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

by Dallas Gorham

“No. Only that McCrary wanted to find Rice.”

  “Go back to his mother’s house and see if he’s there. If that don’t work, check out the Orange Peel club tonight. He can’t stay away from Jennifer for long. He always crawls out from under a rock. Snatch him there.”

  Two minutes later, Ngombo accelerated up the ramp onto I-95 northbound. A few miles further on, he slowed for the flashing yellow lights of a tow truck on the shoulder. The car beside the freeway looked like Rice’s. Could he be that lucky? He cut across two lanes of traffic, avoided a collision by a whisker, and jerked to a stop on the shoulder. He recognized the license plate of the car hooked to the tow truck. Thank the gods, the hunter was back on his quarry’s trail.

  He pulled the Cherokee around the tow truck and got out. The operator had his hands on the control levers. “That car belongs to my friend Al Rice. Is he all right?”

  The driver pulled a lever and the cable groaned as it hoisted the car up the tilted flat bed. “I never seen the driver, buddy. Cops reported this here abandoned car. Told me to impound it.” He pulled another lever; the flat bed tilted forward. “That’s all I know.”

  Ngombo turned without a word and returned to the Cherokee. He spread the Atlantic County map across the front seat. He traced the map to find Doraleen Rice’s house. He studied the route from where he was to the house, deciding which way Rice would walk if he were headed home. He heard a rap on his window.

  The tow truck driver stood at the window. “Hey, buddy, you wanna move your car so’s I can get underway?”

  “I am sorry. I shall move.” Ngombo drove the Jeep to the next exit and parked at the curb of the access road while he studied the map, attempting to think like his prey.

  Chapter 17

  I knocked on the Albemarle Arms office door and Reggie opened it against the chain. He looked over my shoulder. “Good. The dude’s gone.” He closed the door and slid off the chain. “Come in, come in. Sit down.”

  I showed him a hundred-dollar bill for motivation. “What you got, Reggie?”

  “Real scary dude. Black, but I mean real black, like maybe he was a real African from Africa. Talked real careful-like, like English weren’t his first language.”

  I handed him the bill. “What was scary about him?”

  “For one thing, the dude pulled a knife.”

  “Did he cut you? Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m fine. He didn’t cut me or nothing, He just threatened me. Mostly he waved it in my face.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Long dreadlocks held in a ponytail by a leather strap with fancy carving on it like maybe it come from Africa. I noticed it when he walked away. His hair come halfway down his back, like maybe he ain’t cut it in years. Scars all over his face, but not from no accident. They looked like something I seen on the natives in some adventure film about Africa.”

  “Like scars from a tribal ritual?”

  Reggie nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah, like that.”

  “Was there another scar on his cheek? Like from a knife fight?” I drew my finger down my right cheek.

  “Yeah, now that you mention it, there was. How’d you know that?”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve crossed his path. What did you tell him?”

  “I told him everything, man. Dude threaten to cut me. I ain’t keeping no secrets with a knife in my face, no sir.”

  “So you told him I came here this morning.”

  Reggie looked away.

  “Don’t worry Reggie. I would’ve done the same thing.” That wasn’t true but it did no good to make Reggie feel bad about water under the bridge.

  “Yeah, I told him he was the second guy come looking for Al Rice today. I told him about Jasmine and the strip club and like that.” He leaned back in his chair. “You have another hundred if I learn anything more?”

  “Sure. Did you see what kind of car he drove?”

  “No. He jumped me in a vacant unit at the rear of the property. After he left, I waited five or ten minutes to make sure the dude had left. I don’t never want to see that man again. Never.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the call.”

  “You better give me another card. Dude took the first one you give me.”

  I fished another business card from my pocket. “If this guy took my card, how’d you know my phone number?”

  Reggie grinned. “I memorized it while I handed the card over. When the dude left, I wrote it down real quick like, before I forgot.”

  “I’ll give you two cards this time. Hide one in case you have to give one away to anybody else who comes by.”

