by Matt Hilton
‘It’s not my first time in a strip club,’ he admitted. ‘Not that I’ve ever enjoyed the experience. Ha, if my wife Veronica suspected I was within a mile of one of these places she’d have my gonads in a sling.’
Max smoothed down the wrinkles in his trousers. ‘She sounds like a sensible woman.’
‘Yeah? Then neither of you know me well enough.’ Trojak sniffed.
The gold bars were as faux as the augmented breasts on some of the dancers featured on the posters decorating the walls. The bars were arranged in a half-moon formation, hemming in the booth seats on a dais. Similar arrangements were set around the room, but all were deserted. It was midday, and the club wouldn’t open for hours yet. Secretly, Trojak was glad none of the dancers were there in the flesh, because he found stripping a distasteful career choice. The only other people were an old guy pushing a broom and a tattooed homosexual with an Elvis Presley pompadour replenishing the bar.
‘You want me to hook you up with a girl?’ Max asked, but his mouth puckered up at one corner. His face was thin, his cheekbones jutting either side of a long aquiline nose. His dark eyes were too small, beady, his lashes barely discernible they were so sparse. He reminded Trojak of a starving mole.
‘Talk like that causes undue trouble, Max. Besides, there’s only one girl I’m interested in.’
‘Uh-huh. I haven’t heard from Jazz since last you asked.’
‘I was hoping you might’ve asked around for me. None of the other dancers know where I can find her, huh?’
‘I asked. Nobody knows where she’s at. She has disappeared … just like that.’ Max clicked his fingers.
‘Bruno isn’t going to be pleased,’ said Trojak, though he wore a faint smile. He dabbed a trickle of moisture from under his right eye.
‘Can’t help you, buddy. But I have my ears open. If I hear a thing about her, I’ll let you know.’
Trojak stood. He crumpled the napkin and tossed it on the table. ‘Appreciated.’
‘Leaving so soon?’ Max asked. ‘You haven’t drunk your beer.’
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Your wife again?’
‘Nope. Personal choice.’ He slipped a hand in his jacket pocket, stepped around the table. ‘One of the few I get to make these days.’
Max pushed out a hand, about to offer a shake of camaraderie.
Trojak snapped down on the extended wrist and hauled Max across the table. His other hand had come out of his pocket, and there was a soft click as a blade sprang open from its handle. ‘If it were up to me, I wouldn’t do this,’ said Trojak, as he dug the blade into the back of Max’s hand, ‘but what Bruno wants, Bruno gets. You understand, old friend?’
Max cried out as the steel pushed through his hand, the tip grating on the table’s veneer.
As quickly as he’d delivered punishment, Trojak retracted the blade. Let go of Max’s injured hand. He swept up the crumpled napkin, used it to swipe the blood from the blade.
From behind the bar, the tattooed guy stared at them in disbelief. He wasn’t about to offer any assistance, but Max shook his head at him anyway. He didn’t want Trojak bloodying his knife a second time. Sensibly, the barman returned to his duties. The old guy with the broom hadn’t even looked up.
‘Jesus, Johnny! The hell you do that for?’ Max’s skeletal face was bonier than ever. He clutched his injured hand to his chest, his opposite palm pressed against the seeping wound.
‘I just explained: Bruno said that if you didn’t come clean about the woman, I’d to show you where your lies could lead.’
‘I told you the truth! I haven’t seen or heard a thing about Jazz.’
‘I know, Max.’ Trojak leaned closer. ‘But you didn’t tell me about the other woman.’
‘The other woman? Who the hell you talking about?’
Holding his free hand about shoulder height, Trojak said, ‘The one about yay high. Blonde. Good looking … if you like them curvy. Late twenties, I’d put her.’
Max gawped.
‘Teresa Grey,’ Trojak enunciated clearly.
‘Tess? You’re talking about the private detective that’s poking around?’
‘Who else?’
‘Well, I told her exactly what I told you, Johnny! I know nothing about Jazz or her whereabouts.’
‘Good.’
‘So what the fuck’s this about?’ Max held up his bleeding hand, squeezing the wrist to stanch the blood flow.
