by Debbi Mack
When he came back, I asked, “So, how many businesses do you own?”
Ash gazed into space. “Let’s see ... there’s the club, several car dealerships, a couple of restaurants, a storage facility, some shopping centers, a part interest in a mall. I usually have a few real estate deals pending at any given time.”
“Other than the club, which businesses was Tom working for?”
“The dealerships and the restaurants. Probably the offices at the mall.”
“Probably?”
“Yeah, I think.”
I found it interesting that this wealthy guy was so detached from his businesses. Was this what it was like to be filthy rich? So well-off, you didn’t have to think about where the money came from?
“What exactly was the nature of his work?”
He looked at me as if I’d spoken in a foreign language. “I said computers.”
“What I mean is, precisely what did he do? Was it just upgrading your hardware? You said something about websites. Was he also setting up databases and which ones?”
“Oh, well.” He waved a hand, as if he were shooing flies. “I left it up to the managers to figure out what had to be done. Each business had different needs.”
“So you can’t say exactly what Tom Garvey was doing?”
“My people kept track of that.”
My people? He sounded like a king talking about his serfs.
“You don’t seem to take a very active interest in your businesses,” I said.
Ash snorted. “Not worth getting worked up over. Let me tell you, I once had a part interest in an investment with an orthodontist and a tax lawyer. The orthodontist was Mr. Mellow. He decided to retire early. Tightened his last retainer, sold us his third, and took off for a condo in Boca Raton. The tax lawyer was the total opposite—couldn’t seem to wring enough billable hours out of a day. Then he had a heart attack.” Ash snapped his fingers. “Massive coronary. Gone like that. He was only fifty-eight.”
“Wow.”
“I know. That orthodontist had the right idea—take it easy. Gotta live your life while you can.” He dug into his drink, in demonstration of that philosophy.
I watched the heron moving in a slow, stately arc through the shallows. It stopped and cocked its head back, its skinny neck squeezing into an S. With lightning speed, it plunged into the water and came up, a hapless fish caught in its bill. The wind had died, and a faint, musty odor had asserted itself—brine or dead crabs, maybe.
“My client has been charged with identity theft, as well as murder,” I said.
“Where you pretend to be someone else, using their social security number or something?”
“Yeah. Identity thieves often get people’s personal information from business databases—customer records, employee records. There’ve been tens of thousands of dollars stolen this way. And Tom was a computer expert.”
He blinked. “You think he stole information from my databases?”
“It’s possible,” I said, trying to ignore the rotting fish smell. “Tom worked for a local bank, the same one that employed my client. They say my client stole the bank’s information, but it could have been Tom. And he could have done that to your businesses, too.”
He shrugged. “How would I know if he did?”
It was a fair question. The only link the bank had between Melanie and the identity thefts was that box of files, at least as far as I knew. If they’d never found it, would they have made the connection?
“So you’re not aware of any sensitive information about your customers or business associates being released?”
“Haven’t heard such a thing. Even if someone had that problem, how could they be sure the leak came from my end?”
I had no answer to that one either. With major credit reporting companies having problems with database security, why would anyone look to a car dealership or a storage facility as the source of their credit problems? Personal data is everywhere these days—flying through Internet servers, mined by companies for marketing purposes. Makes you wonder if there is such a thing as privacy anymore.
Sunset tinged the clouds on the horizon pink and orange, in stark contrast to the deepening blue of the sky which the bay mirrored. The heron spread its wings and took off, unhurried and stately.
I finished my ginger ale and said, “Well, I appreciate your time.”
“No problem.” He gave me a tight smile. “Hope it helped.”
He walked me to the door. I gave him a card and we shook hands before I left. I wound my way back to the road, replaying the conversation and thinking. If Garvey was an identity thief, he had a potential gold mine working for an absentee owner like Connie Ash. But Melanie said he had trouble paying his bills. It didn’t add up, and that worried me.
I stopped at a Burger King for a quick bite and considered my next move. It was Friday and, as far as I knew, Schaeffer had Friday night off, so I probably wouldn’t run into him while making discreet inquiries at Aces High.
One thing held me back—the thought of walking into a strip joint all by my lonesome. It was ridiculous—you would think a woman who has gone into prisons to interview clients could handle a strip club—but I felt intimidated. Other than the help, would I be the only woman in the place? How many drunks would I need to fend off? The things I do for a client.
If I had a companion ... Normally, I’d ask Jamila, but she was representing the other side in one of the cases. She’d probably refuse anyway. Besides, I’d be better off taking a man along. He could pass for a date. Ray was out of the question for a number of reasons. I thought of various male friends, but they were mostly acquaintances and the thought of asking them to come to a strip club seemed worse than going by myself. Russell already thought I was crazy to be involved in this case. Asking him would probably earn me a lecture. Then I remembered Walt Shapiro.
Walt was my mentor at the public defender’s office. He had the world-weary, hangdog expression and the cheerfully cynical attitude of a man who’s done criminal defense work all his life. He was perfect in almost every way—divorced so he didn’t have a spouse to stay home for, adventurous so he’d be inclined to take me up on a spur-of-the-moment invite, and old enough to be my dad. A man who was like a second father to me, who showed me the legal ropes at the start of my career. My intentions would not be misinterpreted.
