Make sure to use the sanitary seat cover.”
The restrooms were located through the lap dance room, so low lit it was positively murky. Sam looked around at all the activity. To the far left was a short bar. Along the wall in front of her was a row of high-backed booths. Apparently each was set up with its own directional speakers because the music volume changed as Sam walked past each table. The going rate was $25 for your basic table dance and $50 for a lap dance, but the price no doubt went up the more contact the dancer allowed. Sam wondered how much cash Money pulled in a night for her special “dance” moves.
Just beyond the backstage entrance was the women’s restroom, which was surprisingly clean and smelled of pine. When she got out of the stall Sam was surprised to see Lavender standing at a sink trying to get a lash out of her eye. She still had on stage makeup and was wearing lace panties and a see-through purple lace camisole.
Sam hesitated then walked over to the sink next to Lavender’s. She made eye contact through the mirror as she turned on the water. “Hi.”
Lavender nodded politely in response.
Sam dried her hands. “You’re Lavender, right?”
She nodded again, her brown eyes suddenly wary.
“I promise I’m not a stalker. And I know this is an odd place to meet, but my name is Samantha Perry. I’m a reporter and was hoping you’d be willing to talk to me about a story I’m working on.”
Lavender rubbed her eye and finally turned to face Sam directly, “A story about what?” Her tone was curious, not hostile.
“Jeff Rydell.”
She looked surprised. “Why would you be doing a story on Jeff?”
“He was murdered over the weekend.”
Lavender stood motionless for several moments then put her hand up to her mouth, leaned over the sink, and closed her eyes. Sam tensed, thinking she was going to be sick. When Lavender opened her eyes she stared into the mirror. Two large tears ran down her cheeks, streaking her face with mascara. Without looking at Sam, she asked quietly. “What happened?
”
“He was found out along Highway 111. He was apparently killed by a blow to the head.”
“Do they know who did it?”
“No. The police are still investigating. I understand you and he were friendly. I’d really appreciate it if you’d talk to me for just a few minutes.”
Lavender turned the water on and washed off the mascara. She didn’t say anything until she turned off the faucet. “Okay, but not here. I can meet you in about an hour. I’m supposed to mingle and do a couple table dances.”
“You name the place because I’m not really familiar with this area.”
“Consider yourself lucky.” Lavender dried her face. “There’s a local bar over by the freeway entrance called the Galaxy. It’s quiet, and people leave you alone. I’ll meet you there at 12:30.”
“Thank you.”
Lavender just nodded and walked out.
Joe’s legs were draped over her stool when she walked up. “Do you know how hard it was keeping this seat for you? People were circling like sharks.” He pulled the stool out for her. “I was getting worried maybe you got swept away by the atmosphere and decided to give lap dancing a try.”
“Trust me, I’m not that limber.”
When the lights in the main bar went out, a palpable energy radiated through the crowd. Sam picked up her drink and swung around to face the stage. “So let’s see what all the buzz is about.”
The spotlight was fixed at the center of the back curtain and the intro to some Beyoncé song blared from the speakers. Money pushed the curtains apart and exploded onto the stage. She was wearing a man-tailored red silk night shirt over a black strapless bustier with black garters, fishnets, thong, and five-inch stiletto heels.
The physical opposite of Lavender, Money was short—Sam estimated she was probably only 5’4” or so—and curvy. Her blonde hair was pulled back into an Evita Peron-style chignon, and her eye makeup was Cleopatra-esque. Walking down one side of the stage and up the other, Money reached out and touched the hands of the men reaching out for her. Some were already offering up bills in their fingers, which Money plucked and stuffed in her corset. She moved to the end of the stage dancing, arms undulating over her head.