  Chapter 18

  I stopped in the right lane of Charles Boulevard across the street from the Orange Peel Gentlemen’s Club. Sunset colors blazed brightly in the sky over the club. The Orange Peel was smaller than the Crazy Lady and not as well-maintained. Orange Peel was the right name in more ways than one. The orange paint had peeled off the front wall in a few places and the rest had faded to a peach color. A scaffold at the left side wall showed where a new paint job was underway. The UB in “Club” was burned out on the neon sign. Why did a dancer like Jasmine with a lucrative gig at the Crazy Lady quit to work at a crummy place like this? Something didn’t add up.

  I texted my researcher, Flamer21, Flamer for short: “Find out who owns the Crazy Lady strip joint. Also the Orange Peel, both on Charles Boulevard.”

  I checked the traffic, made a U-turn, and dodged a pothole as I pulled into the parking lot. I squeezed into a spot at the back, locked the van, and made my way around to the entrance.

  A large canvas banner covered half the front wall on the left. It announced Under new management. Check us out! A shiny new glass display box between the banner and the entrance featured photos of a half-dozen dancers. The name Jasmine caught my eye, but it wasn’t the woman I was looking for. I examined the other photos. None were the correct Jasmine. I took a picture of each portrait in case it became important in the future. Rule Five: You can never have too much information.

  I moved to the right of the entrance where there was another new display box. Bingo. The same picture I bought at the Crazy Lady. Each dancer must provide her own photo. I read somewhere that professional photographers call it a glamour shot. But at this club someone already used the name Jasmine. The former Jasmine became Jennifer. I wondered how many names she had used in her dancing career. I photographed all the portraits.

  I circled the building on foot, searched the parking area for clues. Clues to what, I wasn’t sure. But I photographed all the license plates in the half-full lot. If Jasmine/Jennifer turned out to be the key to finding Al, it might help to know which car was hers, and what name and address it was registered under. Rule Six: You never know what you’ll need to know.

  The back wall was painted matte black. A stinking dumpster sat askew to one side. Two freshly-painted orange doors opened onto the back parking lot. Both were locked from the outside. Fire code allowed anyone inside to hit a crash bar to exit, but those on the outside went around front to enter.

  I stepped inside. Cheap tile floor, well-lit glass merchandise case selling X-rated DVDs. A bulky man in an orange-and-white striped muscle shirt and orange slacks stood by the case. I didn’t think he was a cheerleader for the University of Tennessee. Nah, he must be a bouncer who doubled as the entrance cashier. No topless Erica here. His outfit was a twin of the one at the Crazy Lady except orange. Shaved heads must be fashionable for strip club doormen and bouncers.

  Did I imagine a double take when the doorman saw me come in? It was subtle; his eyes widened. Maybe they were expecting me. Hmm.

  “There’s a twenty-dollar cover charge.” Orange Guy didn’t smile like Purple Guy did.

  “Twenty bucks. Hell, it’s only twenty bucks at the Crazy Lady.” I had Tank’s expense account, but I wanted to stay in character as a regular sucker off the street.

  “Our cover includes two drinks.”

  I shrugged. Enough protest.
I handed him a twenty. “Jennifer dancing tonight?”

  Orange Guy sniffed. “She comes on about eight-thirty, quarter of nine. Maybe a half hour.” He did not offer to stamp my hand with a purple heart or anything else. Just as well; I had to scrub to get the other stamp off my hand. “You need change for tips?”

  “Sure.” I handed him a hundred, and he counted out an assortment of ones and fives. “Remember: Don’t touch the dancers or servers except to stick a tip in their bikini. Enjoy.” He pulled back the orange curtain beside him for me to enter.

  I moved a few paces into the darkened interior and stepped to the wall on the right. I backed up to it until my eyes adapted to the darkness. Orange carpet in the showroom, threadbare at the entrance to the men’s restroom. Foam soundproofing tiles spaced around the peach-colored walls were the sole decorations. A rectangular stage with two dance poles spaced twenty feet apart. Bars on either end butted up to the empty stage.

  The stage lights dimmed. A disembodied voice came over the public address system. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming to the Orange Peel stage… from Gainesville, Florida… the one, the only… Brandy!” Scattered applause was audible above the throbbing music that roared from the speakers that bookended the stage. A dancer in a red sequined gown pulled aside an orange curtain and entered from the rear of the stage. The applause swelled when she unzipped the front of her gown and flashed her breasts with a sultry smile. She zipped the front again and began to dance. A handful of men at each end of the stage hooted and hollered as she dipped and turned.

