“Small world,” Sumners said. “Who’s your guy?”
“Name is Nevin Barlow. Partner in Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford.”
“It's a very small world,” Sumners said. “Barlow is the Mancini family attorney.”
My cheating husband case was getting a little more interesting. Elizabeth Barlow hadn't bothered to mention that her husband is the lawyer to one of Boston's oldest crime families. Perhaps she isn't aware, or didn't think it was relevant. It's also possible she didn't want me to know.
“Is Barlow part of your investigation?” I said.
Sumners shook his head. “Not at present. So far his legal work for the Mancini's seems all above board. Family wills, trusts, and business filings for their legal enterprises. But I have my suspicions.”
I took a swig of my beer. It was cool and refreshing. I could go for a third, but I was on the clock.
“I hear Nevin Barlow is a real horse's patootie,” I said. “And that is a direct quote. So it might not be much of a stretch for him to also represent their organized crime interests.”
“Not at all,” Sumners said. “And it is hard to imagine he is not aware of their underworld dealings.”
“So if I should come across anything in the course of my investigation...”
“We would appreciate you passing it along.”
“Happy to help my friendly neighborhood G-Man.”
“Not that long ago we would have been officially working this case together.”
“Long ago enough,” I said.
Sumners shook his head and said, “You were among the best the Bureau had. But it didn't surprise me all that much when you walked away.”
I nodded and drained the rest of my summer ale.
“You ever miss it?”
I shrugged. “I enjoy being a private investigator.”
“The two don't have to be mutually exclusive,” Sumners said. “You can like what you do now and miss being a special agent.”
“True,” I said. “But I prefer the life I have now. It suits me better.”
Barlow and his golf group returned to the clubhouse. Sumners confirmed Leo Mancini was part of the foursome. They had a round of drinks at the bar, then went in separate directions.
“I'll let you know if I discover anything of interest,” I said.
“Thanks,” Sumners said. “Don't be a stranger.”
“Sure thing.”
Sumners followed Leo. I continued in my pursuit of evidence that Nevin Barlow was cheating on his wife.
CHAPTER 3
A black Mercedes sedan picked Barlow up and drove him to a small club with an understated sign which simply read “Gentleman's Club.” It was a far cry from the flashing neon signs saying “Girls, Girls, Girls,” or “Nudes, Nudes, Nudes,” which once lit up Boston's old Combat Zone. The difference ended with the signage.
The windowless club had a dozen or more tables which sat four each. They were all positioned with views of the stage. The stage was well lit and featured three floor to ceiling poles. Three topless women had their legs wrapped around the poles and were doing acrobatic-like routines which seemed to defy gravity.
Some sort of techno music thumped as the girls twisted and bent their bodies. The stage lights changed colors in sequence to the music. At least I think it did. I couldn't discern any real beat to the music. I didn't suppose they had The Beatles on their playlist.
Nevin Barlow took a seat in the front row. He took a wad of cash and waved the bills in the air. Two other half-naked women approached Nevin enthusiastically.
I took a seat at the back of the club. A waitress in short-shorts and a bikini top approached. “Hi, I'm Cinnamon,” she said in a bubbly voice with a wide smile.
“Is there a Sugar?” I said.
Cinnamon giggled playfully.
“She's off today.”
I wasn't sure whether Cinnamon was teasing or being serious, but I let it go. No need to solve every little mystery in life.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.
I wanted another Sam Adams Summer Ale, but ordered a Coke.
My phone rang. It was Jessica.
“Hey, big fella,” she said when I answered.
“You will never guess where I am right now,” I said.
“Do I want to know?” she said.
“Probably not. But I go where my case leads me.”
“And that would be?”
“I think its proper name is the Kitten Club,” I said. “The sign out front was a little vague.”
“Let me guess,” Jessica said on her end of the call, “the generic Gentleman's Club?”
“Exactly.”
