Death, Taxes, and Hot-Pink Leg Warmers

by Diane Kelly

  The waitress led me past the restrooms to a door marked PRIVATE—EXECUTIVE OFFICES, which was guarded by another keypad and another long-haired goon. When the waitress informed the guy why I was there, he stepped aside wordlessly, punched a series of four numbers into the pad, and opened the door.

  “In there,” the girl said. “The room on the left.”

  “Thanks.”

  The goon closed and locked the door behind me. I found myself in a small, dark hallway. The door to the right bore a fancy gold nameplate for MR. DONALD GEILS, PROPRIETOR. The plaque should have read PIMP AND DRUG LORD. The door on the left contained a small, square reinforced window panel and was unmarked, neither of which was surprising for an office in which a lot of cash was handled. A security keypad was mounted next to each door.

  I knocked on the door to the cash office and waited.

  A few seconds later, an older man’s round face appeared behind the glass. “Are you Sara?” came his muffled voice.

  No. “Yes.”

  The dead bolt slid aside with a click and the door opened, revealing Merle. He looked like an aged Charlie Brown, with a boxy build, short arms, and a disproportionately large head that was entirely bald except for three dark hairs curling haphazardly across his forehead. He wore gray pants and a thin white dress shirt, slightly wrinkled and open at the throat. No tie. No jacket.

  His gaze went up and down, taking all of me in, though the assessment was in no way sexual. When his eyes returned to my face, he said, “You look like a girl who’s got her head on straight.”

  “Thanks.”

  He held out a hand. “Merle Vasilakis.”

  His last name sounded like a venereal disease or a medication for yeast infections, but at least his hand looked clean. I gave it a firm shake.

  Merle stepped back and gestured to a rolling chair positioned in front of the smaller of two basic desks in the crowded room. “Have a seat.”

  As I slid into the chair and swiveled to face him, several things caught my eye. The first was a security camera mounted in the corner, spying down on the room. The second was that the top half of the interior wall was a one-way mirror looking out onto the bar. I would’ve preferred a view of real mountains rather than the not-so-grand Tetons bouncing up and down on the stage, but at least the window made the small room feel less confining. The third thing I noticed was a faded photograph of Merle and Bernice on his desk.

  Though Bernice hadn’t changed much over the years, I hardly recognized Merle at first. He still had hair when the picture was taken, as well as the glow of youth. His current glow came via a highball glass, which sat next to the framed photograph on his desk. I might’ve assumed the golden-brown liquid in the glass was soda or tea if not for the bottle of Crown Royal sitting next to it.

  Merle picked my resume up from his desk. “Pappy Henderson gave you a good recommendation.”

  Looked like Josh had pulled it off.

  “I’ll miss working for Pappy,” I said. “He was a great guy.”

  Merle asked whether I was familiar with the club’s bookkeeping software. Fortunately I was. Several clients at Martin and McGee had used it.

  Merle made a note on my resume. “We need someone for the six P.M.–to-midnight shift, Monday through Saturday. Those hours work for you?”

  “Sure.” The late schedule wouldn’t interfere with the trial in the mortgage-fraud case and would enable me to take care of other investigations during the daytime hours. Of course, it also meant I’d be pulling double shifts. I should talk to Lu about that. See if she’d give me a raise.

  “Why do you want to work here?” Merle’s brows lifted in anticipation of my response.

  Surely the guy realized it was nobody’s dream to be a bookkeeper at a titty bar. Why put on a façade? I shrugged. “Because I like to have food to eat, gas in my car, and a roof over my head.”

  The eyes crinkled now with humor. “You’re a straight shooter, Sara. I respect that.”

  He had no idea how straight a shooter I was. Best marksman in my group of trainees.

  “Could you start tomorrow?” he asked.

  “No problem.” The sooner the better.

  “Mr. Geils will want to take a look at you.” Merle picked up the phone and punched a button. “Got a minute?” he said into the receiver. “I’ve got a girl here for the bookkeeping job who seems to fit the bill.” He listened for a second, followed up with a “Yes, sir,” and returned the phone to the cradle.

