The joint was just open. There were no patrons.
One bartender and two girls were on duty.
There was no music and nobody was dancing or even naked.
The girls looked like hell hung over.
One of them, I know, had been working the night before because she did a double take on me as I entered and went quickly toward the offices at the back side. I went over to the bar and sat down.
A big guy came out of the office, looked me over, went back inside.
The other girl approached me cautiously; timidly inquired, "Can I get you something?"
"Have any coffee?"
"Sure. Just a sec."
"Pure black," I called after her.
She brought the coffee in a styrofoam cup and put it in my hands.
"Send that guy over here," I said in a quiet voice.
"What guy?" she asked nervously.
"The guy in the office."
She went away without a word.
I watched her go into the office. The bartender smiled at me and I smiled back. He turned away and went to work on his backbar setup. There was no remaining evidence of the mess I'd made in there the night before.
The manager came out and sat down beside me. I guess he was a manager. Head bouncer, maybe, bookkeeper—who would know, these days? He lit a cigarette, offered me one. I accepted it, didn't like it, lit one of my own.
Meanwhile he was telling me, "I understand you're the one who tore the place up last night."
I dropped my lighter into my pocket. "Yeah."
"For God's sake why?"
I shrugged. Pulled out an oldie. "It seemed the thing to do at the time."
He smiled. "Mighty Joe Copp."
I smiled back. "I was provoked. At least now you know my name."
"My apologies. I'll try to see it doesn't happen again."
I produced the picture I'd taken from Gil Tanner's bedroom and handed it to him. "I need to talk to this kid," I said amiably.
He studied the photo for a moment, said, "What makes you think you'll find her here?"
"I guessed. I'll need her name and address, please."
He handed the photo back and gave me a sour look. "You know we can't give out that information."
"I agree that ordinarily you should not. But this is not ordinary. It's about life and death, to coin a phrase. So I really must insist you give it to me."
"Look, Joe—"
"You look. You work underage kids in this joint. How do you keep your license?"
"You've been misinformed. All of our girls must produce two items of personal identification to get on here. We are very careful about the age business."
"Not careful enough. Juanita Valdez would be twenty next week."
He said, "Wait right here," and returned to his office.
I had time for only a sip at the coffee and a drag at the cigarette before he was back again. He placed a manila folder on the bar in front of me. "See for yourself."
It was the personnel file on Juanita. Had her picture in there, bare-ass; had also a Xerox of her driver's license and birth certificate. Both of those indicated that she would be twenty- three next week. Funny thing, though. It was the same driver's license I'd used to call her twenty next week. You can do all sorts of tricks with a copying machine. Especially if all you are going for is a phony proof of age, just for the record in case you should ever need it.
I closed the file and handed it back. "Sorry, guess I had bum info."
He smiled, slid another folder my way. "Would you like to verify Tawney Matthews too?"
I smiled back, opened the folder, made a mental note of the home address, handed it back. "Thanks. That's all I needed."
"No provocation this time?"
"See?" I said. "Could have been this easy last night."
"It gets a little crazy in here some nights.*'
"Crazy enough for Jim Davitsky?"
His smiled faded. "Who?"
"Guy that owns the joint. Didn't you know that?"
"You're wrong about that. A management corporation owns this place. Three more just like it."
I said, "Okay" and went out of there.
But I had not been wrong.
Jim Davitsky owned the management corporation. And Jim Davitsky was a pervert. I got that from an unimpeachable source. I can't identify that source because I promised on Edna's friendship that I would not. But the lady is in a position to know, and she knows a lot.
She'd even attended a couple of his parties; one of them in Hawaii. With all the president's men.
Chapter Sixteen
IT TURNS OUT that Tawney is really Sandra Matthews and lives with her parents in a very nice home in San Dimas. Both parents work so Sandra is home alone; she recognizes me through the peephole in the door and is in-
stantly terrified, but I quickly learn that it is not so much me that terrifies her as the mere fact that I am there.
I hear her gasp, "Oh my God," through the
peephole.
So I tell her, "Simmer down, Tawney. We
need to talk. Open the door."
"Please go away. I'll talk to you at the police
station."
She thinks I'm a public cop.
"It's better we talk here," I insist. "But not
like this. The whole neighborhood will hear us.
I can almost hear the agonizing on the other side of that door. Common sense prevails, though; I hear the bolt slide open and the door opens about six inches. She speaks to me through that slit, in a very shaky voice. "I guess you found Gil."
"What was left of him, yeah," I say. "Let me in, Tawney."
She opens the door all the way and steps away from it.
The kid looks terrible. She has been crying a lot; probably has not been to bed. She is holding a little pistol; looks like a toy but I know that it is the real thing. I hold out my hand. She drops the pistol into it; stands there looking like she is about to start crying again.
I put an arm around her and walk her to the kitchen.
"Make some coffee," I suggest.
She woodenly goes about that small chore while I am talking to her. "I am not with the police. Used to be, but not now." I put one of my business cards on the drainboard in front of her. "I won't pretend that Gil Tanner was a friend. But I have known him a long time. I went to his place last night to give him a message. He was alive when I left there."