“Seems a bit paradoxical, don't you think?”
“Indeed,” I said.
“But it is hard to look away,” Jessica said.
“Like rubbernecking at an accident scene. You really don't want to see, but it is hard not to sneak a peek as you pass by.”
“And what's the case?”
“I am following Nevin Barlow. His wife, Elizabeth, hired me to gather proof he is being unfaithful.”
“Nevin Barlow? Of Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford?”
“I seem to get that reaction a lot. Elizabeth Barlow certainly seemed to think I should be both aware and impressed by the mere mention of the Barlow name.”
Jessica was a former attorney turned private investigator. She tended to handle more lucrative and less dangerous cases working for a posh international private detective agency. Her cases weren't as interesting as mine, though. Except the case where we met.
“They are a large and powerful law firm,” Jessica said. “Well known in legal, business, and philanthropic circles. They handle some real heavy hitters.”
“Apparently including crime families,” I said.
Cinnamon returned with my Coke. “Here you go,” she said. “Anything else, just let me know.”
I nodded at Cinnamon and she walked away. Her Stiletto heels click-clacked on the cement floor.
“Who was that?” Jessica asked.
“Cinnamon. The waitress who brought me my Coca Cola.”
“Cinnamon, huh? What do you suppose her real name is?”
“Probably something very ordinary like Mary or Sue,” I said. “Don't worry, I held back smiling at her.”
“We wouldn't want her fainting on the spot,” Jessica said teasingly.
“Or taking off what little clothing she is wearing.”
“Cinnamon actually has clothes on?”
“I guess they don't want the waitresses distracting too much from drink orders and the strippers applying their trade on stage.”
“So what's this about Barlow, Hughes, and Waterford and crime families?” Jessica said.
“Nevin Barlow was playing golf with Leonardo Mancini today. He's Angelo Mancini's kid. Evidently, Angelo is retiring and leaving the family business to Leo.”
“Okay,” Jessica said. “Most attorneys don't golf with mobsters, but it doesn't prove Barlow is doing anything illegal.”
“True,” I said, “but it makes me wonder.”
“Your case is to gather evidence Nevin Barlow is cheating on his wife,” Jessica said, “don't go complicating your investigation.”
“In other words, don't go poking the hornet's nest?” I said.
“Let the State Police or the Feds deal with it.”
“FBI is on it. I got my information from Mark Sumners.”
“Then let it be.”
“Whisper words of wisdom,” I said.
“Drew, I'm serious.” Jessica’s tone left no doubt.
“I can tell.”
“And?”
“And I will determine if Nevin Barlow is a cheating husband.”
“But if you happen upon something else?” Jessica asked, already knowing the answer.
“I will go where my case leads me.” It was the only answer I could honestly give her. Maybe it is in my DNA. I need to follow clues and bring bad guys to ju
stice like the air I breathe. And I need to do it my way.
“You're incorrigible.”
“You wouldn't want me any other way,” I said.
Jessica sighed. “I suppose that is correct.” After a pregnant pause, she whispered, “Just be careful.”
“Always,” I said.
“Ask for help if you need it.”
“I will.”
“You promise?” Jessica said with concern in her voice. “I’m out of town for a few days, but you can still call Pinnacle, and even Little John.”
Pinnacle was the private detective agency Jessica worked for. They employed former FBI, Secret Service, and CIA agents. Little John, despite his name, was a very large and capable bodyguard to Big Lou, who not big at all, a former loan shark who maintained some criminal ties. Hence, the need for Little John. Sometimes I would borrow Little John when I needed a sidekick going into particularly dangerous situations.
“Pinky promise,” I said. Not that Jessica could see it, but I wiggled the pinky finger on my right hand.
“Inform Cinnamon, and all the other tarts at the Kitten Club, you have a stunning girlfriend who has a black belt in several martial arts with a license to carry.”
“And you know where to find them?”
“Exactly,” Jessica said.