  He jerked his head toward the door. “Come with me.”

  As we stepped across the hall, I noticed Merle walked with a slight limp in his right leg. Arthritis perhaps?

  Despite the fact that Geils was expecting us, Merle knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter. When Geils called “Come in,” Merle opened the door and held out a hand, indicating I should precede him into the room. Perhaps there was a gentleman in this gentlemen’s club after all.

  Geils’s space was twice as big as the cash office, with luxurious furnishings, including a broad desk, a cushy high-backed chair, and a leather couch. Like the cash office, the upper half of the interior wall was a one-way mirror, allowing Geils to keep an eye on the activity in his establishment. A large-screen TV was mounted on the opposite wall. The set was tuned to ESPN. Between the boobs, the booze, and the basketball, this place was pretty much guy heaven.

  Donald Geils stood from his chair, but didn’t bother extending a hand to me, as if I weren’t worth the effort. He wore a silky maroon shirt and a gold pinky ring in the shape of Texas, a diamond marking Dallas. He was short for a man, only about five feet five, though the three-inch stacked heels he wore—without socks—added a little height. Coarse black hair covered his head and arms. Add in the upturned nose and the five-months-pregnant paunch and the guy looked like a potbellied piggy, one that had indulged in a bit too much roast beef before he went wee-wee-wee all the way home. Little did he know I was here to huff and puff and blow his house down.

  He chewed a toothpick and looked me over as if I were a used car. If I’d had tires, he probably would’ve kicked them. He narrowed his dark eyes at me. “You gonna steal from me, pipsqueak?”

  My head jerked back reflexively. I hadn’t expected such a blunt and accusatory question, especially not one followed by an insult. Obviously this guy hadn’t learned proper manners at Miss Cecily’s Charm School like I had. “No, sir.”

  He jammed the wooden pick between his front teeth and wiggled it. “You gonna be on time?”

  On time to build a case against you, jerkface? You bet! “Yes, sir.”

  “You gonna do a good job? Things gotta be done right. I don’t put up with no nonsense, ’specially when it comes to the bookkeeping. The last thing I need is the goddamn IRS snooping around here.”

  Oh, really? “I won’t let you down.” Though I just might take you down.

  He frowned, as if he still wasn’t impressed but had to settle for me. “All right. Ten fifty an hour. No benefits. First three months you’re on probation.”

  Seriously? I’d have to be a desperate idiot to want to work for an ass like Don Geils at the crappy wage he offered. A desperate idiot or an undercover agent for the “goddamn IRS” looking for an in. “Okay.”

  Geils tossed the toothpick in his trash can. He put his middle finger and thumb together and thumped Merle on the chest. “Show the pipsqueak around.”

  Fury burned in me, both for myself and for Merle. No one should have to put up with these indignities. Insults? Chest thumps? Who the hell did Donald Geils think he was? But if there was one thing I’d learned since I’d joined the IRS, it’s that people with inflated egos think they’re smarter than they really are and often don’t see their own weaknesses. The ego that makes them uppity is often the very thing that brings them down.

  Merle held the door open for me as I stepped into the hall. “Let me show you around, Sara.”

  “That would be great.”

  As we stepped out of the lock
ed hallway and back into the bar, Merle raised his hands above his head. The bouncer gave him a quick pat down, then turned to me and gestured for me to raise my arms, too. He gave me a quick frisk. When the palms of his hands brushed the sides of my breasts I had to fight an instinctive urge to put a knee in the guy’s nuts. Thankfully his hands ventured only as low as my pants pockets. If he’d discovered the Glock in my ankle holster I would’ve been up shit creek.

  Satisfied I’d hid no stacks of twenties in my bra or pockets, he held out a hand for my purse. “Let me take a look in your bag.”

  Fortunately, I’d removed anything identifying me as Tara Holloway. I handed my purse to him and he rummaged around, unzipping the inside pocket and peeking inside. Assured I hadn’t shoved stacks of money into the bag, either, he handed it back to me. “You’re clean.”

