by Jill Shure
&ldquoYou think being burned up in a neighbor&rsquos garage is weird?&rdquo I said.
&ldquoOkay, if you ain&rsquot interested in this shit, how about the fact that she lied like crazy on her policy application. No way did she tell us she traveled around stripping.&rdquo
&ldquoI didn&rsquot realize that was a problem. It&rsquos not exactly the moral high road, but she made more money than I do&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoShe also had a record. Felony charges. And a conviction.&rdquo
&ldquoWhoa. What for?&rdquo
&ldquoI ain&rsquot at liberty to say. But Courtney Farrow was no lady.&rdquo
&ldquoSuzie, it&rsquos me, your pal, Betsy Ross. Come on. Spill,&rdquo I said.
&ldquoGimme a sec. Gotta make sure big ears in the next cubicle ain&rsquot got a glass pressed to the wall.&rdquo
I waited.
&ldquoOkay,&rdquo Suzie began, her voice low. &ldquoSeems Courtney had this old sugar daddy, heavy on the sugar. And she had the old sucker breathin&rsquo hard for about three months. But when he stopped payin&rsquo, she threatened to enlighten his old lady. But instead of handing over the cash, the old guy spilled the whole story to the district attorney. And Miss Courtney Farrow got sent to the women&rsquos correctional facility for six months.&rdquo
&ldquoNice girl, that Courtney Farrow.&rdquo
&ldquoWhat&rsquos more,&rdquo Suzie added. &ldquoShe notified us about changing her beneficiary after she turned up missin&rsquo. Several days before she got fried like a green tomato.&rdquo
&ldquoReally. So who&rsquod she name as her new beneficiary?&rdquo
&ldquoThat guy you just mentioned. Mr. William McDade.&rdquo
&ldquoAre you kidding?&rdquo
&ldquoBetsy Ross. Call on line two,&rdquo Gwen bellowed from across the office.
&ldquoDamn. Suzie, I gotta run. I&rsquoll call you back later,&rdquo I said.
I pressed a button on the phone and said hello. Without any preliminaries, my cousin Jasper launched into his litany of information. &ldquoOkay, Courtney Farrow didn&rsquot have anything terminal. Unless you count an addiction to plastic surgery. She had a nose job, chin job, brow lift, boob job, and lipo. The only real illnesses I could find&mdashother than a few bad head colds&mdashwere STDs. She had her fair share of those. Chlamydia, gonorrhea, herpes. She had most of that stuff in her twenties. Not much since then.&rdquo
I recalled the condoms in her night table. Apparently Courtney had wised up in recent years.
Jasper continued. &ldquoOver the past two years, Courtney Farrow applied for two million dollars of life insurance with a half-dozen companies. Most of it in the past six months. All of it in cheap term insurance. She left every cent to her boss, William McDade, aka Wild Bill. And McDade has yet to be at his nightclub when I call. Anyway, I emailed you the whole story. One more thing. Lover Boy sold the late Ms. Farrow a quarter of a million in term. I gotta run. I&rsquom off to Tahoe skiing. I&rsquoll call you in a few days.&rdquo He hung up.
Lover Boy? Lover Boy, who? Ken? Tommy? Or Brad Pitt? I considered calling Jasper back and questioning him about his last comment, but decided that grilling him over Ken would make me seem way too pathetic. Especially since Jasper already knew my history with Ken.
Instead, I focused on Jasper&rsquos information. It seemed to me that Wild Bill had to be the primary murder suspect. After all, two million dollars would motivate almost anyone. Or at least anyone with larceny in the old ticker. So why hadn&rsquot McDade surfaced to collect his dough? Instead he seemed to have disappeared. Either by accident or on purpose.
And who killed Mr. Tranquillo? And why was he left at Courtney Farrow&rsquos condo? Could McDade have killed them both? But why? What could McDade gain by killing Tranquillo? My head was spinning with questions.
So Friday evening I decided to dig up a few facts myself down at Dancin&rsquo Beauties. After a gourmet dinner of chicken pot pies, I gave Sofia a choice between spending a few hours at her friend Darcy&rsquos or Mrs. Odetts&rsquo.
&ldquoYou&rsquore going out again?&rdquo she whined, without glancing up from an old I Dream of Jeannie episode.
&ldquoI thought you&rsquod want to visit Darcy. Aren&rsquot you two best pals?&rdquo
&ldquoShe&rsquos a little fast for my taste,&rdquo my ten-year-old sneered.
Fast? &ldquoIn what way?&rdquo I croaked.