She gives me a quick and curious look. "Yes, I know that."
"Who came after I left?"
"A man from building security, I guess. I heard them talking. I was in the bedroom. Getting dressed. Then another man came. Gil was yelling at him. Then I heard the gunshots. I hid in the closet."
"You didn't see the killer?"
She shakes her head, puts the coffeepot on the stove, turns to give me a level gaze. "Didn't have to see him," she tells me. "I recognized his voice. It was Gil's new partner, Ed Jones."
I use both hands to sit her down at the table; I take a chair across from her. "You're sure of that ID?"
She gives me the level gaze again. "I am absolutely sure."
"So why didn't you go to the cops?"
She replies simply, "He'll kill me, too, when he finds out I was there."
"Not if he's behind bars."
"He's a cop," she says. "They don't arrest cops."
"Sure they do. Sure as hell they arrest cops who kill other cops."
She shakes her head vehemently. "Gil was afraid of Ed Jones. I mean really afraid. He told me that Ed Jones has friends upstairs, very powerful friends. He warned me never to cross him, said he's a psycho and worse than that he's a psycho with a license."
I stare at her for a moment, then ask her, "License for what."
"Whatever he wants, I guess. I don't know exactly what he meant by that. But I do know that Gil was really afraid of him."
"So why didn't he get himself another partner?"
"He wanted to. But I think he was afraid
to even try."
"Why do you think that?"
She shakes her head and mutters something I do not catch.
"What?"
"I just know that Gil wanted away from that guy."
"But he felt that he couldn't do that?"
She stares at me for a moment. "He knew he couldn't do that."
"How close were you with Gil? In love with him?"
She gives a sad smile. "He was old enough to be my dad. But he could be very nice. Before Ed Jones came along I thought Gil was God. But we just sort of...not love, no, not like that. We sort of comforted each other, I guess you might say."
"How old are you, Tawney?"
She gives the sad smile again. "Around here, please, I'm Sandra. I'm twenty-three."
"For real?"
She nods her head. "For real. My parents don't know about Tawney. I'd rather they didn't."
I tell her, "No way to prevent that now, is there."
She looks down, picks at the tablecloth. "I could just leave town."
"Forget it. I'll go with you to the cops, if you'd like."
She shakes her head. "They'd just twist it around. I was there, so I must have done it, or know who did. No thanks."
"Do you understand that Gil was not the first to die? Juanita got it; Juanita’s roommate got it, and George got it. Did you know that?"
She murmurs, "I didn't know about Maria."
"Did Gil talk about the others?"
"Not much. But I know that he was very upset."
"Did he tell you who did it?"
She shakes her head, raises frightened eyes to mine. "I just know that he was scared, really scared."
"And so are you."
She lets her breath go in a shuddering sigh. "I am scared silly."
"Do you know Jim Davitsky?"
"Who?"
"The county supervisor, Davitsky. Ever meet the guy?"
She says, "Now ... wait a minute."
"Okay, I'm waiting."
"I think that's the guy ... Juanita knew him. Or—no, wait!—it was Maria, Juanita's roommate. Maria is pretty wild—I mean, you know, like anything goes—but Juanita was telling us one night ..."
"Telling you what?"
She surges out of her chair and takes the coffeepot off the stove; grabs two cups; pours the coffee.
"... it was me and—let's see—and George . . . and Linda. Linda is the house mother. We call her that. She's the senior girl. Juanita was—"
"Linda Shelton. Bewitching Belinda."
"Yes. Juanita was all worried about Maria, this mess she was in with this guy, this big shot. I'm sure that's the name, Davitsky, that's the guy."
"How long ago was this?"
"Oh, just a few weeks ago. Davitsky . . . yes, that's the one."
"What kind of mess?"
"I don't remember...just.. some kind of trouble. I didn't hear all of it. I just kind of walked in on it. Juanita was having a talk with George and Linda. It was in the dressing room. I walked in and they were talking about this."
"But you don't remember . . .?"
"Had something to do with the talent pool, I guess."
"What talent pool?"
"You know."
"I don't know. What talent pool?"
She sips her coffee; gives me a trapped look. "We're not like hookers, you know—I mean . . . life would be a lot easier if we were, and we'd make a lot more money. But we work for our money, and we work damned hard for it. It looks easy, sure, from the other side. Try it from our side, for just one week, try it."
"Damn it, Sandra, what talent pool?"
"There's this pool of sexy girls, see. Not hookers, not professionals that way, but girls who know how to get a bunch of guys all excited. So Linda and George decided, I guess, that here is a handy pool of talented girls that can be counted on to be a lot more fun than a bunch of flat-on-their-back hookers."
"George and Linda decided this."
"Yes. They started talking up this idea about six or seven months ago and they signed up a bunch of the girls."
"Signed up for what?"
"For the talent pool. Well, okay, you know what kind of talent I'm talking about. But this was big time. Not sleazy guys in sleazy motels but big shots and fancy places. And groups. Always groups."