  Ironic words given that having his hands on me had made me feel dirty.

  Merle led me past the mirrored wall of Geils’s office. I wondered if Don Geils had watched through the mirror as the pat down took place. The skeevy perv probably got off on it.

  Merle stopped in front of another door and typed in a four-digit code on the pad. The door opened onto an L-shaped hallway that led to the dressing room. Undressing room would be more like it. The music from the dance floor was indiscernible in here, though the bass line could be heard and felt. A cacophony of scents assaulted my nose, everything from hair spray, to antiperspirant, to a medley of colognes and perfumes. The room was typical, with a built-in countertop running along one wall, topped with mirrors and bright lights for applying makeup and doing hair.

  A couple of young women moved about inside, one in a plain white bra and panties, the other wearing only jeans and a pair of blue star-shaped pasties over an enormous pair of breasts. It seemed odd that a man would be permitted in the room, but since the women paraded around in nothing but a G-string in the bar, I supposed it didn’t much matter whether men were allowed to see them more fully dressed in here, huh?

  Merle introduced me to the two girls, both blondes, one natural, one bottle. The natural blonde was Chloe, the bottle blonde was Ashlynn. Without their stage makeup on, they looked almost wholesome, like the kind of girls I’d known back in college.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking their hands, all the while wondering whether either of these girls worked the VIP room and where their hands might have been. Ashlynn’s stars jiggled up and down along with the movement of her hand as she shook mine. Again, I tried not to look. Again, it was like a train wreck.

  There was just so!

  Much!

  Boob!

  The dancers were pleasant enough, but quickly dismissed me to resume their debate about how best to combat G-string chafing. One insisted a dab of petroleum jelly between the butt cheeks would do the trick, while the other preferred baby oil. At the IRS we debated the merits of mechanical pencils versus yellow number 2s.

  I wondered whether either of these dancers might be involved in the drug ring. Someone was bringing drugs into the club and someone was taking them out. Problem was, we had no idea whether it was an employee or someone from the outside. Everyone was a potential suspect, even Merle.

  “You can have locker sixteen,” he said, gesturing to a bank of tall lockers along a wall next to the bathroom. “You’ll need to bring your own lock. Don’t bring your purse or wallet into the cash room from now on. Only bar funds go in and out of that room. If you buy a drink or food, use a debit or credit card. Mr. Geils will toss you out on the street if you break the rules. Understand?”

  I nodded. The rules were likely designed to prevent embezzlement, but they were nonetheless good accounting controls for a place that handled a lot of cash. I found it interesting, though. With Geils having such a tight rein on the money, did that mean the drug funds were being funneled through the cash office along with the other receipts? If so, my role here would be critical in identifying the source of the drugs and the dealers. Numbers could be very revealing and numbers don’t lie.

  Merle led me back out of the dressing room. The Vanity 6 classic “Nasty Girl” blared from the speakers as we walked past a door in the back corner. The door was the only one in the place with an old-fashioned key lock. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d bet Geils was the only one with a key to the room.

  “What’s in there?” I asked, speaking loudly to be heard over the music. Could that be the notorious VIP room?

  An expression of distaste and resignation passed over Merle’s face. “It’s an exclusive room for…” He seemed to be carefully choosing his words, finally settling on “big spenders.”

  Yep, it was the VIP room, all right. No security guards were posted at the door today. It must not be currently in use.

  Rather than walk all the way around the elongated stage, Merle led me up three steps to the elevated platform and we made our way across it to the other side. Just before stepping down the far side, I glanced out at the few men in the audience. While some picked at the food on their plates, others sat enraptured, looking up at the dancer onstage with a look of lust and desire and longing on their faces. Okay, maybe I could understand a little why these girls did what they did. Who didn’t crave a little attention? Still, the only person I wanted looking at me like that was Nick Pratt. Of course if Nick wasn’t available I’d settle for Ryan Gosling or Bradley Cooper. No sense being totally inflexible, right?

  On the other side of the stage was a hallway that led to the back of the club. Merle gestured in the general direction of the hall but didn’t take me back there. “That’s the kitchen and storage areas.”

