Jake Hancock Private Investigator mystery series box set (Books 1-4)

by Dan Taylor

  I’m going to a titty bar. And there’s no way I’m taking Megan.

  23.

  “OH MY GOD, I’m can’t believe I’m going to a strip joint.”

  Okay, so Megan is coming.

  “You need to stop calling it that.”

  “What? Strip joint?”

  “Yeah, you sound like one half of a pair of Florida pensioners, going off the beaten track their tour bus usually takes.”

  “You could just say I sound old fashioned.”

  “That wouldn’t have been nearly as fun.”

  It’s distracted her from the fact that her father is a biological stranger, and that both her parents have been lying to her for all of her life. Who’d have thought the prospect of having some meaty appendages shaken in someone’s face could distract them from that?

  Okay, it is likely they would have an effect.

  But if you’d seen those same appendages every time you stepped out of the shower, would they?

  Yeah, they would, actually. Naked breasts are always great.

  Megan asks, “What’s this place called?”

  “Porky’s.”

  “Oh. That’s a weird name for a…strip club.”

  “I was joking. It’s a movie name.”

  “That’s a weird name for a movie, too. So what’s it really called?”

  “Sister D’s.”

  “What does the D stand for?”

  “I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”

  Megan wasn’t hot on the idea, citing my working and all. She can be a nag. But she changed her mind when I said I was waiting on some information that’s going to crack the case right open. That’s only a half lie. I’m waiting on information from Scottie, but, as brilliant as he is, it’s more likely to crack my patience.

  “So when we find out who Charles is and who your real dad is, what are you going to do with the information,” I ask.

  “It depends on the details.”

  “It’s probably going to be something mundane, like Charles has adopted you. Something like that.”

  “My parents lying to me my whole life isn’t mundane.”

  We drive the rest of the way in silence.

  It isn’t clear that Sister D’s is open when we arrive, or even that it’s called Sister D’s. We’re looking at a converted barn, not dissimilar to Porky’s, in fact. On the roof, there’s a neon sign in the shape of an exotic dancer with tassels on her nipples. I’m pretty sure it’s flashing, but it’s so bright it’s hard to tell.

  “Do you think this is the place?” Megan asks.

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Upon going inside, it becomes instantly clear why they call it Sister D’s. These strippers are drunk. I see the trademark tassels on the strippers’ nipples, swaying as they stagger round. This isn’t a titty bar, or even a strip joint, it’s a burlesque club, Texas style.

  Its tameness doesn’t seem to have dampened Megan’s excitement. “Oh wow. Where do I get singles?”

  I thought this would be a good place to think, but now, as I look around, it seems that the only thing Sister D’s is good for is a nap. It’s full of men in gingham shirts and mud-caked slacks, and who have questionable orthodontics and crazed eyes. The dancers—though you’d question my definition if you saw whatever is happening on the stage now—look like they might be the wives of these men. They’re nasty, and not in a good way.

  It’s the usual setup: stage in the middle, bar encircling it. When we go up to the bar, it seems one of their patrons has sneaked behind. I look around for a bartender or the owner, until he asks, “What can I get you?”

  I glance at the taps, see they’re all domestic, and lean to the side to look round the bartender’s full figure. Closest thing they’ve got to what I want is a Czech lager. I order two, then ask Megan, “What do you want?”

  “Are you drinking?”

  “I’m going to have a couple, then spend the rest of our time drinking water and chewing gum.”

  The bartender’s listening in, and he brings out a large jar from behind the bar, in which are numerous sets of keys. “That’s not necessary,” I say.

  He doesn’t respond, just holds the jar in front of me. I give in, drop them in there, noting that my hand looks too wide to go through the mouth of it.

  I ask Megan again, “So, what do you want?”

  “I’ll go for the Bud.”

  The bartender takes a glass, but I stop him before he’s poured a drop. “No she won’t. Give her two of these.” Then I raise my bottle.

  “Why’d you ask me if you were going to choose for me, anyway?”

  “I wanted to find out how worldly you are. You don’t drink the tap beer in a place like this. You’ll be on the can for days after.”

  “Did I pass?”

  “What do you think?”

  We sit and watch a couple performances, and the dancers waste no time in getting buck naked. And on one occasion, right up in our faces. We’re getting a lot of attention from the strippers. Could be because we look like we’re from out of town, could be because Megan’s the only female in the place that doesn’t have a pair of tassels suction-cupped to her nipples.

  Whenever they finish, they take off their shoes and walk off the stage. Turns out the strippers aren’t drunk, but shit at walking in four-inch heels.

  Some patrons are giving us funny looks, as though they think Megan and I are a father-daughter combination.

  Megan’s doled out quite a few singles, and I cringe every time she puts one in a garter or a G-string.

  She notices this time. “Why are you making that face?”

  “What face?”

  “Like you’re sucking on a lemon.”

  The Czech lager’s stronger than I thought, and it’s loosened my tongue. “You shouldn’t be giving these ladies ones.”

  “Why not?”