Sofia glanced up, one brow raised in contempt. &ldquoShe just started wearing a ‘C&rsquo cup, and she already got felt up last week by this boy Sean.&rdquo
I gripped a chair for support, speechless.
&ldquoSo we had a fight,&rdquo she added, her jaw tight with anger as she stared at the TV.
&ldquoSorry to hear that,&rdquo I lied. &ldquoGuess I&rsquoll call Mrs. Odetts.&rdquo
Thirty minutes later, my car bumped across Dancin&rsquo Beauties&rsquo dirt lot where the potholes were big enough to swallow my Prius whole. It was 7:30 and already pretty dark out. Being early for the weekend crowd, I had plenty of empty parking spaces to choose from. I finally pulled in beside a monster truck, one of a half-dozen vehicles around. Then I hurried toward the street entrance.
Even in an area rife with used car lots, check cashing outlets, and pawn shops, the strip club stood out like an island of moral decay. Like drug addicts should be nodding-out in the gutters. And hookers should be plying their trade in the alley beside the building.
Out front, the club&rsquos glass display cases featured large black-and-white photos of girls circa 1963. Girls with bouffant hairdos, Cleopatra eyeliner, gilded bikini bottoms, and tassels on their nipples. Bracing myself, I opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit dive. Loud bump-and-grind music and the stench of stale beer overwhelmed me.
Inside, a skinny guy with zits wearing a baseball cap and jeans sat on a bar stool behind a tiny desk. &ldquoTen bucks cover charge,&rdquo he muttered.
I handed him a bill. He stamped the back of my hand.
The only bright light in the place was directed at the stage where a tall girl humped a pole. She looked so bored she could&rsquove been vacuuming her living room instead of ripping off her black teddy to expose the usual stand-up implants. A small crowd had hoarded the seats up front.
Wiping my clammy hands on my skirt, I headed toward the bar. Arlene had been here with me last time. Now I felt like doing an about-face and heading home. Instead, I waved at Andy the bartender. His gut was resting on the bar as he chatted with another customer. As soon as I pulled out my money, he lumbered over.
&ldquoHey, pretty lady. You alone tonight?&rdquo He leered at my breasts.
&ldquoNot really. My girlfriend&rsquos running a little late,&rdquo I lied, relieved he still believed I was a lesbian. &ldquoHow about a bottle of light?&rdquo
He instantly pulled out a cold bottle and yanked the top off.
&ldquoIs Wild Bill around?&rdquo I asked.
Andy gave my bland navy suit and me the once-over. His face broadcasted one thing: It was too bad I preferred girls. &ldquoNah, McDade&rsquos off again.&rdquo
&ldquoIsn&rsquot he ever in?&rdquo
&ldquoWhen he feels like it.&rdquo
&ldquoHow about Samba?&rdquo
&ldquoShe&rsquos dressing for her number. And you still ain&rsquot her type. But I bet I could make you happy.&rdquo He leaned forward and grinned, showing me a gap between his two front teeth perfect for straining beets.
&ldquoI can&rsquot make any promises, Andy. But if I ever decide to go straight ...&rdquo And I feel like dating an oil tanker. &ldquo... I&rsquoll give you a call. One more thing. Do you have any idea who Courtney, I mean, Delilah, was into for money?&rdquo
&ldquoSweetheart, I&rsquoll make you a deal. You climb up there on the stage right now and take it off, and I&rsquoll tell you anything you wanna know. Otherwise, I got no time for dykes.&rdquo
Andy was daring me to strip? Not that he was the first guy to suggest it. I had my usual flashback to Tommy and the office Christmas party. An event which had peeled away my good girl image and uncovered th
e other side of me, the exhibitionist side. This may have been the reason I agreed to strip now. Or maybe it had to do with the lonely looking losers who stared up at the current glamor girl. Those devoted fans who would&rsquove clapped and whistled if a rubber plant had jumped on stage. Or maybe I just needed to prove that whatever Courtney Farrow could do, I could do it better. But the more I thought about it, the more the idea of stripping didn&rsquot seem so bad. It actually seemed exciting. After all, I&rsquod taken dance classes since I turned five. Everything from ballet to tap. I&rsquod recently indulged in hip hop, belly dancing, and salsa. Besides, I&rsquod never see these people again. And taking off a few things might be the only way to get answers.
I suddenly heard myself say, &ldquoYou&rsquore on.&rdquo
A few minutes later, when the other girl&rsquos set ended, I scrambled up the steps onto the stage, feeling my heart race. My knees shook as I confronted those blinding lights and felt the heat from the spotlight on me. Then my audience faded into a sea of shadows as their heads bobbed beneath my practical navy pumps. An instant later, the DJ played a drum roll recording.