"Parties."
"Right. And everything done with class. No money changes hands. I mean, not on the job. Our money comes directly from George and Linda."
"Good money?"
"Better than a sixty-forty split with the New Frontier. And a lot more fun. Some of these jobs are like a vacation. You know, a weekend on a yacht or at some swank resort."
"Or in Hawaii."
She gives me a wondering eye. "Why are you asking me if you already know?"
"I know nothing, kid. You're sure this was all George and Linda's brainstorm?"
"I just know they started talking it up. At first there wasn't any pressure on the girls to join up. Guess there still isn't, except as new girls come to work at the club. Pretty fast turnover, you know. I told you it's hard work. So the girls come and go. Some stay forever, of course. I've been there four years."
"But you're only twenty-three," I point out.
"Big deal. You can get it at fourteen if you're built right. Now, especially, if you think right."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, now you don't make the tryouts unless you first sign up with George or Linda."
I am not enjoying this conversation.
I ask Tawney/Sandra, "Did you sign up?"
She drops the gaze. "I've had a few weekends here and there."
"Any in Hawaii?"
She shakes the head. "All local."
"Any involving Jim Davitsky?"
"No. I just heard the name, that's all."
"Ever hear Gil drop that name?"
She gives me another curious look. "Not that I remember."
"But Juanita was complaining—"
"Her roommate was having some kind of trouble with this guy."
"Was Maria part of this talent pool operation?"
“I guess so.”
"But she never worked at New Frontier."
"No."
"Did Tanner know about your talent pool?"
"Of course he knew. He was part of it."
"Part of it," I echo.
"Security part."
"Security for who?"
"For everybody. All of it. Nobody could get busted or get in trouble with Gil's men on the job."
"How many men did Gil have?"
"Quite a few."
"All of them cops."
"I don't think all of them were real cops."
"Okay. Anything else you'd like to tell me?"
She smiles wanly. "Yes. I'd love to tell you it's all a bad dream. I'm going to wake up in a little while and I'm still eighteen and just now starting to plan my life."
"It's not too late to do that, kid."
"I feel so dirty."
"It washes off."
"It will kill my dad."
"He might surprise you. Would you like to go with me, now, to talk to the sheriff?"
She shakes her head. "I'll have to think about that. Are you going to turn me in?"
"No. But I'll feel terrible, kid, if you end up dead like the others."
"He is a psycho, isn't he."
"Worse than that, I'm afraid."
"How can you get worse than that?"
"Tanner gave you the answer to that," I remind her.
"A licensed psycho," she remembers with a shiver.
"Afraid so."
"What kind of world is this?"
"We made it, kid. All of us. We made it."
I don't know if she believed or understood that.
But I understood it, and I believed it.
One of the old Greeks, one of those early philosophers, said that a people have the government they deserve.
He was talking, I guess, about tyrants and that sort of thing—and he was tal
king about the country they deserve, too. Well, we're a government of and by the people.
And we've made this sucker what it is, you and I. We did it to ourselves, pal. And we've got nobody but ourselves to blame for afflictions like the Jim Davitskys.
I felt like I had an answer for the Davitskys among us.
What was giving me trouble, at the moment, was the bewitching Belinda. I had no answers whatever for that one. But I damned sure meant to find some.
Chapter Seventeen
IT WOULD BE a severe understatement for me to say that I was disappointed in the way this case was turning. The only one of the princ1pals I really cared about and wanted to bring through smelling like a rose was instead smelling more and more period with every new development.
I refer, of course, to the bewitching Belinda.
I really did not care, now, to learn any more
about the lady.
And I damned near walked away from the whole thing, right there outside Sandra's house.
I did not, after all, have a client, and it was now obvious that I was not going to have a client in this case. This case? What case? I had no case. What I had it seemed, was a passel of whores and their pimps, and somebody was knocking them off. Whoopee. Meanwhile I was out two hundred bucks in expenses.
But I couldn't let it go.
I'm too selfish. Just couldn't stand to think of some strutting savage getting away with this kind of stuff. I mean, I live here too, you know. It's the only damned place I've got. Give it back to the savages, where am I going to sleep tonight? In a cave?
Besides, I had not given up entirely on Linda.
Whatever, I could not walk away from it.
So instead I went back to Ed Jones's town- house. It was a few minutes past noon when I got there. Half a dozen preschoolers were playing in the street. A little boy of about three was riding a stick-horse. He pulled a toy gun on me and I raised my hands but the little shit shot me anyway.
I said to myself bullshit, I'm not falling down for you, kid; you shot me with my hands in the air, what kind of game is this?
I went on up to Jones's front door and was confronted with the same game played on a different stage. Ed wasn't home but his expectant wife was, and evidently he'd beaten her since the last time I was there. She had a black eye and a split lip, bruises on the throat, bruises on the arms; dress torn half off of her; I would not have been surprised to find footprints on her swollen belly.
Copp For Hire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) Page 8