  Since I’m with Megan, I’ve been pretending that all these women are beautiful. That’s one of the disadvantages of going to a titty bar with a female friend. I want to give her my ‘survival of the fittest strippers’ speech, but I catch my tongue. “These ladies deserve a bit more. Fives, maybe. You’re idea of a strip club is from 90s TV shows and movies. You’ve got to take into account inflation.”

  She points her finger at me. “Ha! you said strip club.”

  “Yeah, in front of the ladies.”

  “Fair point.”

  We watch a performance by a stripper called Jewels, and even the locals are embarrassed at her attempt to work the pole.

  Afterwards, Megan asks, “Do you think I could do that?”

  “Fall off the pole? Sure.”

  “No, strip.”

  “I think you could take your clothes off, yes.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “Do explain.”

  “Take that stripper who came and asked you if you wanted a lap dance.”

  “What about her?”

  “You knew she was only interested in the money, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But I’m betting that there was a small part of you that thought This chick’s genuine.”

  I think for a second about where this conversation’s going. “There’s probably a reason why she chose me out of all the men here. Money was her primary motivator, but why not choose the best-looking guy.”

  “Aha!”

  I wait for Megan to continue, eyeing her curiously as I drink. She doesn’t. “So you agree with my logic?”

  “I agree that she made you think that way.”

  “So you’re saying that the hidden skill that you referred to is her ability to see properly?”

  “No, to act in a way that clouded your usually good thinking.”

  “You overestimate my ability.”

  We’re quiet a moment.

  Megan says, “Let me ask you, did you get an erection?”

  “You can call it a hard-on or a boner, Megan. This isn’t a doctor’s appointm
ent.”

  “Okay, did you get a hard-on?”

  “It might have twitched a few times.”

  “And the follow-up, did you get a hard-on while the last stripper danced?”

  “Jewels? No. I don’t have a falling-on-your-face fetish.”

  “Forget Jewels, for any of the strippers’ performances?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “That’s because they didn’t make you think, even if it’s only just a slight chance, that they genuinely wanted to fuck you.”

  “That’s horseshit. They were too far away to give me one.”

  Megan thinks a second, then says, “A good stripper is like a good defense attorney.”

  I laugh. “Now I’m intrigued. How so?”

  “How many times has some asshole gotten away with a crime, walked away scot-free, even though everyone knew he did it?”

  “It happens.”

  “The evidence can be stacked against the guy. But that defense attorney—if he can’t find a loophole—only has to create reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury. A good one finds a way.”

  “Go on.”

  “A good stripper knows the odds are stacked against her for most guys—guys who can’t get it up for a girl who hasn’t got her heart in it. So she tries harder, looks at them in a certain way, flicks her hair, maybe looks slightly embarrassed as she asks. Bam! There’s the reasonable doubt. The reasonable doubt that this stripper’s only interested in what’s in your wallet. Before you know it, your penis is twitching. Suddenly getting your wallet out doesn’t seem like such a harebrained idea.”

  “You know, I hadn’t thought about it that way. Stripping is actually a highly skilled job.”

  Megan laughs at me. “Admit it, she nearly got you. If you hadn’t been with me, you would’ve gone back with her.”

  “If you hadn’t been with me, I would’ve paid her to go and dance for some other guy so that she’d stop hassling me. Because you were there, I didn’t want to make a scene.”

  “How thoughtful of you.”

  “Let me tell you why I think my penis twitched. And you should listen to this good, because I’m attached to it.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I looked at the standard of men in this place, compared myself to them, and thought that maybe the three and a half minutes she’d spend dancing for me might be the least soul-destroying three and a half minutes she’d spend during her shift today. I didn’t get a hard-on because she has mad skillz like Meryl Streep, but because in some fucked-up way I would be a good Samaritan.”

  “Wow, that’s really narcissistic.”

  “And that’s a big word for you.”

  It has turned sour. Megan tries her best to not look at me, chews the inside of her cheek.

  She doesn’t have the resolve to stay quiet for long. “You were a real jerk then, Jake.”

  “I’m Josh. That’s what you should call me.”

  “Okay, Josh. Let’s go.”

  She sets off, turns back when she doesn’t hear me follow.

  I say, “You can wait by the car. I’m going to finish my drink.”

  Megan storms off.

  As distracting as Jewels’s performance was, I did get some thinking in. The natural sway of breasts as a lady dances does good things for my clarity of thinking. I thought about where this investigation is headed, the twists and turns that will probably occur. And this team business that’s got into Megan’s head. I couldn’t get rid of her this morning. We’re not a team, and it would be unethical for us to be one. Not because we shouldn’t get too close, and end up sleeping together, or any other girlie reason like that, but because a private investigator shouldn’t work alongside the person whom the information affects. Should gather facts alone, so he can best assess how to use them.

  You’re thinking this Czech lager has gotten to me a bit, that I’m just talking shit while I’m at some titty bar or strip joint— whatever you want to call it. Truth is, this is the best I’ve thought for a couple days.

  I think you might remember this when I conclude the investigation.

  I decide not to finish my second drink. When I get the bartender’s attention, I motion for him to give me my keys. He looks at the two empty bottles, and then tips out the ones on top. Hands me mine.