  Merle led me down the other side of the room, past the stainless steel buffet, to the bar. Aaron Menger stood behind it, his back to us, drying glasses with a white towel. His gaze met mine in the mirror behind the bar, his face illuminated by the green neon glow from a beer sign.

  “Eric,” Merle said. “Come meet Sara Galloway. She’ll be our new bookkeeping assistant.”

  Eric slid the glass onto a shelf down below, turned to us, and tossed the towel back over the other shoulder. His hands now free, he stepped over to the bar, extending his hand across it. “Sara, right?”

  “Yeah.” I took his hand. “I’ll be working the late shift.”

  “Eric’s new, too,” Merle said. “Been on the job about a week now.”

  “I make a mean mojito,” Eric said. “Let me know if you ever want to try one.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The girl who’d been performing a table dance earlier took the stage now, crooked one leg and arm around a pole, and twirled absentmindedly while inspecting her manicure. Three singles stuck out of the back of her silver sequined G-string. Looked like the lunch crowd were cheapskates. I suppose that’s the type of crowd drawn in by a $4.99 all-you-can-eat buffet.

  Merle led me back to the cash office, where we completed my employment paperwork with my falsified documentation. When we finished, he walked me to the front door. “See you tomorrow at six.”

  I passed Tarzan on my way out.

  “You get the job?” he asked.

  “Yep. I start tomorrow. See ya.”

  As I left, Christina came up the walk wearing skintight jeans, a low-cut blouse, and a pair of ridiculously high stilettos. We passed each other without acknowledgment.

  “So,” I heard Tarzan ask Christina as I walked away. “You like the ladies, too?”

  chapter eight

  Y is for Yikes

  On my way to the YMCA that afternoon, I stopped at a sporting goods store. Nick had recently bought a bass boat and spent every spare second fishing on one or another of the area lakes. His scratched and scarred hands told tales of sharp scales, burns from the fishing line, errant hooks that had sunk their barbs into his flesh. While Nick seemed somewhat oblivious to the pain, it hurt me to see his hands torn to pieces. Besides, I hoped to have those hands on me soon, and the last thing I wanted to be reminded of when Nick was touching me was a gaping wide-mouthed ba
ss.

  I made a beeline for the fishing section of the store and bought a forty-five-dollar pair of professional-quality half-finger fishing gloves for Nick. They looked like something Michael Jackson would have worn if he’d been a redneck with a fishing boat rather than a singer with a private amusement park.

  I wouldn’t be able to give the gloves to Nick until tomorrow. He’d be working another late shift at Guys & Dolls tonight. Rats.

  I arrived at the Y before Lu and went inside. I’d just finished changing into a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt when Lu walked into the ladies’ locker room, a bright yellow gym bag in her hand.

  “Hi, Lu,” I said. “I’m going to head on out and start stretching.”

  She dropped her bag onto one of the wooden benches. “I’ll be out in minute.”

  I moseyed out of the locker room, grabbing a white towel from the shelf on my way.

  The downtown Y was primarily a man’s world, most women preferring a female-only gym that catered more to their needs, with saunas, tanning beds, massages, and cucumber-infused water decanters. I would’ve loved those things, too, but such luxuries came with a much more expensive price tag than the relatively spartan but fully functional Y.

  The machines were occupied by men in various stages of perspiration production. I’d learned to wipe a dab of Vicks under my nose to combat the scent of sweaty male. Hey, maybe I should suggest Vicks to Chloe and Ashlynn. Not only would the rub combat their G-string chafing, the mentholatum would invigorate their butt crack and leave it minty fresh.

  I made my way to the free-weight area, sitting down on the floor in an open space to warm up. I performed a series of stretches to prepare my quads, hamstrings, and calves for my workout. A man nearby worked a sizable hand weight, grunting and grimacing as he pulled the weight up in another bicep curl.

  Thunk! The weight fell to the floor at his feet. I might have thought his muscles simply gave out if not for the fact that he was gaping like the aforementioned wide-mouthed bass.

  I followed his line of vision.