PARTY DOLL
By Steve Brewer
Copyright 2012 by Steve Brewer
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Chapter 1
Know what I hate? Those obligatory movie scenes where the heroes visit a strip club. The smoky clubs serve as writhing backdrops while the heroes yell important information over the pounding music. Apparently, moviemakers think the audience won't sit still for a little exposition unless they give us bobbing boobs to watch at the same time. Of course, the distraction means we pay no attention to the dialogue and, pretty soon, we don't know what the hell is going on.
So you can understand my qualms about starting this story at the Pink Pony Gentlemen's Club. But, hell, that's where it began and I can't help that. At least I'm not forcing you to look at strippers while I tell it.
I arrived at the club in response to a voicemail from the owner, Elmo "Slick" Gurken, who'd said he wanted to offer me work. No details, but since my caseload stood at an unhealthy zilch, I immediately zipped over to the Pink Pony.
I'd never been inside the place, but everyone in Albuquerque knows where it's located. The Pink Pony's regularly in the news, mentioned in crime reports and zoning battles, and it sits right on Central Avenue near the state fairgrounds.
Mostly, the Pink Pony is famous for being, well, pink. The stucco building looms over the streetscape like a huge cube of Pepto-Bismol. As if that alone weren't enough to be seen from outer space, Slick also had received a well-publicized variance for his sign: A gigantic neon job scrolling out the name of the establishment beneath an artist's depiction of a prancing pony. All in pink, of course. It's enough to strike a man stone blind.
The fact that this monstrosity was within sight of the fairgrounds, which are visited each September by every sticky little kid and 4-H goat-fondler in New Mexico, had caused a huge uproar, spurring newspaper editorials and letter-writing campaigns and radio talk-show hysteria. Best publicity in the world for Slick Gurken's business.
The Pink Pony turned its blank backside to Central, the entrance instead facing a parking lot jammed with pickups and minivans in mid-afternoon. White columns, spritzing fountains and evergreen shrubs framed the entry, but what caught my eye were the two giant bouncers stationed at the door. They were weightlifters or football players, so pumped up that neither man could touch his elbows to his sides if his life depended on it. Enough meat there to feed a village of cannibals for a month.
I always approach such pituitary cases with caution. So much mass makes them clumsy; they can hurt you accidentally. As I reached the entrance, the two brutes closed ranks, their beefy shoulders bumping together to form a solid wall of muscle and gristle and bonehead.
"Cover is ten bucks," said the one on the left.
"I'm not here for the show," I said. "I'm here to see Slick. My name's Bubba Mabry."
If either of them recognized my name, I couldn't tell it. Their muscle-bound faces didn't twitch.
"Ten bucks," the talky one repeated.
"But I don't want to go into the club. I want to go to Slick's office."
"You got to cross the club to get to his office."
"But--"
"Ten bucks."
"I just want to see Slick. I'm not here to look at the girls."
"Everyone looks at the girls."
"Not me." I held up my left hand. "See? Happily married. Never go to strip clubs."
No response. Guess the bouncers had heard it before.
"Can't you just lead me to Slick? I promise to keep my eyes closed the whole time."
Nothing. I wondered whether they'd both fallen asleep with their eyes open.
I sighed and fished out my tattered wallet. I handed a ten to the bouncer, who bounced it right into his pocket. Then he stepped aside, saying, with all the enthusiasm of an automaton: "Welcome to the Pink Pony."
I pushed open the swinging door and was enveloped by noise. A thumping techno beat gave me an instant headache. Men hooted and cheered. Bartenders crashed around with ice and glasses and booze.
The stage jutted into the middle of the room like a big tongue, and two near-naked women bathed in pink light wiggled and jiggled to the so-called music. One was a lanky brunette with breasts so fake and hard, they looked like two fists jutting from her chest. The other was a petite Latina covered in black tattoos. Both women seemed healthy and well-toned and very, very limber. Day drunks and other losers were scattered along the edge of the stage, waving money at the strippers. I felt as if I'd stepped right into one of those movie scenes I always find so distracting.
The doors closed behind me without any instruction from the bouncers, so I still didn't know how to reach Slick Gurken's office. I made my way toward the bar to ask directions, but I kept bumping into chairs and tables because I couldn't tear my eyes away from the topless women on stage.
I reached the bar with only a few bruises, and wrested my attention away from the strippers just as a bartender popped up in front of me. He was a shiny little guy with rosy cheeks and nimble hands that never stopped moving.
"What can I get you?"
"Nothing. I--"
"Got to order something," he said. "Two-drink minimum."