‘Mind your tongue, Max. There’s no need for coarse language. You were punished for withholding vital information. Would’ve been good to know a detective was looking for Jasmine.’
‘Well you obviously did. Son of a bitch, why’d you have to goddamn hurt me like that when you already knew about her?’
‘Stop cursing and I’ll explain.’ Trojak waited until he was satisfied Max had a hold on his tongue. ‘Like I already pointed out twice, that was on Bruno’s orders. If it were down to me, I’d have simply shook your hand. No hard feelings, old friend.’ The knife had been spirited away, and now Trojak extended his hand. ‘Happy to do so now.’
‘You want me to shake your hand? After cutting me?’ Max clutched his injured hand to his chest.
‘You’re right. Maybe it’s not a good idea.’ Trojak looked down at his damp suit, and grimaced. ‘Hard enough getting sweat out of this crummy material without having bloodstains to contend with.’
FOUR
‘What happened to your hand?’ Tess spotted the bulky gauze bandage on Max Carter’s hand the second she’d entered the club, but waited until they were seated before raising the subject. The bandage was dotted with blood, both sides of the hand, and she guessed he’d been injured shortly before her return.
‘Friction burns.’ Max mimed an act of personal sexual gratification.
Tess eyed him, unamused by his lewd behaviour. A few yards away, Po leaned against the bar, and his displeasure showed in the marginal stirring of his body. She glanced at him, winked, indicating she was OK.
‘You should get that seen to,’ she said, ‘before it becomes infected.’
‘Hand’s fine. Don’t know what you’re worried about.’
Tess shrugged. ‘Personally I don’t care what you do. At least you won’t need to worry about friction burns when your hand rots off.’
Max’s pinched eyes screwed tighter. ‘If you weren’t here bothering me again I’d already be at the ER.’
Tess doubted him.
Max waved his good hand at the bar. ‘Chris has cleaned and packed the wound for me. He trained as a triage nurse.’
Chris was the bartender. He’d served Po the fizzing Sprite, which sat untouched on the bar next to her partner’s elbow, then made himself scarce; supposedly heading off on an errand. Tess suspected he wanted no further part of Max’s business that day.
‘You have your own personal nurse, Max? Nice.’ She glanced around the tatty club. ‘Wonder what other benefits come from working a sleazy strip joint like this.’
‘It’s an exotic dance venue, like I already explained. It’s called Bar-Lesque for a reason. Burlesque. It’s not a strip club.’
‘Keep telling the city council that, you might get away with it, but you can’t kid me, Max. It’s common knowledge some of the dancers put on private shows … and we both know how they end up.’
‘You looking for a job?’ His gaze slid over her as greasy as oil. ‘Might have to lose a few pounds, maybe get yourself some bigger titties, then I might be able to find a place for you.’
‘I hear there’s still a bartending job open. Can’t expect Chris to pick up all the slack.’
‘So we’re back to Jazz, then?’
‘Why else would I even enter this roach pit?’
‘Maybe you just can’t get enough of me.’
Tess thumbed at Po, and Max followed the gesture. ‘You should be careful,’ Tess warned. ‘My friend over there’s the jealous type.’
‘He doesn’t sweat me.’
Po l
eaned on the bar, his butt perched on a stool. One ear was cocked to the conversation, and his gaze was steady on the image in the mirror behind the bar. He was coiled, ready to charge over and slap some civility into Maxwell Carter. It would take the barest hint from Tess. She changed the subject.
‘You said Jasmine wasn’t one of your strippers.’
‘I offered her a spot dancing, but she wasn’t up for it.’
‘She retained some morals, then?’
‘Wasn’t it. She was body conscious, I guess.’
‘I’ve seen photos of her. Jasmine was beautiful.’ She was a young woman who’d adopted the retro-look, part 1940s glamour, part tattooed vixen. She could have graced a promo video for a neo-rockabilly band.
‘The johns enjoy foxy tattooed gals; I told her so, but it wasn’t her tats she was ashamed of.’ Max’s damaged hand was held tentatively, yet he still used it to indicate the region of his lower abdomen and pelvis. ‘She once got cut up … down here.’
