Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5)

by Dallas Gorham

  “That would be worth a bundle, but we don’t have it. It’s another moot point, because our dancers are not employees. We don’t pay them; they pay us to work here.”

  That was a surprise. “Are the tips that good?”

  “A good dancer with a good personality clears five hundred dollars a day, more on the weekend, all cash. Each dancer pays us one hundred dollars a day to work here; two hundred on Saturday night. We don’t even ask their real names. I only issue them a locker key and assign them a makeup table in the dressing room. They come and go.”

  “With the money so good, why would anyone leave?”

  “Drugs, alcohol, pregnancy, boyfriends. You name it.” Banker Lady shrugged. “These girls—they’re not like you and me. They don’t think like normal people.”

  “I see. Did this particular Miss Jasmine quit or was she, uh, asked to turn in her locker key?” I saw the look on her face. “Look, I’m out of twenties. Will you take two tens?”

  She would. “That’s not my department. Our owner re-issued Miss Jasmine’s locker to another dancer.”

  “Who’s the owner?”

  Banker Lady’s face lost all expression. “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  “The owner told you to put Al Rice on your no-fly list and he had you re-issue Jasmine’s key to another dancer, and you don’t know his name?” I pulled out a fifty this time. Then I added another fifty to it. “Who’s the owner?”

  This time Banker Lady looked decidedly uncomfortable, even fearful. “You could pull out a fistful of hundreds and I wouldn’t know. There’s not enough money in Fort Knox.”

  That was interesting.

  ###

  Banker Lady worried that she had make a mistake in talking so much. She was always doing that, but Private Eye Guy, as she thought of Chuck, was cute and friendly. Private Eye Guy was bound to find Jasmine soon, and word would get back that he’d visited the Crazy Lady. The doorman would say that he’d sent Private Eye Guy to the office. She chewed on her lower lip while she considered what to do. She couldn’t turn back the clock. She made a phone call. “Some guy showed up here looking for Jasmine… No, the other one, the redhead.”

  Chapter 11

  Rice stared at the gas gauge in disbelief. No, no, no. Not this too. He slammed the steering wheel with his palm and groaned. He took a quick look over his shoulder and jerked the car toward the right lane. The engine sputtered once more and died. Cars honked and swerved as he cut across the traffic and bumped over the rumble strip onto the shoulder, still coasting at forty miles per hour. The power steering died with the engine. He fought the wheel and pulled the car onto the grass beside the highway. It bounced to a stop.

  He slammed the steering wheel again and again, cursed his rotten luck. Why is everything always stacked against me? He shoved the door open and the warning bell clanged an alarm. Tears rolled down his cheeks again as he turned off the ignition. The radio switched off and he heard the traffic roar from his left. People zoomed by who didn’t care whether he lived or died. He stared at his keys, tried to remember what he needed them for. Momma, that’s the key to Momma’s house.

  He tried to get out. The seatbelt was fastened, mocking his inability to move. He found that funny. He chortled and slapped the car seat with glee.

  He fumbled the seatbelt open and staggered upright. He locked the doors from habit and stumbled across the rough ground, headed for the next exit. Got to get to Momma’s before Teddy catches me.

  He made his way to the access road and stopped to catch his breath. He couldn’t stay on a main street; Teddy might find him there. Teddy knew where his mother lived and he knew where Rice had parked the night before. This access road lay on a straight line from the Orange Peel to Momma’s house. It was the first place Teddy would look. Rice took the first cross street and scurried into the residential neighborhood. It took longer to walk this way, but he had a better chance of arriving alive.

  He came to an east-west boulevard. A hundred yards of open space, a hundred yards of danger, to reach the other side. He strolled into a convenience store. He found the water fountain and took a long drink. He stared at the sausages rotating on the warmer. He eyed the coffee dispenser. The cashier up front didn’t have a good view of the back of the store. No, he’d better not risk it. I’m a coward. I’ve always been a coward. I’ll always be a coward. He visited the restroom before he resumed his odyssey. He huddled in the shadow of the porte-cochere over the gas pumps and looked both ways down the boulevard. When the coast was clear, he jogged across the frightening expanse of open pavement and dashed up another residential street, his breath ragged in his chest.

