He reached a hand up and brushed the car door handle with his fingertips. Out of reach. He slumped onto his back and wondered if the Orange Peel was open yet. He couldn’t buy a drink, but he could get his keys back. Maybe there was a bottle of something in his car; he couldn’t remember. He opened his eyes and squinted. Damned sun hurt his eyes. It was pretty high; perhaps the Orange Peel was already open. He rolled onto his shoulder and reached again for the door handle. Crap. Still out of reach. God, my head hurts. He struggled to his knees, grabbed the door handle, and levered himself to his feet.
Suddenly he needed to pee. He glanced around, spotted the dumpster enclosure, and staggered inside the wooden fence.
When he finished, he stumbled back to his car. Glancing at his filthy jacket, he shrugged it off and draped it across the hood. He patted his rear pocket. At least no one stole his wallet while he was passed out. He had his suspended driver’s license in case he needed it to reclaim his keys. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself. If only his head didn’t hurt so bad… If only his mouth wasn’t so dry… If only he wasn’t so hungry… If only, if only, if only. His life was a series of bleak if onlys. Why does this always happen to me?
He stumbled his way to the entrance to the Orange Peel. Locked. He scanned his surroundings. Across Charles Boulevard a bank sign flashed the time and temperature. Eighty degrees already. Fifteen minutes until opening. He made his way to a bus bench fifty yards away and slumped down, head in hands. He was as miserable as he’d ever been in his life. He had no plans beyond getting his keys back. At least that was a goal, any goal, for a man with no goals.
A few minutes later he watched as a man he didn’t know unlocked the glass door to the Orange Peel. He watched the bank sign mark five more minutes, then wobbled to the door and pulled on it. The man had locked it behind him. Rice shaded his eyes with his hands and pressed his nose to the glass.
The man inside said, “We open in ten minutes.”
“I need my car keys. I left them here last night.”
“Ten minutes.”
“Look, I need my goddamn keys.”
“Ten minutes.”
Rice banged on the door with his fists. “Give me my goddamn keys, or I’ll break the stupid door down.” He began to sob.
The man hurried over and opened the door. “Okay, okay, I’ll get your keys. What’s your name?”
Rice pulled himself together. “Al Rice.”
“Show me some ID.”
Rice showed his driver’s license.
“Stay there. I’ll get your keys.” He disappeared through the entrance curtain. A minute later, he returned. “Here you are.”
Al’s gut rumbled. He’d better make nice to the guy. “Thanks. Say… I’m sorry I lost my temper. It’s been a hard few days.”
The man smiled. “Hey, everyone has a hard day once in a while. Maybe today will be better. Have a nice day.”
“Can I… Can I use the bathroom before I go?”
“Sure. It’s over there.”
Rice used the bathroom and took a long drink of water from his cupped hand under the faucet. He was still thirsty, but he knew from long experience that his thirst would disappear with time. He slurped another drink from his palm before he left the bathroom.
“Thanks, buddy.”
“Come back to see us, Mr. Rice.”
“Yeah, sure thing.”
More steady now, he walked back to his car. He stared at his key ring. It held three keys: the key to the Toyota, a key to his old apartment, and a key to his mother’s house. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he stared at the keys, a reminder of his crummy past, his crummy present, and his hopeless future. He fumbled the key to his old apartment off the key ring. He bounced it in his hand a few times and hurled it across the lot. It tinkled and bounced its way into the hedge. He nodded his head in finality.
He blinked the tears from his eyes until he could see the keyhole and unlocked the car door. Shit. He’d left his jacket on the hood. Lifting his jacket, he stared at the vomitus dried on the front. Christ, I don’t want that in the car. He staggered to the dumpster, lifted the lid, and tossed the jacket inside. One more thing he’d lost. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
Returning to his car, he searched the glove compartment; sometimes he kept a half-pint there or maybe a joint. Not today. He felt under the front seat. Nothing there either. He sat in the driver seat, put his hands on the top of the steering wheel, and laid his forehead on the backs of his hands. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He stared at the two keys left on his key ring. There was one place he could go…
Chapter 10
All three strip joints were on Charles Boulevard, a north-south thoroughfare one block west of the Albemarle Arms. The Crazy Lady was two blocks south of 77th Street. The Orange Peel three blocks north of the Crazy Lady, and two blocks further north, the Fuzzy Bare.
I parked my van near Charles Boulevard and walked toward The Crazy Lady. I looked for Al and his car along the way. The first block was a smorgasbord of small businesses: a dry cleaner, a pizza place, and a used CD and DVD store. There was also a storefront church. I entered each one, showed Al’s picture on my phone, and asked if anyone had seen Al or knew him. No luck.
The first business on the next block was a heating and air conditioning installation and repair company. I skipped it and the other stores on the block and headed for the Crazy Lady. The top row of the marquee said 2-4-1 Drinks Til 8 p.m. The next line promised Free Lunch Til 5 p.m.
As I approached the entrance, the doors whooshed open from both sides. Rock music with a heavy beat boomed in my ears.