‘Surgically?’
‘Nope. Nut-job with a knife.’ He squeezed a smile.
Tess blinked. She’d heard nothing about Jasmine Reed being subjected to a violent attack.
‘When did this happen?’
‘Beats me. I never saw her scars, just heard about them.’ He made a face, but Tess thought it was through regret not revulsion. ‘Told her some of the johns would find them sexy too.’
Tess glanced at her own scar. She’d once been ashamed of it, so could understand why Jasmine might also be reluctant to undress in front of a leering crowd. These days Tess wore her scar as a badge of courage. Perhaps Jasmine did too, and the last she wanted was a scumball the likes of Max Carter ogling it.
‘Her attack happened before she started working here, right?’
Max huffed. ‘You suggesting it was one of my customers that got heavy with her? No way!’
‘Just trying to establish a timeline, Max. So how long did she tend bar for you, before going missing?’
He shrugged. ‘Told you already. Eighteen months, give or take.’
‘Give or take what, a week, a month?’
‘Fucked if I know. I’d have to check the books.’
‘So check for me.’
Max held up his injured hand. ‘I’ve more important things to be getting on with. Now if you don’t mind, fuck off, will ya?’
Po stood without warning.
He crossed the floor before Max could flinch, and had hold of the bandaged paw. He squeezed. ‘Apologize now, pecker head.’
Max screeched.
‘I said apologize to the lady.’ Po squeezed his hand, exerting crushing force. Blood dripped from the sapping bandages.
‘For what?’ Max howled.
‘For your goddamn foul mouth.’
Tess’s own mouth was a tight line, but she was peering up at Po. ‘I can handle this,’ she reassured him.
‘Ain’t going to stand by and listen to this butthead trying to make a fool out of you,’ Po growled.
‘Only one he’s making a fool of is himself.’ Tess turned her attention to the grimacing man. She raised her eyebrows.
‘I … I’m sorry,’ Max croaked. ‘I … I spoke out of turn.’
‘Personally I don’t give a crap for your potty mouth. But you were going to go and check exactly when Jasmine began working here.’
Po hauled Max up by his injured hand, sent him towards the bar with a short jab of his palm between the skinny man’s shoulders. ‘Git. And be quick about it. If I spend any longer in this crud hole I’m gonna catch a social disease.’
Max went behind the bar and through a door. Tess could hear him muttering from where they waited. ‘I had everything under control,’ she said to Po.
‘Sick of waiting on the punk,’ Po replied. ‘That a-hole understands one form of instruction, and it doesn’t start with “pretty please”. Just needed a little motivation to get his butt in gear.’
‘We’d better watch out in case he comes back with a gun,’ said Tess.
Po picked up the Sprite. A glass was a handy distraction when thrown at a gunman’s head.
Max leaned around the doorframe. He blinked furiously; his sparse lashes were invisible. He held up some papers. They were wage records – Tess doubted they reflected the actual amount of cash that changed hands with the club’s workers, and were there only for when the revenue man came knocking. He moved from the small office, but kept the bar between them. Po set down the soda. Max fed out the sheets of paper on the bar as if dealing a hand of cards. ‘These are the earliest slips I could find,’ he said. ‘This here is just over eighteen months old, so Jazz had to have been here a full month before that to get her first wages.’
Tess turned the sheet of paper towards her, read it. If it was a copy of the first wages Jasmine earned then she calculated that it was nineteen months and one week since ‘Jazz’ began working the bar. She made a mental note of the date.
‘See,’ Po said to Max, ‘that wasn’t so difficult now, was it?’
‘Wish I’d never laid eyes on the bitch,’ Max huffed.
Po held up a warning finger.
‘I’m not talking about her,’ Max said with a nod at Tess, ‘I’m talking about Jazz. That damn bitch has caused me more trouble than I can put up with.’
‘Civility,’ Po said, his final warning.
Tess forestalled any further animosity. ‘Who hurt you, Max?’
Max glanced at Po, but knew she wasn’t referring to him. ‘Nobody. I cut myself on some broken glass.’
Tess ignored the blatant lie. ‘Someone else has been asking after Jasmine’s whereabouts?’