"I'm not here for a drink. I'm here to see Slick. Can you point me to his office?"
"Sure," he said. "Go through that door over there in the corner."
"The one with big black guy in front of it?"
"Yep." He smiled. "Good luck with that. Now what can I get you?"
"I'm not thirsty."
"You go into Mr. Gurken's office without a drink in your hand, I'll get in trouble. Let me get you something."
"Okay, okay. Give me a draft beer."
He drew a short Bud from a tap and set it in front of me without a single wasted motion.
"Six bucks."
"You're shitting me."
He smiled. "If I am, I can't feel it."
I forked over more money and demanded a receipt. I was already sixteen bucks in the red on this case, and I hadn't met the client yet. Then I carried my beer to the corner office, spilling much of it on my shoes because I wasn't looking where I was going.
What the bouncer outside had said was true. Everyone looks at the girls. We men can't help it. Put a naked woman in the room, and we've got to look. Hell, put a fully clothed nun in the room, we'll check her out. It's a biological imperative.
I sloshed my way across the club, dripping and gawking, but I was very careful once I reached the baleful giant who guarded Slick's office door. Didn't want to spill any beer on his shiny shoes. Might be the last thing I ever do.
I got nothing but stoneface while I explained about wanting to see Slick. This time, though, the doorman didn't try to shake me down or sell me a drink. He said my name into a little walkie-talkie, listened in an earphone for an okay, then swung open the door.
I stepped into a hallway lit by a bare pink bulb. The heavy door closed behind me with a whump, shutting out the thudding music. Blank doors lined the hall, but a sign that said "OFFICE" pointed up a narrow stairway. I polished off the beer and carried my empty glass up the stairs as if it were the price of admission.
Another blank wooden door upstairs, but no bodyguard. I knocked and the door was opened by a lean rattlesnake of a man dressed in Wranglers and boots and a pearl-buttoned cowboy shirt. He squinted up at me.
"Yeah?"
"You Slick?"
"Nope."
I waited a few seconds, but when it was clear nothing more was forthcoming, I said, "Well, is he here?"
"Come on in!" boomed a voice from inside. "Dale's just funning you! Am I right?"
"That's right, Slick." The narrow-eyed man stepped out of the doorway and I finally got a look at the proprietor of the Pink Pony.
Slick Gurken sat behind a wooden desk the size of a Buick, rocked back in his chair like he owned the joint, which of course he did. He, too, went for Western wear, and his cowboy shirt stretched so tight over his paunch, it looked like he was smuggling a watermelon. He had a square jaw and a round head that was shiny bald on top. The kind of head that begs for a Stetson, though I didn't see one hanging anywhere.
"You're Bubba Mabry?"
I admitted that was me, and switched the empty glass to my other hand so we could do the grip-and-good-to-meet-you thing.
"This here's my right-hand man, Dale Cready."
The skinny guy put his hands in his pockets, so he wouldn't have to shake mine. Suited me.
"I got your message," I said to Slick, "and came straight over."
"That's good service right there. Am I right?"
I smiled and blinked and nodded, but he just sat there, waiting for me to say, "That's right." Once I gave it to him, he beamed and nodded and continued.
"Glad you could come so quick. We have an emergency situation here. I need someone to get right on it."
I started to say something about how he'd caught me at a good time, but he talked over me.
"Our star attraction has gone missing. Dale and the boys looked all over for her, but they can't turn her up anywhere. Am I right?"
"That's right, Slick."
Dale had the automatic answer down pat. His lips barely moved.
"Sit down, Bubba," Slick said, and I dropped into a chair across from him. Dale leaned against the wall to my left, his hands still in the pockets of his jeans. The way he squinted at me, it seemed my mere presence gave him a pain.
"This girl is a natural redhead," Slick said. "Upstairs and down. You know how rare that is on this circuit? Oh, there's lots of dye jobs out there, but you can always tell. Am I right?"
"I haven't had that much experience with--"
"Joy Forever," Slick said. "That's what we call her. A thing of beauty and a great dancer, too. Really classy. Am I right, Dale?"
"She's classy. You're right about that."
"Hell, yeah," Slick said. "She don't do lap-dancing. She don't screw the customers, even the VIPs. She don't give blow jobs to the management. Har-har-har."
I smiled uneasily. Dale made a whispery sound through his nose that I assumed was meant to be a laugh.
"Oh, she's good for a few drinks. Loves a party. But when it comes time to choose up sides for the night, she's extremely particular. Am I right, Dale?"
"You're right, Slick."