“Got it,” I said.
“As long as we are clear.”
“Crystal,” I said. “And I'm not talking about one of the young women swinging around a pole.”
“I'll be in New York on a case the next two days,” Jessica said, “but we can do dinner when I get back.”
“It's a date,” I said.
We said our appropriately loving goodbyes and ended the call.
I glanced toward the front and noticed Nevin stuffing dollar bills into the G-strings of half-naked women for a series of lap dances. A scene Elizabeth Barlow would no doubt disapprove of, but not exactly the proof we needed of an affair. But the night was still young.
I finished my Coke and Cinnamon brought me another, along with a bowl of pretzels. They were the thin sticks. I found twisted pretzels more interesting. But they were free, so I didn't complain.
Nevin Barlow was providing the girls up front with a steady flow of cash, so they paid me no mind. Management must have figured there was a lost opportunity and sent three leggy and topless girls over to my table. They introduced themselves as Candy, Bambi, and Sparkles.
Candy was brunette, Bambi was blond, and Sparkles a redhead. Not knowing my preference, management wanted to cover as many bases as possible. I'm not sure hair color mattered as much when the women were already topless. But I was immune as Jessica Casey had my heart.
“We've never seen you in here before,” Bambi said, offering me a giggle free of charge.
“I should warn you that my stunning girlfriend has several black belts and is licensed to carry.”
I was leaving something out, but I figured they would get the idea.
“Carry what?” Sparkles asked.
“I think he means a gun,” Candy said.
I touched my index finger to my nose and grinned–careful not to allow a full smile. That may have ruined the whole thing.
“I don't see your girlfriend,” Bambi said.
“Yeah,” Sparkles said. “It can be our little secret.”
“No harm in an innocent little lap dance,” offered Candy.
“Some harm, and not as innocent as one might think,” I said.
Candy, Bambi, and Sparkles frowned in unison.
“For such a cute guy,” Bambi said, “you're not much fun.”
“We have different definitions of fun,” I said.
“Don't you like us?” Sparkles said.
“I don't even know you,” I said. “You are probably nice young women, but I’m sure that’s not part of the job description.”
“Gordie will get mad at us if we don't get paid for at least one lap dance,” Candy said.
“And who might Gordie be?” I said.
“He's our boss,” Bambi said. “He owns the club.”
“And is Gordie spelled like Gordie Howe?”
I realized as soon as I asked that Candy, Bambi, and Sparkles probably didn't know who Gordie Howe was.
“Yeah,” Candy said, “G-O-R-D-I-E. Just like the Canadian hockey player.”
Another lesson in not judging. Although, in my business, making snap judgments can be a matter of life and death. But not in this case.
“If memory serves me, he played twenty-six years in the National Hockey League,” Candy said. “Twenty-five with the Detroit Red Wings.”
“Impressive,” I said. “I only knew he was a Canadian professional hockey player.”
“I come from a hockey family,” Candy explained. “My mémé loves the fights best.”
“French Canadian family roots?” I said.
Candy nodded her head. “Originally from Quebec,” she said. “I grew up in Woonsocket, Rhode Island.”
“I'll tell you what,” I said as I took out my wallet. “I will pay you young ladies the going rate for a dance each to offer me information.”
“Information?” Sparkles said.
“Yep,” I said. “I'm a private detective.”
“Prove it,” Candy said.
I took out my private investigator's license and showed them. Candy nodded her approval.
“Now, how about you girls put on some tops and have a seat.”
“Gordie won't like that,” Bambi said.
“Let me deal with Gordie,” I said.
“Gordie isn't very tough,” Sparkles said, “but he has big guys like you who work for him.”
“Guys like me?” I said.
“Big guys,” Sparkles said. “Tough guys.”
“I'm glad you noticed I am tough. It is part of my private eye persona.”
“You'd be outnumbered,” Sparkles said.