Now, when I call Walt, it’s usually in search of something more conventional in the way of professional counsel. I figured when I told him I needed an escort to a nudie bar, it would catch him off guard a bit. I should have known better.
“Sam, you’re a pistol,” he said. His characteristic growl sounded positively gleeful. “Anything for a case. Sure I’ll go.”
“I was thinking about tonight.”
“Yeah, yeah, no problem. What the hell? I could use a drink, even a bad one.”
I smiled. “I guess the ... entertainment doesn’t hurt either.”
He snorted. “Nothing I ain’t seen before. Dump like that, probably pay ’em to put their clothes back on.”
We arranged to meet there. Walt said he’d take a cab, because he figured on tying one on.
Aces High was in a fashionable, light industrial section of Route 1, across the highway from a cemetery. Somehow, this struck me as funny, though I couldn’t say exactly why. The building was a squat, windowless brick box. The small parking lot was ablaze in yellow sodium lights giving the building a sickly hue.
Walt waited in front. He reminded me of another Walt—Walter Matthau. Or Droopy Dog.
As I got out of my car, I could hear the bass beat of the music, pounding like an amplified pulse from the building.
Walt gave me a wry smile as I approached. “You like adventure, don’t you?”
“It would seem so.” I surveyed the building. “Not much, is it?”
“Your basic shithole, I’d say.” Walt grinned. “Well, anytime you’re ready.”
I nodded. “Let’s do it now, before I change my mind
.”
Walt pulled the door open, and a cloud of smoke billowed out. The bouncer, an escapee from a punk rock circus who manned a stool near the entrance, gave us a brief, uninterested glance as we walked in. The small, overheated room was packed, and the smell of beer, cigarettes, and B.O. permeated the stale air. The heavy metal tune “Girls, Girls, Girls” blasted from an unseen jukebox.
Although the clientele was mostly male, I was relieved to see women, in groups or with men. Some people sat at tables, but most clustered around a rectangular stage with a pole at either end and a short runway jutting out from the middle. There was a woman at each pole, engaged in something that might have passed for dancing if you had enough drinks. They wore G-strings that were big enough to keep the place from getting shut down and garters for their money. One of them seemed to be enjoying a special relationship with her pole. The other shimmied her torso. Paradoxically, while the torso shook, the breasts didn’t. The skin on them was so stretched from her boob job, they reminded me of overfilled balloons. A third woman in a plaid Catholic schoolgirl-cum-slut outfit came on stage and sauntered down the runway to the music.
A small bar was sandwiched between the spectators and one end of the stage. A solo waitress took care of most of the room, although you could also get service from the bartender if you sat at his station.
Walt gestured broadly. “What’s your pleasure, seating-wise?”
“How about the bar?”
“You read my mind, sister. Close to the booze.”
“Actually, I’m hoping to talk to the bartender.”
“Either way, works for me.”
Most of the patrons weren’t there for the booze or conversation, so it wasn’t hard to find a couple of empty stools at the bar. The third stripper had made quick work of losing her schoolgirl outfit and was on her knees, leaning back and thrusting her hips. How athletic. She had better than average fake breasts, but they still stuck out like twin fleshy torpedoes. One guy in the crowd stuck a folded bill out between his fingers, as if hailing a cab, then placed it on the runway. She squirmed her way over to him and picked up the bill, checking the denomination before tucking it into her garter. Then she turned around, suspended her ass about two inches from his face, and launched into a bump-and-grind that would have thrown my back out.
Walt crossed his arms and gazed at the stage, looking amused and bored. “Jesus,” he said. “There’s enough silicone in this room to make an extra heat shield for the space shuttle.”
The bartender looked preoccupied. I hoped he wouldn’t mind a bit of chitchat. He was young and skinny, blond with a scraggly mustache. His complexion was so pale, I half expected his eyes to be pink, but they were blue.
“What would you like?” he asked.
“I’ll have a ginger ale,” I said.
“Christ.” Walt barked the word out so loudly, I think even the dancers heard him. “What kind of a drink is that? I’ll take Scotch and soda on the rocks.” While the bartender got to work, Walt looked down his nose at me. “You’re giving the legal profession a bad name, kid. Ginger ale.”
“We can’t all be world-class drinkers like you, Walt.” I noticed, off in a corner, two women giving men lap dances. Actually, the dancing seemed to extend beyond the lap area. I felt like a bit of a perv, but I couldn’t help staring with fascination. The women were practically crawling on top of the guys, grinding their crotches as they went. The men sat in plain, wooden chairs, their arms hanging by their sides, dull-eyed and slack-jawed. A beefy man sat to the side, watching. When one man brought his hands up to feel the woman, the watcher came over and said a few words. Down went the hands.
The bartender served our drinks. I leaned toward him and yelled, “Crowded, isn’t it?”
He smiled. “An average Friday. You don’t come here often, huh?”
“You mean I don’t look like a regular?”
“That, plus you don’t look like someone scoping the place out for work.”