"I've got a lot invested in that girl. We trademarked her stage name and designed her act and made photos--" He flipped an eight-by-ten across the desk toward me. A head-and-bare-shoulders shot of a redhead with big green eyes and a spritely smile. "--and, poof, she fucking disappears a week ago. Business has been off ever since. Am I right?"
"That's right." Dale shifted against the wall, finding a more comfortable angle for his bony body.
"Plus, I loaned her ten thousand dollars a couple months ago, and she hasn't paid back a dime so far. I've got a contract right here to prove it."
Slick waved some papers around, but they could've been his laundry list for all I could see. He slammed the alleged contract into a drawer, and tossed a separate sheet of paper across to me.
"I had Dale write down all the particulars," he said. "Her real name's Trudy Moore. You can see why we had to change it. Am I right?"
I nodded, but that wasn't good enough. He waited. I sighed, and said, "Right."
"You got her address and phone number there, and the same for that shitass boyfriend of hers. Couple of her friends are on there, too. They all claimed not to know anything when Dale talked to them. Maybe a real private eye can get 'em to cough up something."
Slick Gurken rested his elbows on his desk and knitted his fingers together. I noticed he had black hair on his knuckles. The curse of the bald man -- hair sprouts from all the wrong places. I'm becoming increasingly familiar with this problem as I reach the end of my thirties.
"Know where she's from originally?" I asked. "Whether she's got family?"
"Don't know a thing," Slick said. "She showed up here one day, full grown and ready to dance. She didn't talk about her past, and I didn't ask. Everybody starts fresh here at the Pink Pony."
One question I always ask in missing-person cases: "Why not go to the police?"
"You think they'd lift a finger over a missing stripper? They'd say she ran off with some john, and throw the report straight in the trash. Am I right?"
I shrugged. He probably was right, but I was tired of saluting.
"Trust me on that." He smiled tightly. "We're not on the friendliest terms with the local police."
"Okay, no cops," I said. "But you're not giving me a lot to go on, especially if Dale has already checked these contacts."
Slick gave me the hard eye. "You're a detective, aren't you? Go detect her whereabouts. That's why I'm hiring you."
I plucked the photo and information sheet off his desk. "I'll get right on it. About my retainer--"
Slick pulled open the desk drawer again and produced a stack of twenty-dollar bills held together by a rubber band.
"That enough to get you started?"
I couldn't tell how many bills were there, but it almost certainly was more than I would've demanded. I told him that would be fine, and folded the money into my pocket. My hands were shaking a little, as they often do when I handle money, but I don't think they noticed.
"Find her in the next twenty-four hours, and there'll be a nice bonus in it for you," Slick said.
Now it was my turn to squint. "You're not asking for much. She's been gone a week. She could be on the other side of the world by now."
"Then you better get busy."
"Was she friends with any of the other girls? The deejay? Any of the bartenders?"
Slick shook his head, the light reflecting off his shiny scalp.
"Joy kept to herself. She shared a dressing room with LaRonda, our other star attraction, but LaRonda swears she don't know where Joy went."
"I'd like to talk to her myself."
Slick checked his gold wristwatch and said, "She comes in for her shift in an hour."
"I'll ask a few questions around the club in the meantime. If that's okay."
"Dale, tell the boys to give Bubba their full cooperation." Slick winked at me. "Otherwise, they might mistake you for a pest and swat you. Have yourself a drink, talk to the girls, talk to LaRonda, whatever you think is best. Then get your ass out there and find Joy Forever."
Chapter 2
A strip joint is no place for an inquisitive mind.
I couldn't enjoy the show because I was too busy wondering about the dancers' lives. How did they end up taking off their clothes for a living? Do they like it? Is it just a job? Do they have children? What do the kids think about Mommy's career? How do the boyfriends and/or husbands stand it?
These were not the questions I was here to ask, but they were the ones swimming in my brain while I worked the room, asking waitresses and bartenders how well they knew Joy Forever. The responses were strangely uniform: Joy seemed nice enough, but she kept to herself and nobody at the Pink Pony knew her very well.
I did get a rise out of the shiny-cheeked bartender who'd served me the six-buck Bud earlier. His name was Lee, and he poured me another beer when I told him I was waiting to talk to LaRonda. All was sunny between us until I asked him about Joy's boyfriend, identified on Slick's list as Shawn Weston.
"That asshole," Lee blurted, then covered his mouth with his hand. "Excuse me. I'm afraid Shawn is not one of my favorite people."
"How come?"