  The sun dropped lower and the lengthening shadows made him feel marginally safer when he crossed the next wide boulevard. Teddy is driving me like a wolf who’s cut a buffalo from the herd. He turned that thought over in his head. Momma. Momma will know what to do. If he could only get to Momma’s house…

  Chapter 12

  I waited for Erica to collect cover charges and make change for two more men. She handed them each a fistful of bills and stamped their hands. “This stamp will give you gentlemen access to the pleasures of the Crazy Lady behind that wall. All of them.” She turned my way. “Hello, handsome. How can I serve you?”

  I had deposited all my twenties with Banker Lady. I handed Erica a hundred. “You can give me a hundred bucks worth of fives.”

  “It is my pleasure to serve you.” She winked and took my hundred. She bent over the cash register, put her hand on the keys, and looked up, her face inches from mine. I smelled her chewing gum: Juicy Fruit. “You know, handsome, two hundred would get the girls to go twice as far.”

  I admired her training; she must work on commission. “Why not?” I handed her another hundred. She grinned from ear to ear. I would need to reload my money clip at an ATM when I left.

  Erica counted out forty bills into my hand. “Would you like me to show you what to do with those?”

  I smiled back. “Please do.”

  “When a girl shows you a little extra special attention,” she waved her breasts millimeters from my face, “or gives you an extra move you like,” she did a bump and grind, “stick one or two bills in her bikini—if she’s still wearing it.” She turned and presented her hip to me, inches from my fistful of dollars.

  I stuck a five-dollar bill in her waist band. “Like this?”

  Erica winked again. “Like that.” Five dollars and an elastic waist band transformed me into the funniest, cleverest man she had ever met.

  “And if she’s not wearing her bikini?”

  “She’ll come around after her show and ask how you liked it. She’ll be in a bikini then. Have fun.”

  “I’m sure I will. Oh, by the way, do you know where this girl is dancing now?” I showed Jasmine’s picture to her. “She used to dance here. Name is Jasmine. She left a couple weeks ago.”

  “Yeah, I remember her. No, don’t know where she went. Girls come and girls go.”

  I made my way around the purple wall and entered the main showroom. I glanced both ways and stood against the left wall while my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Ever since the Green Berets, I’ve liked a wall at my back.

  Two naked women, one black and one white, were dancing on the free-form stage four feet above floor level. Actually, they weren’t quite naked; they each wore purple high-heeled shoes, a string of purple pearls, and a pink hair bow. The stage was shaped vaguely like a four-leaf clover with a dance pole mounted in the center of each lobe. Each dancer watched the other for cues and they moved simultaneously to opposite poles and performed a choreographed routine. Both women were impressive physical specimens as they worked their way up and down the first two poles. Then they danced to the other poles to work the entire stage.

  One long bar for drinkers snaked its way around the stage, in and out, hugging the contours of each lobe. The customers were all races and ages. Six topless women roamed the showroom with serving trays. Three Asians, a Caucasian,
a black, and one woman who may have been Latina. Poster children for diversity. Each woman wore a pink bikini bottom, a pink hair bow, and a string of purple pearls. Must be a uniform for the personnel who weren’t dancers. Or perhaps the servers took turns dancing.

  The last time I visited a strip joint was in Germany with my fellow Green Berets. The German joint fronted for a brothel, which was legal there. I didn’t know how things worked in South Florida, but I didn’t feel any more comfortable here than I had in Germany.

  I remembered the advice of an instructor in Special Forces. “Always be polite and respectful, but make a plan to kill everyone in the room if necessary.” Danger usually comes from people, not the environment. Most customers were men, although there were several couples. Most of the men were harmless, except one man who was with a date. At least she was dressed like a date instead of a hooker. I examined the environment: walls, floors, furnishings, lighting, sound system—even the ceiling. Another Purple Guy emerged from the door beside the stage and stood at the rear of the showroom. He could be the first guy’s fraternal twin brother, except he was white. His muscles looked more business-like than the first Purple Guy. He would be trouble in a fight.