The interior designer had been keen on purple and pink. Purple carpet, purple and pink upholstered chairs, and more purple drapes on the windowless front wall. Publicity photos of the dancers in provocative poses were displayed on the pink walls.
There were two people on my side of a freestanding purple wall twenty feet from the front door. The first was a doorman in a purple and white striped muscle shirt over purple slacks. His shiny bald, black scalp looked like a rippling ocean in the pink and purple flashing lights. He was over six feet tall and muscled with bulk built by countless low-weight repetitions. I call them “show muscles.” They weren’t working muscles like a boxer develops when he spars and exercises for months. Purple Guy would intimidate people who didn’t know better. That was good enough for a strip club bouncer and sufficient for ninety-nine percent of the people he encountered. I was the other one percent.
Purple Guy flashed a professional smile with gleaming white teeth as he stood beside a podium in the center of entrance wall. “Welcome to the Crazy Lady,” he said in a voice that carried above the music, “where your fantasies can come true.”
“That’s good to know.” I showed him my phone and leaned close to Purple Guy’s ear. “I’m looking for this guy. His name is Al Rice. You seen him lately?”
“You a cop?”
“No, private investigator.”
“If you’re not a cop, you can’t come in here carrying a gun.”
“You’re not supposed to see my gun when it’s clipped in the back.”
“I have X-ray vision, like Superman.”
“I have a concealed weapon permit.”
“Sorry, sir. We don’t allow guns inside.”
I returned to my van and locked the Glock in my custom built-in gun safe. I fastened a Browning .380 in an ankle holster and returned to the club.
“Welcome back. There’s a twenty-dollar cover charge, sir.”
“I’m not here for the show. I only want to know if you know Al Rice or if you’ve see him lately.”
Purple Guy kept his professional smile. “For that you get a free lunch. Pay Erica at the cash register over there.” He pointed toward the second person visible in the entrance area, a well-toned woman with chemical blonde hair and amazing boobs on an elevated platform behind the register. Clearly, he wouldn’t talk to me until I was a paying customer, if then.
>
Erica was visible from the knees up wearing a pink bow in her hair. A long string of purple pearls dangled on either side of her right breast. She looked nude; then I noticed the pink bikini bottom she wore. She was dancing in place to the rock music that emanated from behind the wall. She held her arms out and undulated like pink coral in an ocean current. Go, Erica, go.
“Erica takes all major credit cards,” Purple Guy added with another professional smile. “And there’s plenty more like her behind that wall.”
I bowed to the inevitable. That’s why God invented the expense account. “Thanks.”
Erica took my twenty-dollar bill and I saw why the club had her stand on a platform. She bent over to open the cash register. Her ample breasts became a metronome for the music when she slipped the bill into the drawer. A nipple ring flashed from her left breast. “Would you like change for tips?”
“Maybe later.”
She closed the cash drawer with a smile. “Give me your hand and I’ll stamp it for you.” She picked up a rubber stamp in her left hand and grabbed my hand with her right, squeezing gently. I think this was supposed to thrill and delight me. “This stamp will give you access to the pleasures of the Crazy Lady behind that wall. All of them,” she added breathlessly and winked. My face was level with her breasts. Her nipple ring was decorated with rhinestones. Like I might not notice.
“Ooh, your hand is nice and strong! I love a man with long fingers.” She winked and shimmied like she could barely refrain from throwing me on the floor and having her way with me right then and there. She stamped the back of my hand with a purple heart.
That’s all I needed, another Purple Heart. Turning back to Purple Guy, I showed Al’s picture. “Now do you know this guy?”
“He looks familiar. Why d’you want to know?”
“Believe it or not, his mother hired me to find him.” I laughed, just a regular guy.
Purple Guy laughed with me. “His momma wants to find him? You gotta be shitting me.”
“God’s honest truth.”
“You got identification?”
I showed Purple Guy my credentials and gave him a business card. “Have you seen him?”
“Maybe.” Purple Guy rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “His momma throwing him a birthday party or something?”
“Something like that.” I showed him a fifty-dollar bill.
The entrance doors slid open and two men walked in.
“Welcome, gentlemen, to the Crazy Lady,” Purple Guy said, “where your fantasies can come true. Nice to see you again.” He gestured them toward Erica, she of the bouncing boobs and promising pleasures. Erica jiggled happily for the new suckers.
Purple Guy appraised the fifty and found it beneath contempt. “If Momma wants to find her boy bad enough to hire a private eye, it’s gotta be worth more than a lousy fifty bucks.”
I added another fifty to the pot. “Where is he?”
Purple Guy stuck the bills in his pocket. “I didn’t say I knew where he was. I said he looks familiar. I seen him, but it’s been a few weeks. What’d you say his name was?”
“Al Rice.”
“Yeah, that’s the guy. He’s on our no-fly list.”
“No-fly list. What’s that—no terrorists allowed?”
He, like most people, didn’t think I was as funny as I do. “I’ll show you; it’s pretty cool.” He stepped over to the podium. A computer screen was mounted in the top. Purple Guy swiped a finger across the screen and scrolled through pictures of faces, all men. “There.” He pointed to Al’s picture, a drunken grin on his face. Al’s name displayed across the bottom. “He’s on the no-fly list.”