“Wouldn't be the first time,” I said. “Don't worry, I'm sure they won't be much of a problem. Now, what do you charge for a dance?”
Candy told me. I paid each of them enough for two dances. “That should cover the time for our conversation.”
The three stuffed the cash into their bikini bottoms.
“We'll be right back,” Candy said. The three went to the front and opened a door to the side of the stage. A few minutes later they re-emerged wearing matching tops to the bikini bottoms. It was like being at a beach on Cape Cod. Except most beachgoers didn't look like Candy, Bambi, and Sparkles.
CHAPTER 4
“What can you tell me about the guy up front?” I said as I tilted my head in Nevin Barlow's direction. A new group of girls slowly removed clothing as they danced on stage. The same two girls were with Barlow. They'd be able to pay for college if they were at it much longer.
Candy, Bambi, and Sparkles looked over at Barlow and then turned their attention back to me.
“Nevin Barlow?” Candy said. “He's a creepy little man.” Bambi and Sparkles nodded their heads in agreement.
“Can you elaborate?” I said.
“He's in here all the time,” Bambi said.
“Like three or four times a week,” Sparkles added.
“He been coming here long?” I said.
Candy wrinkled her nose as she thought. Bambi and Sparkles had no reaction.
“I've been here three years,” Candy said. “He was a regular when I started.”
“Seem about right?” I asked Bambi and Sparkles.
“We haven't been here as long as Candy,” Bambi said.
“But Cinnamon has been here longer than any of us,” Candy said.
“The same Cinnamon who is my server?”
The three women nodded in the affirmative.
“I'll chat more with her later,” I said.
“She won't tell you anything,” Bambi informed me. “She's Gordie's lady.”
“A real company woman?” I said.
“Huh?” Bambi said, her brow furrowed.
�
��Never mind,” I said. “What can you tell me about what makes Nevin Barlow so creepy? Besides the fact he is in here often?”
“He's kinda handsy,” Bambi said. “Always trying to cop a feel.”
“I assume Gordie frowns on that behavior,” I said.
“Yeah,” Sparkles said. “But Gordie looks the other way.”
“Gordie looking the other way when other guys get handsy?” I said.
“Most other guys get a finger broken,” Candy said.
“So what makes Barlow so special?” I said.
“Like everything else in life,” Bambi said. “Money talks.”
“And he likes to throw his cash around?” I said.
Bambi nodded her head and smiled.
“Doesn't that benefit you three?” I said.
“It doesn’t hurt financially,” Sparkles said. “But unless we invite it we don't like to be touched.”
“I understand. And you don’t invite it with Barlow?”
“Ick, no,” said Sparkles.
Candy and Bambi agreed with looks of disgust on their faces. Bambi added, “He's gross.”
“He thinks he's some hot shit,” Candy said. “I don't know why Diamond ever fell for him.”
Diamond? My investigative prowess led me to believe I had stumbled upon a clue. Asking enough questions either led to clues, or a massive waste of time. The latter more the norm than I cared to admit. But Bambi may have just given me hope.
“Who is Diamond?” I asked her. I had a reasonably good idea, but I'm paid to ask the tough follow-up questions.
“She's a stripper here,” Bambi said. Drew Patrick, you master of detection.
“What a surprise,” I said.
Bambi considered my comment a moment. “Oh, you're being funny,” she said.
“Apparently I need to work on my delivery.”
Bambi let my comment disappear into the air between us.
“So Diamond didn't mind Barlow getting handsy with her?” I continued.
“We're not supposed to talk about it,” Candy said.
“Why is that?”
“Gordie doesn't like customers dating the strippers,” Sparkles replied.
“Seems a little hypocritical,” I said.
Bambi and Sparkles looked confused. Candy grinned. She was obviously the brains of the trio. “Gordie is a lot of things,” Candy said derisively. “Yeah, you could say he's also a hypocrite. But it's his club.” She shrugged her shoulders.
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