  I take a couple steps towards the door, then turn back to the bar, ask him, “Why’s this place called Sister D’s?”

  He takes a good look at me, probably assumes I’m not from around here. “Most of these ladies are from a small island called Lesbos, if you know what I mean.”

  I do know what he means.

  Sister Dyke’s.

  But he said most are, right? The one that wanted to dance for me wasn’t. I could tell by the way she looked at me.

  24.

  MEGAN’S PISSED THE whole drive home. And while we relax in the bedroom awhile before dinner. And while we get dressed. She’s so pissed I fear she may blow our cover; then I figure, if there’s one way a young actress and an aging PI can pull off looking like a couple for the weekend, it’s by the female being in a tantrum for most of the time.

  This, and the fact that she looks kind of cute when she struts around, makes it bearable…okay, quite enjoyable.

  As soon as I’m dressed, I know I’ve made some headway in cooling her down. She takes one look at me, then says, “You look like the keynote speaker at a librarians’ convention.”

  I do a twirl for her, and she suppresses laughter.

  She says, “It’s difficult to stay mad at you.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “I want to.”

  We go through to the dining room, and Barbara is busy setting the table: getting out the best china, removing cutlery from a velvet-lined display box, removing the foil from several bottles of wine for quick access later. This woman’s a pro.

  She notices us, “Hey, kids.”

  “Hey, Mom. Where’s dad?”

  “He’s doing a final tasting of his sauce, adjusting it accordingly.”

  They talked about this famous sauce so often before we went to Sister D’s, it comes as no surprise that its preparation is akin to a scientific experiment.

  Barbara turns to me, says, “How are you enjoying Rodeo?”

  “It’s a blast.”

  She laughs, “Someone’s trying to impress.”

  Dinner is roasted pork with duck-fat roasted potatoes and steamed vegetables. The pork takes center table, but next to it is the sauce. And there’s a curious carton of milk. They’ve made a few more inside jokes, and Barbara has insisted a couple times that I “simply must try it.”

  It looks ominous.

  When the food is dished out, I pour some onto my plate, and the table goes quiet, a few sniggers coming from Barbara and Megan.

  Barbara says, “Go ahead.”

  I taste it and think, What’s the big Deal?

  Until the heat hits.

  Suddenly all the inside jokes start making sense. So does the milk carton. I’m dripping with sweat, unable to think, only feel pain.

  Charles comes round to me, and slaps me on the back. “You’re a good sport.”

  I disagree. Had I known the sauce was distilled chili juice, I would’ve refrained.

  “It’s a family practical joke we play from time to time,” Barbara says.

  I look to Megan, who I would have pegged as someone who would find this embarrassing, and find she’s laughing, too. Tears are streaming out of her eyes.

  Barbara continues, “There’s Pot Douglah chili peppers in it. There some of the hottest in the world.”

  I go to reply, but I can only croak.

  This fuels the laughter, and don’t I feel the butt of the joke.

  Charles pours me a glass of milk, slaps me on the back again, and says, “Welcome to the family.”

  Despite their nerdy practical jokes and family sauces and cocktails, I quite like the Books. They’re geeks, for sure, but there’s a warmness to them that I don’
t find often in Hollywood.

  The milk helps, and we get on with the evening as normally as you can, when dining with people with such warped senses of humor. The wine flows, and I notice that Barbara seems instantly affected by it. Her speech starts to slur, and her attempts at jokes are becoming increasingly risqué, if you could call them jokes.

  I take some salad, and Barbara notices that I’ve taken mostly cucumber, then she calls me cucumber man. Takes about two seconds for her to realize her accidental, childish innuendo, and it sets her off again.

  Which sets the rest of them off.

  As I said, the Books are geeks of the highest order.

  I wait until we’re half an hour past merry, then start asking questions.

  “So, Barbara, why don’t you tell me about what Megan was like as a baby.”

  Barbara and Charles exchange a look.

  Then Barbara says, “Well, she was just adorable.”

  “What was adorable about her?”

  Another look is exchanged.

  “She didn’t develop hair until she was one and a half. She was as bald as a coot. Isn’t that right, Charles?”

  Megan says, “Mother!”

  Then Charles, “That’s right, dear.”

  I say, “That’s interesting. Do you have any pictures of Megan just after birth?”

  Megan kicks me under the table.

  “I’m afraid I don’t, dear. You see, Charles fainted, so there was no one to take the pictures. He didn’t come to until Megan was resting in neonatal care. She had low birth weight.”

  “I see.” I turn my focus to Charles. “And do you have any fond memories of Megan as a baby.”

  He thinks a second. “Geez, there are so many…”

  I bet there are.

  “I remember that she didn’t like the baby talk, cried every time I did it.”

  “Really?”

  “So we took to waving this stuffed-toy worm in front of her face every time we wanted to see her smile.”

  Funny thing is, what Charles is saying seems sincere. And his eyes glaze over as he recounts stories of Megan as a baby. If I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t think that anything’s amiss. But you need to remember he’s an actor.