‘I haven’t seen her, haven’t heard from her, and have no fucking – uh – no clue where she is. I wish you’d all just leave me alone.’
‘Who hurt you?’ Tess asked again.
‘You wouldn’t know him.’ Max’s head came up. With the bar firmly between them he’d regained a little backbone. ‘And whoever hurt me is my own goddamn business. Now … like I said before: get outta here. This is a private club and you’re no longer welcome.’
Po looked poised to vault the bar, but Tess touched his elbow. ‘Let’s go,’ she said.
Po sniffed, but turned with her for the door.
She paused. Looked back. Max was gently manipulating the sopping bandage. ‘Word to the wise,’ she said. ‘Seriously, Max. Go get that looked at.’
‘Still works fine,’ Max replied, and held up his middle finger, flipping her the bird before ducking out of sight in his office.
FIVE
Chris the bartender was standing on the sidewalk a few yards from the exit, smoking a cigarette. It had rained while Tess and Po were inside, and the overheated road again steamed, sending up streamers as dense as the smoke puffing from Chris’s lungs. He nodded them over with a sweep of his pompadour.
‘Just getting some fresh air,’ he said, and grinned at the irony of his words.
‘Can I bum one of those off you?’ asked Po.
‘Sure.’ Chris tapped a Camel from a soft pack and held it to Po. He raised his eyebrows at Tess.
‘No thanks,’ she said, ‘but you guys go ahead.’
In an act of solidarity with Chris, Po lit his cigarette with a Zippo he carried. ‘Obliged,’ he said as he took his first inhalation. Tess always marvelled at Po’s ability to smoke socially, when he could put away the cigarettes for days at a time afterwards. She used to smoke, and had given up after a struggle. She could kill for one, but her addictive personality meant she’d be back to a pack a day if she took a single drag. She stood upwind of the two as they flicked ash into a kerbside storm drain.
‘Max his usual effluent self?’ Chris asked. At first Tess thought she’d misheard him, but Chris went on, ‘That guy opens his mouth and raw sewage pours out.’
‘He didn’t have much to say for himself,’ Tess said.
‘Nothing you could repeat to your mama at any rate,’ added Po.
‘You guys are looking for Jazz
, right?’
‘You know where she is?’ Po countered.
Chris shook his head, his mouth pinched tight on the Camel. He thought hard, and then flicked ash. ‘Sure wish I knew she was OK, though.’
‘When did you last see her?’ Tess asked.
‘Day before she went missing.’ He nodded at the club, his sculpted pompadour flopping on his brow. ‘Right there at Bar-Lesque. We crossed bar duties for a few hours early evening, but then I stayed late and she headed on out.’
‘Say where she was going?’ Po asked.
‘No. Home. I assumed.’
Tess looked over at the club. There were a few guys hanging around on the nearest street corner. When it grew dark she suspected there would be more. ‘Any of the dancers ever attract any unwanted attention when they leave?’
‘Jazz wasn’t a dancer,’ Chris stated.
‘She was pretty enough to pass as one,’ Tess countered.
‘She was striking.’ Chris rolled his shoulders in admission, then shoved his hair back in place. ‘I’m gay, but I’m not blind.’
He checked out the men loitering nearby.
‘Those guys are regulars. Often hanging around, bumming smokes or loose change. None of them would go near Jazz.’ He made a furtive nod at the club. ‘You do know that Max only manages that place? It’s owned by Daryl Bruin.’
‘You talking about Bruno?’ Po asked.
Tess watched Chris nod once in affirmation. She didn’t need anyone to clarify who Daryl Bruin – or his alter ego ‘Bruno’ – was: she’d come across him plenty of times when she was still with the Sheriff’s Department. Bruno wasn’t so much a mobster as he was an entrepreneur who modelled his business dealings on a fantasy bred from watching too many James Cagney movies. Lately she’d spotted him cruising around town in a vintage roadster, wearing a double-breasted suit and fedora. He affected all the habits of a made man. The guy was a joke, but there were some who bought his act. She imagined that the local street hustlers would stay away from his business, and leave any workers under his protection alone.