Grabbing the mike, as I&rsquod seen the other girls do, I tried to sound husky as I purred, &ldquoHi boys, I&rsquom Miss Toledo Ross.&rdquo I&rsquod invented this stage name weeks ago in bed right after my first visit here.
Turning my back to the audience, I quietly asked the DJ if he had the song Black Velvet. After a little grumbling by him, the music began with a slow honky-tonk rhythm. Shutting my eyes, trying for a Zen mental state, I began to strut.
In my head I heard Lisa say: What are you doing? This is no way to sell insurance.
But it might be a way to get answers. Besides, I had no intention of taking off much. Just like Natalie Wood in the film Gypsy, I&rsquod drop a shoulder strap and leave the crowd begging for more.
I decided the pole wasn&rsquot for me. First, I was fully dressed. Second, I&rsquod never used one before. Instead, I swayed to the music, and took my time taking off my navy blue suit jacket, while making erotic faces and moaning at the audience. When I finally got it off, I held onto the sleeve and began to slap it against the floor, just like Barbara Stanwyck in Lady of Burlesque. Next, I spun the jacket above my head a few times, almost blinding myself as it flew past my eye. I did this for a while until my arm felt like it was on the verge of flying out of my socket. I finally tossed it at the audience, hoping someone else didn&rsquot leave wearing it. By now, the crowd was roaring with excitement. They didn&rsquot seem to mind my klutzy moves at all. I did a few more dips and turns, moving to the music, finding my rhythm and enjoying the encouraging shouts.
Next, I began to unbutton my shirt. But around the third one, I realized I didn&rsquot have enough clothes to take off for an entire song. And I definitely planned to quit when I got down to my underwear. Then a button on my sleeve stuck. And I eventually had to rip if off with my teeth, while doing some kind of bump and grind action. This was no trip to Catalina considering I thought I might chip a tooth. I took what seemed like a decade to undo each button on the second sleeve, but eventually I reached the last one. Which was when it hit me that I might be wearing an old workout bra and torn cotton briefs.
Panicked, I turned my back to the audience and scoured my memory, trying to recall what I&rsquod put on this morning. But I couldn&rsquot even remember dressing. Although this crowd probably wouldn&rsquot mind if I&rsquod donned my Great Aunt Rhea&rsquos long-line girdle with the satin front panel and lycra thighs. Although this image was hardly inspiring. Then I thought: What the hell. I peeled off my blouse and tossed it into the audience.
Squeals of delight followed.
I sighed with relief. I was wearing my champagne-colored lace push-up. Then I remembered why. I&rsquod put on my best stuff in case Ken dropped by later.
By now, my eyes had adjusted to the stage lights and my shakes were gone, although I was dripping in sweat. I could even see Andy&rsquos bloated form moving toward the end of the bar to get a closer look at me&mdashthe creep. Cramming his fingers in his mouth, he whistled louder than anyone else. Too bad I was now down to my skirt. I took my time inching my skirt zipper down. In fact, I could&rsquove watched Dr. Zhivago in the time it took me. But at last the garment dropped to the floor. Bending over, and receiving loud applause for this, I snatched the skirt and launched it at the crowd. Unfortunately, it hit some guy leaning back in his chair causing him to flip over. I pictured my face plastered over the front pages of the San Diego Union and the headlines: Insurance Agent/Stripper Paralyzes Customer.
The noise grew deafening. Thank heavens I&rsquod worn thigh-high stockings and not pantyhose. And, if I do say so myself&mdashI have great legs. I decided to milk this by slowly inching one stocking off at a time. Which proved to be a real challenge, because I usually do this sitting on my bed, watching TV. In fact, I almost tripped sliding the first one off.
Then one of the old gents right beneath the stage called out, &ldquoUse the chair!&rdquo
Turning, I saw an ancient chair, no doubt a prop for many a stripper. So I planted it down stage, put my foot up on it and slowly undraped my other leg.
The room went insane&mdashshrieking, whistling. Personally, I couldn&rsquot imagine anything more mundane. To me, I was one step short of slipping on my bunny slippers and flannel robe. Except that tonight I did a few head rolls, tossed my long blonde hair about, and made faces like I found taking off my work clothes erotic. At last I was down to my thong and bra. Standing, I strutted a little more, but otherwise, I was stumped. What else could I take off ? My watch? My toe ring? The gum in my mouth? Stalling for time, I turned my back to the audience. With a sultry glance over my shoulder, I dropped my bra strap like Natalie Wood in Gypsy. Every guy in the joint jumped to his feet. Facing the crowd, I thought: What the heck? Ken always said my boobs might not be large but they were round and perfect. So without too much trouble, I reached behind my back and unhooked my bra. Then I sent the DJ a look.