He leaned in closer so no one else could hear. "He used to come in a lot, when Joy first started dancing here. A mean drunk. He'd sit here at the bar, slamming back whiskeys and watching the other men watch her. It wasn't a healthy situation."
"He cause trouble?"
Lee smiled. "Nobody causes trouble in the Pink Pony, not with these giants on the payroll. But Shawn would get snarky with the staff. It was a relief when Joy persuaded him to stop coming by."
"So you haven't seen him in a while?"
"Not for months, but then he showed up a couple of times right before Joy disappeared."
"That was okay with Joy?"
The bartender shrugged. "He behaved himself. That's all I cared about."
Before I could think up more questions about Shawn Weston, Lee's face brightened and he said, "Hey. There's LaRonda now!"
I swiveled to see where he was pointing, and nearly fell off my barstool.
I'd seen posters plastered around the place, advertising LaRonda Globes, but there was no way photographs could prepare a person to see her up close and personal. She was an attractive woman, blond and tanned and well-proportioned, except for her chest. To say she was "busty" would be to call the Rockies mere hills. Her breasts preceded her by at least two feet. She wore them strapped up and cantilevered into place, utilizing some sort of superstructure of lingerie, but most of the golden flesh was available for view, squeezed up into cleavage deep enough to smother a man.
LaRonda crossed the club, waving and smiling. Every eye in the place was on that rack, and she knew it. I glanced at the strippers on stage, who'd gone pouty as heads swiveled away from them.
"LaRonda!" Lee shouted. "Man here to see you!"
I looked around to see who he meant, and saw he was pointing at me.
I wasn't ready. A man needs to brace himself before a close encounter with such mammoth mammaries. It's impolite to stare, yet you can't look away.
LaRonda veered toward us, her breasts swinging around with enough force to put someone's eyes out. Everyone within ten feet involuntarily leaned out of the way.
"Yes? Who are you?"
One problem with having a name like Bubba is that, when you stutter, it comes out "B-b-b-b-b-b," so you sound like a lip-diddling idiot. After a few seconds, I managed to spit out my full name.
I was trying to look her right in the eyes, trying not to stare at the well-buttressed cathedral of flesh between us. My eye muscles were twitching so, it must've looked like I was being electrocuted.
Fortunately, Lee took over for me. I guess he was accustomed to seeing LaRonda's golden globes.
"He's a private detective!" he shouted over the music. "Slick hired him to find Joy."
The smile slipped off LaRonda's face, and her forehead creased with worry.
"You'd better come to my dressing room." She pointed the zeppelins toward the door I'd used earlier to reach Slick's office. The big black guy was still there, and he held the door open for LaRonda and friends.
Past the staircase was a door with a glittery star nailed to its center. When we reached it, LaRonda handed me a key.
"Open that for me, will you, honey? It's hard for me to see the lock."
Only took four tries for me to get the key into the lock, but a concerted effort at concentration resulted in success. Inside, it was like the dressing rooms in every show-biz movie you've ever seen: mirrors surrounded by glowing bulbs, countertops covered in cosmetics, glittery costumes hanging from a rod. In the mirrors, I looked twitchy and furtive, my tall forehead shiny with sweat.
I'd been trying to avert my eyes, but good Christ, there were mirrors on every wall, so no matter where I looked, I had a view of the Grand Tetons.
"Relax, Bubba. I'm used to people staring."
Eyes glued to the ceiling, I said, "I don't know what you could possibly mean."
That made her laugh. LaRonda flopped into one of the swivel chairs and turned to face me. She linked her hands together in her lap so her boobs could rest on her forearms. Which made me think about weight and counterbalance and the strain on her back--
"You wanted to talk about Joy?"
"Um, yeah. Slick said she's been missing for a week, and he's worried."
"We're all worried," LaRonda said. "Joy might've not been the friendliest person in the world, but she always showed up for work on time. Not the sort to just vanish."
"People keep saying she was stand-offish. Why do you think that was?"
"She didn't want to get too friendly with the people in this place," she said. "She tried to keep it separate from the rest of her life."
"Is that possible?"
LaRonda shrugged, and the resulting tremors and aftershocks made me lose my train of thought.
"Certainly not possible for me," she said. "I can't go anywhere without people staring and asking rude questions. Stripping was my only choice. Nature gives you boobs like this, and your career goals are pretty much set."
"So they're, um, actually--"
"All natural," she said, giving her bosom a squeeze with her arms. "Fifty-four double-F. It's a genetic thing. All the women in my family are big."
I nodded. I understood about genetics. There are some traits running through my family that I'd just as soon not discuss.