  Having formed my kill plan, I nodded to White Purple Guy and went to the lunch buffet. I grabbed a sturdy plastic plate and tried to find something that was safe to eat. The salad bar was as clean as one would expect, although the lighting was poor. The requisite sneeze shield was spotless. I felt the stainless steel counter; the refrigeration was working. Food poisoning would be bad for the club’s business. I selected a scoop of potato salad that came pre-made from a food purveyor. I found a tub of coleslaw and, applying the same logic, put a scoop on my plate. That was all I felt safe eating. I passed on the hot buffet. Too bad, the chili smelled delicious. I slid into a chair at a corner table in the rear of the showroom, against the wall.

  A topless Asian girl materialized at the table. “My name Tammy, and I be your server today.” She had a thick accent from somewhere in Asia I couldn’t place.

  I almost did a double take when I raised my gaze from her breasts to her face. She was the spitting image of Miyoki Takahashi, my girlfriend. I looked closer and there were one or two minor differences in the shape of their ears, and this girl Tammy was a few years younger than Miyo. But in the dimly lit showroom floor, anyone who didn’t know Miyo well would have been fooled. I wondered if Tammy was legal. I don’t mean legal age, although she looked young, but of legal immigration status. I didn’t think there was a work visa category for strippers as highly-skilled work that couldn’t be done by U.S. citizens. She put two napkins and a set of cutlery on the table. “What you like drink?”

  “You have iced tea?”

  “Sweet or unsweet?”

  “Unsweet.”

  “We have it, and I bring to you.” She winked, shimmied her petite breasts with a seductive smile, and strutted away. Lots of winking and shimmying here. Part of good customer service, no doubt.

  The other customers watched the dancers, glancing away when a server came over to them. I watched everyone. One recorded song segued into another and the two dancers made a big show when they took off their shoes and danced naked to enthusiastic applause. Go figure. I studied the interactions between the customers and the wait staff until Tammy arrived with my tea. The black, white, and Latina servers seemed at ease with the customers; the Asian girls, less so. Was it because of their limited English, or was there something else going on?

  “Here you are.” She placed the tab on the table. Ten dollars for iced tea. It must be really good tea.

  I handed her the tab and a credit card.

  Tammy read the card before setting it on her tray. “Carlos. That a great name. Can I get you something else?”

  “My friends call me Chuck.”

  “I like be your friend. I call you Chuck.” She giggled. It almost sounded sincere. “If you like, we be more than friends later, Chuck.” She winked and shimmied.

  “Maybe later. For now, I came here to see Jasmine dance. Will she be on later?”

  “Jasmine waiting tables, Chuck. She and I dance in fifteen minutes.”

  “Where? I don’t see her.”

  “Over there.” She pointed. “She serve that couple.”

  “That’s not Jasmine.”

  “Yes, that Jasmine. We always dance together. Manager like to mix the Asian and the black girl.”

  “Listen, Tammy, I haven’t been to the Crazy Lady in a while, but I remember Jasmine. She was a white girl with red hair. Could there be two dancers named Jasmine?”

  Tammy laughed. “You must mean the old Jasmine. She quit. That black Jasmine been here about a week.”

  I handed Tammy a five-dollar bill. “Thanks for the information.”

  By the time Tammy returned with my credit card bill, the two women who had been dancing when I arrived finished their performance. They retrieved their bikini bottoms from the stage, twirled them on their index fingers, grabbed their shoes in the other hand, and jiggled their way off the stage. I added another five-dollar tip to the credit card.

  “Thank you, Chuck. I see you later.” Another wink and shimmy. She must like me a lot.

  I finished my tea and made another trip to the salad bar. More potato salad and coleslaw to salve the hunger pangs until I ate a real lunch.

  Tammy pranced back to the table. “I go on in few minutes, Chuck. You like more iced tea before I dance?”