  The front bar was set away from the stage to make room for the two bartenders, both male. One served the half dozen customers at the bar; the other made drinks for the servers. Four topless women with serving trays wandered among the tables. Two Asians, a white woman, and a woman of mixed race. They wore orange bikinis and an orange choker around their necks. I picked an empty table and slipped into a bench upholstered with fake orange leather that backed against the wall.

  The white woman spotted me and paraded over on four-inch heels, swinging her hips. “Hello and welcome to the Orange Peel. My name is Amber. What’s yours?” Her professional smile stopped before it reached her eyes.

  “Chuck.”

  She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Chuck.” She squeezed my hand. It was amazing how many topless women squeezed my hand.

  “Nice to meet you too, Amber.”

  “What you want to drink?”

  “Port City Amber.”

  “Amber like me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We have it in bottles and draft. Would you like to tap Amber?” She winked and shimmied. “I’d like that.”

  I presumed she shimmied to show off her assets, both of them. If so, it worked. “That’s a good one, Amber. For now, I only want to tap the keg.”

  “This Amber will be back with your Amber on tap.” She stoked my upper arm before she walked away. Maybe she wanted to feel my muscle. I often have that effect on women.

  I studied the crowd as my eyes adjusted further to the dim light. I’d never met Al Rice. I would recognize him from the family photo Doraleen loaned me, the picture Tank sent me, and the image I’d seen on the no-fly list screen at the Crazy Lady. I studied every black face in the room. No Al Rice.

  Amber returned with two mugs of beer. She laid a tab down. “That’ll be ten dollars.”

  “The cover charge includes two drinks.”

  “It includes well drinks, house wines, and bottled or canned domestic beers. Draft beers are extra.” She put her hand on my arm again, gave it a squeeze. Yes, she definitely wanted to feel my muscle. “I’m sorry, Chuck. I thought you knew.” She batted her eyes.

  I dropped three fives on the tab. “Okay, Amber. Keep the change.”

  She scooped the bills into a pocket built into the tray. “Thanks, Chuck. I dance next. I’ll come back to check on you in a little while. Oh, before I change, you wanna see a menu? We serve food.” Amber lowered her voice conspiratorially. “And we have things that aren’t on the menu also.” She winked. And shimmied, of course.

  “I’ll pass for now, but I look forward to watching you dance.”

  Brandy finished her turn on stage. She displayed little dance training, but made up in enthusiasm what she lacked in experience. Most tips were one-dollar bills in the waistband of her bikini. A big tip was two or three dollars. I didn’t see any fives. Her dances followed the same pattern the dancers at the Crazy Lady used—she finished nude and barefoot. She waved to good-natured laughter and whistles and exited through the curtain at the rear.

  As I finished my first beer, Brandy returned to the showroom floor, entering through another orange curtain at floor level to the right of the stage. She appeared in her topless server outfit and began her route around the showroom floor to collect more tips. She smiled when she reached my table. “Hello, I’m Brandy. Did you enjoy my show?”

  “Very much, Brandy.” I extracted a fifty-dollar bill and held it in the air.

  Brandy’s eyes riveted on the bill.

  “So you’re from Gainesville?” I asked.

  She pulled her eyes away from the fifty, reluctantly I thought. “Born and raised. You from Gainesville?”

  “Not originally, but I went to the University of Florida.”

  “I attended Buchholz High School.” Her eyes cut to the bill again.

  “I saw their band perform at a Gators football halftime show.” I stuffed the fifty into her bikini. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You a cop?”

  “No. I’m here to meet a friend.”

  “If you ain’t a cop, why you wearing a gun?”

  “You’re not supposed to see my gun when it’s clipped on the back. The doorman didn’t object.”

  She scoffed. “That’s Sammy. He’s a dumbass. I don’t miss much.”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “No shit?”

  “For real.” I handed her a business card, one without the crossed muskets logo.

  She held the card to the light. “Carlos McCrary. What a strong, masculine name.” She stuck the card down the front of her bikini.

  “My friends call me Chuck.”