During that split second as I stood there, chest out, lights in my eyes, gratified by the screeching and pounding, I felt like&mdashwell, a star. Then the song ended and the stage went dark.
In a flash, I scrambled down the steps to find Samba in the middle of the crowd clapping for me. She instantly handed me my clothes and a hatful of tips. Then she gave me a hearty slap on the back. &ldquoNice work. Always exciting to see a new girl make good.&rdquo
&ldquoThanks,&rdquo I gasped, aware that my whole body felt drained. &ldquoCan I talk to you after I change?&rdquo
&ldquoYou&rsquoll have to wait till I finish my set,&rdquo she said.
Moments later, in the bathroom, I darted into an empty cubicle to dress. Possibly in the very stall Courtney had used before she met her killer. Back in my blue suit and pumps, I washed my hands, mopped my sweaty face with a paper towel, then repaired my hair and makeup. According to the grimy mirror, stripping in front of strangers had put a blush on my cheeks that even sex with Ken hadn&rsquot. Plus, I&rsquod made over two hundred bucks in tips.
It was almost eight when I stepped out into the club and tried to catch Andy&rsquos attention. But the place had begun to fill up. Several minutes passed before Andy crossed to my end of the bar.
&ldquoCan you spare time to talk now?&rdquo I shouted over the din.
Andy&rsquos face filled with hope, and I felt a twinge of guilt for encouraging him.
&ldquoI&rsquom takin&rsquo a break,&rdquo Andy shouted to another bartender. He poured us two beers then found us a quiet table away from the stage. &ldquoYou did real good tonight. You ever want a steady spot, you got it.&rdquo Reaching across the table, he ran his thumb over the top of my hand.
Removing his thumb, I said, &ldquoI&rsquoll think about it. Besides, wouldn&rsquot Mr. McDade have to approve my getting hired?&rdquo
A leer covered his meaty face. &ldquoI&rsquom in charge when Wild Bill ain&rsquot around.&rdquo
&ldquoIn the meantime, you promised me some answers.&rdquo
He glanced ar
ound the bar then said, &ldquoI got some cases to unload out back. Why don&rsquot you and me take a walk so we can have some privacy to talk.&rdquo
&ldquoJust talk,&rdquo I said firmly, hoping Andy wasn&rsquot the killer.
&ldquoDon&rsquot get your panties in a knot. I ain&rsquot about to force myself on no lesbian.&rdquo
I followed him through a door behind the bar out to a storage room which led to the alley. While he hoisted crates of beer, I questioned him.
&ldquoWho did Delilah owe money to?&rdquo I asked.
&ldquoEveryone.&rdquo He grunted, dropping one crate on top of another. &ldquoNever seen a girl so broke all the time.&rdquo
&ldquoWhy? Did she gamble or&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoNah, she lived like the friggin&rsquo Queen of England. Clothes, furs, trips, jewelry. She could barely make her mortgage some months. She&rsquod see some trinket she had to have and she&rsquod blow her paycheck. She was always showin&rsquo off, tryin&rsquo to impress everyone.&rdquo
&ldquoDidn&rsquot her men friends buy her the furs and jewelry?&rdquo
&ldquoSome. But not enough to suit Her Majesty.&rdquo
Andy sounded like he&rsquod wanted to kill her himself.
&ldquoWhat about Sunday night? The night she disappeared? Can you remember anything specific?&rdquo I asked.
&ldquoJust another busy night. Two full pool tables. A butt in every seat. Between the two girls strippin&rsquo and waitin&rsquo tables, and me pouring&rsquo suds, everyone was jumpin&rsquo. Delilah waltzed in around ten. Right off, she and the other stripper started screamin&rsquo at each other. A bad scene.&rdquo
&ldquoThey had an actual fight?&rdquo I said, sure Andy hadn&rsquot told me any of this during my previous visit here.
&ldquoNo hair pullin.&rsquo But they sounded like two cats in heat. Courtney had already missed doin&rsquo two sets, and the other girls had to cover for her and they were spittin&rsquo mad.&rdquo
&ldquoSamba or&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoBarbie. She&rsquos gone. Quit a couple nights later.&rdquo