“I noticed there were women here, but I hadn’t thought about that.”
“Some of them are dancers. A few are probably just curious.”
He spoke as he worked. His moves were quick and confident, like those of a master chef. He poured the liquor for two drinks simultaneously, a bottle of Seagram’s in one hand, bourbon in the other. He pulled the bottles away with a flourish and finished each drink off with mixers.
“You make that look like fun,” I said.
He laughed. “You’re the only one here who notices.”
I glanced at Walt, who gazed at the dancers with detached interest. “You may be right. How long have you worked here?”
“About a year.”
“You like it?”
“Not the Ritz, but it pays the bills.” He was working on some kind of clear drink now, in a martini glass. A splash of cranberry juice, a wedge of lime, and he handed it to the waitress.
“That’s some fancy drink there.”
“Now and then, I get a special request. That’s when I really have fun. Most of the time, it’s just orders for beer or the old booze and soda combos.”
He seemed like a nice guy. I figured maybe I could risk asking him a few questions, see what he knew. We had been shouting over the music, so I gestured for him to come closer. He poured someone a beer, then came over.
I leaned toward him. “Is it true that bartenders are also discreet?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Depends.”
“I’m an attorney, representing someone in connection with Tom Garvey’s murder. If I ask you a few questions, can I count on your ... discretion?”
He looked me over. “Sure.” He looked around. “Tell you what, I need to take a break anyway. Can I meet you outside in a few minutes?”
“Fine.” I touched Walt’s arm. “I’ll be outside for a while, talking to the bartender.”
Walt drained his glass. “I hope he has a replacement, because I’m going to need a couple more of these.”
“I think he’s arranging that. I’ll be back.”
I waited by the front door. I had to say one thing, the lighting in the parking lot was good. I felt quite safe, if a little exposed. I only hoped no one I knew drove by while I stood there.
When the bartender came out, I said, “I feel like I’m on stage, in the spotlights.”
He grinned. “Liability concerns. The lighting keeps the crime rate down. Plus it discourages our dancers from engaging in any, shall we say, unauthorized business transactions out here.”
I put a hand to my chest, in mock horror. “Prostitution?”
“It can happen. So ... an attorney—a defense attorney, right? Which would mean they’ve arrested someone for Tom’s ...” He looked uncomfortable.
“Yes.” I extended a hand. “By the way, I’m Sam McRae.”
“Skip Himmelfarb.”
We shook hands. He pulled a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from his shirt pocket and tapped one out.
“Smoke?” he asked, extending the pack with the red bull’s-eye my way.
“No, thanks.”
“I quit smoking recently. After I finish this one, I’ll probably quit again. It’s a bad habit, what can I say? So the police think his girlfriend did it?”
“Why do you say that?” I’d made a point of not saying who I represented.
“Bruce. He keeps saying she did it. Plus, everyone knows about the trouble. You know—how Tom hit her and all.”
“What was Tom like?”
“Kind of arrogant, you ask me. One of those ever-so-charming types who get by with a smile and a few well-chosen words.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a wry manner. “But he came down a few pegs.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something was really eating at him toward the end. Before he was, you know ... found.” He paused, taking a drag on his cigarette. “When he started the job, he was cocky, sure of himself. One day he just changed. I don’t know, maybe it was his situation at home. He was ... distracted. S
hort with everyone. Where it really took a toll was his friendship with Bruce.”
“Really? I thought Bruce and Tom were close until Tom died.”
“They were, but I guess even strong friendships can break down. Bruce hired Tom to work on the computers here. Only gave him the job because he was a friend.” Skip jerked his cigarette hand in a derisive gesture. “Like this place needs a computer consultant.”
“Why would Bruce hire him if he wasn’t needed?”
“To help him out, I think. I heard Tom and he were old friends, and Tom had just come back to Maryland after spending a long time out of state.”
“I understand he created the club’s website, too.”
“Yeah. It’s not like he didn’t do anything, but I don’t think he was all that essential either.”
“You’d think the owner would object.”
“Owner doesn’t really care. Bruce pretty much runs the place. I guess as long as he doesn’t run it into the ground, whatever he does is fine.”
“So what’s Bruce like?”
“All right. I guess he feels like he’s got a good thing going here or something. He doesn’t seem to have any other ambitions.” He shrugged. “Mind you, I’m just speculating. I don’t really know him well.”
“How do you know their relationship was deteriorating then?”
“Their loud arguments.”
“Here? In front of customers?”
“No, no, always in the office. I could hear them through the door when I went back for a case of beer or something. You could hear them over the music, that’s how loud they were.”
“What did they say?”
“All I heard were voices, not what they said. Then there was this time they were in there going over spreadsheets. They looked kind of worried and were talking low, although no one could have heard them anyway. It caught my eye, so I stood there a moment, watching them.”
And no doubt listening, I thought.
“I was going to say something,” he said, “when Bruce saw me and got this weird look on his face, like I shouldn’t have been there. I figured maybe I should go about my business. So I went into the back room for more beer. On the way out, I noticed the door closed, and they were at it again. Yelling, that is.”