"Men will pay good money to look at these. Why should I pretend otherwise? So I take their money and smile all the way to the bank. Another five years of saving up, I'll be set for life."
"Then what will you do?"
"First, plastic surgery to make these things normal-sized."
"Ah."
"Then a life of leisure. I've been thinking about living out in the country. Maybe get a horse. I've never been able to ride a horse, for obvious reasons."
I tried not to picture that.
"Do you think that's what happened with Joy? She took her money and split?"
LaRonda shook her head. "She wouldn't have gone away without telling me. And she still has things here. Clothes, makeup. She wouldn't leave it all behind."
"Maybe she met a man and ran off with him."
LaRonda rolled her eyes. "Now you sound like the girls around here. Just stripping until they meet the right man. Forgive me for saying so, Bubba, but being in this business lowers one's opinion of men."
I thought about the droolers I'd seen sitting near the stage with their waving dollars and their pitiless eyes. Imagine facing that on a daily basis. Brr.
"I heard Joy had a man in her life," I said. "Shawn Weston."
LaRonda shifted so she could pull one of her arms free. She shook it vigorously, which set off movements so seismic, they forced me to stare at the ceiling again.
"Sorry. My hand went to sleep. Happens all the time."
I dared to look back at her as she said, "Shawn Weston is an ass. I don't know why Joy ever spent any time with him."
"I got the same story from the bartender," I said. "This Shawn certainly knows how to make a good impression."
"Some guys are simply bad news," she said. "And some women find that irresistible."
"Was that the case with Joy?"
"She always seemed smarter than that. Then, a few weeks ago, she told me she'd dumped him."
"Really?" Slick hadn't mentioned that part. If he knew.
"She'd started seeing a different guy, but she wouldn't talk about him. I got the impression he was married."
My pulse quickened. In my business, I see a lot of married people cheating on their spouses. And a lot of spouses who want to get even.
"She didn't tell you his name?"
"No last name, but she referred to him a couple of times as 'Mark.' I think she met him through Slick, but you'd have to ask him. There's a whole parade of big shots moving through here every week and Slick likes to keep them all entertained. Joy sometimes joined the party."
"This Mark is a big shot?"
"That's the impression I got, but she wouldn't go into detail."
We batted it around a little more, but got no further with our speculations. Joy Forever had built a wall around herself here at the Pink Pony, and not even LaRonda was allowed inside. Too bad. I got the sense that LaRonda would've made a good friend.
I said I knew she needed to get on with the show, and I thanked her for trying to help.
"Let me know how it turns out, won't you?" she said.
"Sure thing."
"And tell Joy to remember her old roommate LaRonda."
As the door closed behind me, I thought: How could anyone forget?
Chapter 3
The sun was setting by the time I got home, and the tall November sky was filled with clouds as vividly pink as anything Slick Gurken ever dreamed up.
Our house is a pitched-roof brick bungalow in a neighborhood near the University of New Mexico. It doesn't look the least bit Southwestern, except for the bare dirt and cactus where a front lawn used to be. Years of drought have made irrigated lawns unfashionable and expensive here in the desert.
My wife's Toyota was in the driveway, so I knew I'd get no peace inside. After the thumping music and shouting clients, I just wanted a little quiet. But quiet is Felicia's natural enemy, and it never stands a chance when she's around. Part of what makes her such a good newspaper reporter is her unwillingness to sit quietly. She's always ready with another question, right after she picks apart your last answer. It can be wearying.
Felicia Quattlebaum's name is much better-known in Albuquerque than mine, though I've lived here longer. While I practice my investigations in private, Felicia smears her crusades all over the front page of the Albuquerque Gazette.
Because she's the star reporter (and because her editors are terrified of her), Felicia pretty much pursues whatever stories she likes, and they usually center on rooting out corruption. Never any shortage of that in New Mexico, where politicians and other crooks are accustomed to getting their way. They've learned that when Felicia Quattlebaum shows up, dogging their trail, they might as well go turn themselves in to the nearest cop. Less humiliation that way.
As her devoted husband, I'm expected to keep up with the ins and outs of Felicia's investigations and to read every one of her articles top to bottom. But the sad truth is that my mind doesn't have the same sort of tenacious grip as Felicia's, and I sometimes find details to be slippery things.
Anyhow, when I got home, she showed all the signs of being caught up in a project. Notebooks covered the coffee table, along with stacks of computer printouts and city zoning maps. Her chin-length hair was a tousled mess and her clothes were rumpled, but there was fire in her brown eyes.
"What do you know about the state fairgrounds?" she said by way of greeting. I felt put on the spot, a schoolkid asked to perform in front of the class.