  “Good idea.”

  Tammy took my first empty plate and left.

  Another two dancers took the stage. One costume was a caricature of a sexy female cop complete with a rubber nightstick which she fondled suggestively; the other dancer dressed as a scientist in a white lab coat and fake horn-rimmed eyeglasses. She carried a model of an Atlas rocket which she handled like she was in love with it.

  I watched the room with an occasional glance at the dancers while I ate. I nibbled my so-called food.

  During their second dance, the cop and the scientist removed their costumes, collected tips from the customers near the stage, and ended when they were down to a bikini and shoes. The third song they danced, collected more tips, did another choreographed pole routine, then removed their bikini bottoms, ending wearing only their shoes. The fourth song, they removed their shoes—again to enthusiastic applause when they mounted the poles and danced wearing a hair bow and purple pearls. Maybe the men in the audience had a foot fetish.

  I pushed my second plate aside. There is a limit to the amount of potato salad and coleslaw a man can eat and remain sane.

  During the second song of the Cop and Scientist’s set, the two dancers who had performed when I first entered made the rounds to collect tips from the customers. They stopped at my table. “I’m Belinda and this is Bathsheba. How did you like our performance?”

  “I loved it. My old favorite dancer was a beautiful redhead named Jasmine who was dancing here last month. You girls are just as good.” I stuck a fiver in each girl’s bikini waist band. “Did either of you know that other Jasmine?” I held up two more fives.

  Bathsheba said, “I only been here a week.” She asked Belinda, “You been here a while. Did you know her?”

  Bathsheba appraised the bills in my hand. “Stick them down my bikini if you want.”

  “That’s okay.” I handed her the bills and she handed one to Belinda. “Me and my partner split everything. Tell me what you really want, big guy. And don’t jive me; I got a good bullshit detector.”

  I gave her the full dimple treatment in case the five-dollar bills were insufficient. “I’m looking for this man.” I showed both girls Al’s picture. “His name is Al Rice. He had a thing for Jasmine—not the black Jasmine working here now, but the redheaded one who used to work here. Maybe if I find the redheaded Jasmine, I’ll find Al Rice. It’s worth a hundred bucks if I find either one.”

  Bathsheba studied Al’s picture again. “Yeah, I knowed him. He used to come ‘round here mooning over the
redheaded Jasmine.”

  “Do you know where I can find either one?”

  “I know where you can find the redheaded Jasmine.”

  “Where?”

  “Show me the money.”

  Chapter 13

  I called Tank. “Have you heard anything from Al?”

  “No. Where are you?”

  “I’m in my van running down a lead on Al. Are you at work?”

  “Yeah, but I’m spinning my wheels; I’m worried too much about this Al and Momma Dora situation. You want to bring me up to date?”

  “Can you take the afternoon off?”

  “I cleared my appointment book for the rest of the week. This is top priority.”

  “How long since you worked out?”

  “Last Friday. Meet me at the gym?”

  “Half an hour,” I answered.

  “I’ll bring my pistol. We can go shooting after.”

  “Yeah, my calendar is clear until seven-thirty tonight.”

  ###

  Kennedy Carlson glanced up from his paperwork. “You here to lock up your pistol so you don’t shoot yourself in the foot?”

  I unclipped the holster and handed it to my friend. “Like that could happen twice.”

  I shook his hand. “Tank’s meeting me here for a workout. He’ll be here soon. He’s bringing a gun too.”

  “You two gonna hunt varmints?”

  “You read too many outdoor magazines, Ken. Nah, we have a duel with bad guys in the middle of Bayshore Boulevard at ten paces. Right after we have a workout and a sauna.”

  ###

  I waited until Tank and I were alone in the sauna to tell him what had happened since I’d left him and Doraleen the previous night. “I’ll follow that lead at eight o’clock tonight. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  “You might get lucky another way too. Visiting strip clubs is hard duty, pun intended.”

  “Yeah, but somebody’s got to do it.”

  “Perhaps I should go with you. Make sure you don’t get in any trouble.” He grinned.