  “Chuck. Also a strong, masculine name. As long as you’re not a cop, we can be more than friends.” She winked and shimmied. Of course. “I have a thing for Florida Gators. For fifty dollars, you ask me anything you want. And for two hundred fifty more, you can do more than that when I get off at two a.m.”

  “I’m tempted Brandy, but, like I said, I’m here to meet a friend. But I don’t see him.” I held out my phone with Al’s picture. “His name’s Al Rice. Have you seen him?”

  Brandy’s breasts rose with a sudden intake of breath. Her pupils widened in the dim light. She blinked twice. “Can’t say as I have.”

  “Brandy, friends don’t lie to each other. I really am a friend of Al’s.”

  “Al don’t have no friends.”

  “Al has friends. They just don’t come here often.”

  “I ain’t seen him tonight.”

  “You know Jennifer, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  I showed another fifty. “When’s the last time you saw Al in here, maybe to watch Jennifer dance?”

  She reached for the fifty and stopped. “You can stuff that one down my bikini too. I don’t mind; really I don’t.”

  I’d heard that phrase earlier today. The girls were encouraging customers to grope them. That struck me as indescribably sad. “That’s okay, Brandy.” I handed her the bill.

  She shrugged and stuck it in her bikini.

  “When did you last see Al?”

  “Last night. He got real drunk and Billy—that’s the head bartender—Billy threw him out.”

  “Do you know what happened after Billy threw him out?”

  “Billy said he passed out on the sidewalk out front. A customer come in and told Sammy. Sammy and Guns, that’s the bou
ncer, they drug him around back. That’s all I know.”

  “Thanks, Brandy. Do all the dancers make the rounds down here after their shows to collect more tips?”

  “Sure, you can’t stuff no bills in a gal’s bikini when she’s stark naked, can you?”

  “Good point.” I smiled. “I have a favor to ask. Here’s another fifty for you not to tell Jennifer that I’m looking for Al. I want her to come around to my table after she dances. Okay?”

  “Don’t see no harm in that, Chuck. You don’t look like no pervert.” She grabbed the fifty and winked. “Don’t forget that offer for the other two hundred fifty. You look like you’d be a lot of fun.”

  The German strip joint I had visited in the army wasn’t the only one that fronted for a brothel. The American ones I had visited were two for two.

  Chapter 19

  I nursed the second beer while I waited for Jennifer. The showroom filled.

  The stage lights dimmed. A spotlight hit the stage and a man with slicked-back hair in an orange tuxedo entered with a cordless microphone. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming to the Orange Peel stage… formerly dancing with the Atlanta Ballet… the Georgia Peach… the star of our show… the one, the only… Jennifer!” He pulled back the orange curtain and held it.

  Jennifer, a/k/a Jasmine, a/k/a God-knows-who-else, pranced onto the stage in an orange and white ballet costume, complete with toe shoes, her red hair in a tight bun. A theme from Swan Lake wafted from the speakers. I had attended the Port City Ballet with Miyo, and I recognized many of Jennifer’s movements, though I didn’t know their names. She moved as gracefully as a swan. Jennifer didn’t approach the edge of the stage during the first dance segment, so the patrons had no chance to slip bills into her costume. Just as well, since the ballet costume had no place to stuff bills.

  Just as the crowd got restless with the Swan Lake dance, the music switched to the 1960s classic The Stripper by the David Rose Orchestra. I recognized it from the Oldies Channel on my satellite radio. The crowd went wild. Jennifer danced her way out of the ballet costume, slipped it behind the curtain, and moved close to the edge of the stage in her orange bikini and a white sequined halter top. Her skill level showed in the tips she collected—lots of two- and three-dollar tips and a few fives. She bent over and allowed the patrons to stuff bills into her top. When both halves of her costume overflowed with bills, she danced near the curtain and expertly slipped the money from her costume and handed the stash behind the curtain. When she danced out of the top, I saw that her breasts were artificially enhanced. She pulled a hair pin and shook her long red hair loose with a shimmy so good that I stopped watching the room and admired her performance. She circled both ends of the stage and collected more tips, filling her bikini to the brim again. She repeated the pass near the curtain, stashed the tips, and moved to the dance pole.