"Um."
"Any idea how big the fairgrounds are?"
"Well, no--"
"Two-hundred-and-thirty-six acres. Right in the heart of the city."
"All right."
"And who owns that land?"
I'd never really thought about it. "The city?"
"Think, Bubba. It's the state fairgrounds, so it's owned by the state."
"Oh, sure, that makes sense--"
"And how much does that land get used year-round?"
"The casino gets a lot of traffic, and the racetrack is busy when the horses are running. Flea markets on the weekends, but mostly it's a giant parking lot waiting for the fair to return next year."
"Right. Wouldn't seem the best use for that real estate, would it?"
"Uh."
I wish I could say this conversation was unusual in our household, but it was pretty typical. Felicia often starts talking in the middle. She's thinking about something, deep into it, and she'll suddenly turn to me and ask some question or make some comment that makes perfect sense to her. But I am left at sea. Then she acts like I'm an idiot because I can't keep up.
"I think the state's planning to sell it," she said, eyes gleaming behind her smudged glasses. "They've talked about it before. Move the fairgrounds to the outskirts of town and develop the current parcel. The state could make a lot of money."
I nodded along.
"But who else profits?" she said. "That's the real question. It's all behind-the-scenes, backroom stuff for now, but I'm going to break it wide open."
"That's wonderful, hon. Let's celebrate with a beer."
"Too soon to celebrate anything. I'm just getting started."
"Let's have a beer anyway."
"Sure," she said, turning her attention to her papers. "Bring me one while you're at it."
I trudged off to the kitchen, and brought back two green Heinekens. After we'd had a couple of belts, I said, "Funny you should mention the fairgrounds. I was over in that area today."
"Yeah?" Felicia didn't look up. "How come?"
"I have a new client." I pulled Slick's wad of twenties from my pocket. "And here's the retainer."
She looked at the money, then up at me.
"What kind of client pays in cash?"
"I'm never one to question United States currency."
"Very patriotic. Who's the client?"
This is a persistent problem for me. Due to her natural curiosity, Felicia always wants to know about my cases. But I'm a private investigator, and the very last thing most clients want is for their troubles to appear in the Albuquerque Gazette.
"Nobody you'd know," I tried. "Little missing person case."
"Who's missing?"
See? There's no escaping Felicia once she gets curious.
"A dancer."
"A dancer?"
"I think they call them 'exotic dancers' now, but I--"
"A stripper?"
"Actually, yeah, one of those kind of dancers."
"And she's missing? Who hired you? Her family?"
"Her boss wants her found. He's worried about her."
"Her boss. At a strip club."
"Well, she owes him money and--"
"Which club?"
I wiped perspiration off my forehead. "That big one over by the fairgrounds. The Pink Pony."
"Oh, for shit's sake," she said. "You're working for Slick Gurken?"
"U.S. currency," I repeated, waving the cash.
She recoiled. "You might want rubber gloves to handle that money. No telling where it's been."
That gave me pause. I stuffed the wad back in my pocket.
"Never mind," I said, wiping my hands on my jeans. "I've got a client, and that's what counts."
"But a strip club, Bubba? Really? Have you stooped that low?"
"It's not so bad."
She snorted. "Right. It's not a front for prostitution or economic inequality or sexual brutality. The strippers do it because they love their work."
I nodded along. This is what I'd expected.
"The women just love being objectified," she continued. "They love to be seen as nothing but sex toys."
"Some of them must like it," I ventured, but her frown made me falter. "Exhibitionists, you know, who want the attention. The missing stripper might've been one of those."
Felicia shook her head. "There must be something wrong with her for her to put herself on display like that. Something broken inside of her. Did she come from a broken home?"
"Now how would I know--"
"I'll bet she did. I'll bet she's still trying to get the approval of an abusive father."
Even though that's exactly the sort of psychological speculation I'd been doing at the Pink Pony myself, I couldn't join in now. It would prove Felicia right about how distasteful my job had become.
"I'll be sure to ask her about that," I said. "When I find her."
Chapter 4
I bounced out of bed bright and early the next morning, but Felicia wasn't around to admire my industriousness. She'd already left to chase after her hot story. It's hard to impress a workaholic.
I finished off a pot of coffee while I showered and dressed in my usual autumn uniform: Jeans, sneakers, loose flannel shirt with tails hanging out to hide the holster clipped to my belt. I didn't expect to need my .38-caliber Smith & Wesson today, but better to be prepared.