“What does that mean?”
Purple Guy pointed to a purple door in a pink wall to my left. “Go check in the office. They’ll explain. Knock once and walk in.”
###
When I closed the soundproof door behind me, the music shut off like someone had pulled the plug. The quiet came as a welcome relief. After the pink and purple main showroom, the office was quite normal. Beige carpet, white walls, a reception desk, visitor chairs, and a fully-clothed, middle-aged secretary who reminded me of my banker. “May I help you, sir?”
“I’m Chuck McCrary, private investigator.” I handed the woman a business card, one without a magnifying glass logo. “The doorman said you could tell me about your no-fly list.”
Banker Lady read my card and entered the information on a keyboard. “Yes, Mr. McCrary. I don’t find your name on the list, and, if I may say, you don’t look like an undesirable customer. May I ask the nature of your interest in our no-fly list?”
I showed her Al’s picture. “I’m looking for this man. His name is Al Rice and he used to live in this neighborhood. His mother hired me to find him and bring him home. Your doorman showed me his picture on your no-fly list.”
“What’s his name again, please?”
“The name on his driver’s license is Alfred Lord Tennyson Rice.” I didn’t tell her Al’s license was suspended for DUI. That was on a need-to-know basis. “He goes by Al.”
“I see why,” she said with a smile. She tapped her keyboard. “Yes, Mr. Rice was discharged from the club three weeks ago and told not to return. We placed his picture on the podium computer so the doormen ensure that we don’t admit Mr. Rice again.”
“So your no-fly list is people you banned from the club for bad behavior?”
“Precisely.”
“It’s important to Al’s mother that I find him. May I ask why he was, uh, discharged?”
Banker Lady said, “Yes, you can ask.”
“Why was he discharged?”
She flashed a saccharine smile, held out her hand, and said nothing. She and Purple Guy had a lot in common.
I placed a twenty in her hand.
Banker Lady made the twenty disappear and consulted her computer screen. “On several occasions Mr. Rice became drunk and behaved inappropriately toward a dancer. Finally, the owner instructed that he be discharged.”
“Was that dancer’s name Jasmine?”
Banker Lady smiled again, held out her hand again, and said nothing again. At least she was cheaper than Purple Guy.
This time it took two twenties.
“Yes, it was Jasmine. How did you know?”
“An acquaintance of Mr. Rice told me he was in love with a dancer named Jasmine.”
She peered at Chuck. “The feeling was not reciprocated. Miss Jasmine told me she didn’t know Mr. Rice, but he was obsessed with her. That’s why the owner discharged him.”
“May I speak to Miss Jasmine? I am very respectful and would talk to her here in the office, if that is acceptable.” I held up two more twenties.
Banker Lady eyed the twenties wistfully and sighed. “Sorry, I already said more than I should.”
I smiled at her. “It’s the dimples. Works every time.”
“It’s a moot point; that particular Miss Jasmine no longer dances here.”
“There’s more than one Jasmine?”
The woman held out her hand. I gave her another twenty. She motioned for another one and I protested. “My client isn’t made of money. That info is worth twenty.”
Banker Lady shrugged and accepted the bill. “All dancers choose stage names. That’s standard in the industry. Jasmine is a common name in the business, along with Candy, Kitty, Tammy, and so forth. When we get a new dancer and another girl already uses the same name, we ask the new girl to pick a new name. The week after Miss Jasmine left, we hired another dancer named Jasmine.”
“Where is the first Miss Jasmine dancing now?” I held up two more twenties.
She shook her head. “I wish I knew; I could use the money. But it’s not my department.”
“Do you have her publicity photo I might see? Or purchase?”
Banker Lady pursed her lips.
“I’ll pay you to print me her picture.”
“How much?”
I showed her a twenty.
I added another twenty with the same reaction.
The third twenty did the trick. Banker Lady grabbed them and tapped her keyboard. “You didn’t get this from me. Printer’s over there.”
“Thanks.” An eight-by-ten cheesecake photo of a woman dressed as a stereotypical French maid emerged from the printer. I zoomed in on her face, and photographed it with my phone. I folded the photo and slipped it in a pocket.
“How soon after Rice landed on the no-fly list did this Jasmine leave?”
“Like I said, I already told you more than I should.”
I pulled out another twenty.
Banker Lady scoffed. “You’re kidding.”
I added another twenty. “Forty bucks is my limit.”
Banker Lady made the money disappear again and tapped her keyboard. “That Miss Jasmine received her locker key refund one week after Mr. Rice was put on the list.”
“Did that particular Miss Jasmine leave a forwarding address?”
Banker Lady smiled. “I would love to sell you that information. However, if we had that information, we wouldn’t release it for liability reasons—stalkers and such. Actually, people like Al Rice.”
“I understand. How about a phone number? Surely, as her employer, you have the dancers’ phone numbers in case you have a scheduling problem.”
Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 5