My first stop was Joy's apartment. Slick had included her address in the notes he'd given me, and it was only a couple of miles from my house. The apartment complex was one of the new places that have sprung up along Central Avenue east of the fairgrounds. Part of the city's attempt to clean up the red-light district that the cops call the "War Zone." The gentrification effort wasn't having much effect on prostitution along Central, near as I could tell. Girls in hot pants were working the sidewalks at mid-morning.
A guard shack stood at the entrance to the apartment complex, but it was empty and I drove right past as if I belonged there. The brown stucco complex was modern and well-landscaped, a hollow square with a blue swimming pool at its center. This time of day, most of the tenants were at work, and there were plenty of parking spaces.
I knocked on Joy's door, not expecting an answer, then took another look around. No one. I ran my fingers along the top of the door jamb, searching for a key, finding nothing but dust. A potted rosemary plant sat next to the door, and I dipped my fingers into it. Nothing but dirt. I lifted the plant and set it aside. There, on the concrete underneath, was a key. A little rusty, but it worked in the lock just fine.
I was smiling as I slipped inside the apartment. Dale Cready and his meathead bouncers had stopped by here, but apparently were too dumb to look for the key.
Enough sunlight leaked through the window blinds that I could search the place without turning on any lights. I moved quickly. Trespassing always makes me nervous.
The living room was sparsely furnished, with nothing personal on display. No family photos. No mementos. No souvenirs. Standard sofa/chair/coffee table, all plain enough to have come with the apartment.
The open kitchen was likewise sterile and impersonal. Joy kept a clean house, I'd give her that, but I got the sense items were missing. The bathroom medicine cabinet contained nothing but air. Half the hangers in the tidy bedroom closet were empty. Looked to me as if Joy departed this apartment on her own, probably in a hurry. Packed a few personal things, enough clothes to get by, but that's all.
I went through the place again, checking every drawer, every closet shelf, trying to find anything that would give me a sense of Joy Forever.
I was headed for the door when my gaze snagged on a small pad of white paper on the kitchen counter. I veered into the kitchen and picked up the pad and turned it this way and that under the light spilling through the window. Definitely an impression there, left from whatever had been written on the previous page.
Oldest detective trick in the book, so old that I felt a little foolish as I rubbed a pencil across the page and watched a phone number come into view.
I fished my phone out of my pocket and dialed the number on the pad. Looked like a Santa Fe prefix, so I dialed "1" first. No answer for several rings. I was about to give up when a woman came on the line and said, "State Land Office."
I said, "Huh?"
"This is the State Land Office. How may I direct your call?"
"Um. Can you put me through to Joy Forever?"
What the hell. It was worth a shot.
"Say that again," she said.
Flushing hotly, I said, "I'm trying to find Joy Forever."
A long pause. I felt like an idiot.
"Well, hon," she said finally. "If you want joy forever, I'd suggest you believe in Jesus."
I hung up.
Chapter 5
I put Joy's key back under the flowerpot and returned to where I'd left my anonymous gray Oldsmobile. No one tried to stop me, and no police arrived, so I figured my little break-in had gone undetected. After waiting in the car a few minutes to make sure, I gathered up my papers, photo of Joy on top, and started knocking on doors.
Of all the unglamorous duties involved in detective work, door-to-door canvassing is my least favorite. People don't like to be disturbed by investigators. They don't want to answer questions about their neighbors. They don't want to get involved. Some apparently get a kick out of slamming doors in people's faces.
I knocked on doors to either side of Joy's apartment, got nothing, then began working my way around the swimming pool. One bleary guy slammed his door before I could finish saying my name. Another door was opened by a cadaverous woman who had a cigarette in one hand and a screaming baby in the other. Shouting over the baby, we determined that mom had never met Joy Forever, then that door slammed, too.
When I reached the door directly across the pool from Joy's apartment, it was flung open before I could even knock. A hairy young man with wire-rimmed glasses looked me up and down, then jerked his head for me to come inside. I hadn't even identified myself.
The place was messy, with lots of books and papers scattered around, and a pizza box on the coffee table. The air smelled of socks.
"Forgive the mess," he said. "I work at home."
I was afraid to ask, but I couldn't just let it dangle. "What do you do?"
He thrust out his jaw as he said, "I'm a writer." Guess he was used to getting an argument.
"Cool." I paused, then carefully skirting the issue of what he might write or why, I said, "If you're here all day, maybe you noticed your neighbor across the way. The redhead?"
I showed him Joy's photo. He nodded and said, "You a cop?"
"Private detective," I said, wincing at the way his eyes lit up. "Bubba Mabry."
He introduced himself as Nick Wilson, and we shook hands. He wore a ratty green cardigan, like something his grandpa left him, over a dingy T-shirt and baggy jeans. He asked why I was interested in his red-haired neighbor.
"Nobody has heard from her in a week. Have you seen her around?"
"Not in the past week. I was kind of missing her, too."
"Did you know her?"
"Oh, no, no, no." He shook his head, which caused his dark curly hair to dance. "I mean, I would've liked to. She was a beautiful woman. But I never got up the nerve to talk to her."
"So when you said you were missing her. . ."
"Occupational hazard," he said. "I always noticed when she came and went. I'd heard that she was a dancer, and I sorta made up stories about her."
Writers. I'd met a few in the past, back when Felicia and I published a true-crime book called "Lonely Street." We'd done the bookstore circuit before our book sank without a trace, and had run into some of these fiction writers. Misfits and iconoclasts, one and all. This guy seemed no different, locked up in his smelly apartment, watching people out the window all day. Making up life rather than living it.
"You didn't see her move away? Leave with luggage in the night, something like that?"
He shook his head. "I assumed she'd gone on vacation or something. Do you think something bad happened to her? Or is that confidential?"
Again with the eager eyes. I could see he planned to put all this right into whatever he was writing. I wanted no part of it.
"I'm sure she's fine," I said. "I'll find her."
I thanked him for his time, and headed for the door before he could quiz me further. Before I got there, someone knocked.
"Oh," the writer said. "That would be my lunch."
It was only eleven o'clock in the morning, but I didn't say anything. He stepped past me and opened the door to reveal a scrawny kid with bad skin and a paper hat that said "ABQ Pizza" on it. He was holding a flat box identical to the one on the coffee table, and I wondered whether Wilson ate anything else.
As he was paying the kid, he said to me, "Hey, you should show that picture to Jimmy here. He goes all over the city. Maybe he's seen her."
"Seen who?" The deliveryman had watery blue eyes that seemed to vibrate with an internal twitch. Made me wonder whether Pizza Boy had a little drug habit, but I went through the motions of showing him Joy's photo.
"Recognize her?"
He gave me a suspicious look. "You a cop?"
"No," the writer said, "he's a private eye!"
I sighed. "I'm just trying to track down this woman. She lives across the way there, but she's been missing for a week."
Jimmy studied the photo.
"Haven't seen her," he said, "but I'll keep an eye out. Give me your number."
I gave them each a business card, and thanked them for their time. Nick Wilson seemed eager for more conversation, but I followed Jimmy out of there while I had the chance.
He jumped into a little Toyota, and zoomed out of the parking lot, off to make more deliveries. I waited until he was out of sight before climbing into my own car and heading for Central Avenue.
My stomach growled. That pizza had smelled wonderful.
Chapter 6
Shawn Weston lived in an apartment complex way up in the Northeast Heights off Juan Tabo Boulevard. The two-story townhouses were more upscale than Joy's place, and I wondered what Shawn did for a living as I knocked on his door.
Didn't really expect an answer. I figured he'd be at work like most people. But his door opened after only a few seconds, and he caught me going at my teeth with a toothpick. I dropped the toothpick in my shirt pocket and wiped my hand on my jeans before offering it for him to shake.
"Shawn Weston?"
"Who's asking?"
"Bubba Mabry. I'm a private investigator."
He cocked a heavy eyebrow. His skin was copper-colored and his hair and eyes were dark brown. He wore a faded T-shirt and faded jeans and no shoes. On his head sat a gray baseball cap, its brim bent into the deep curl that often indicates "redneck."
"What are you investigating?"
He kept one hand on the door, ready to slam it if I said the wrong thing.
"I'm trying to find your girlfriend," I said. "Joy Forever."
"She's not my girlfriend."
"That's not what I heard."
He looked up and down the sidewalk that ran in front of the townhouses. Nobody in sight, but he said, "You'd better come inside."
I followed him into the dim apartment. His bare feet were silent on the tile floor. My sneakers, on the other hand, squeaked with every step.
Shawn Weston was maybe twenty-five years old, the type of cocky young turk that irritates the piss out of me. Still so young and virile and untested and dumb.
His living room was cluttered with expensive toys -- stereo, laptop, game console, big-screen TV -- and the furniture was low and modern and uncomfortable.
"So you're a private eye, huh? Who you working for?"
"I'm not at liberty to--"
"Is it Slick? He sent his boys around here to ask about her. I told them I didn't know where she'd gone."
"He's worried about her."
Shawn laughed bitterly. "I'll bet he is. That son of a bitch."