Serena’s eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness inside the club. The air was smoky and vaguely perfumed. Rock music blared from hidden speakers, with a thumping beat they could feel vibrating under the floor. The walls of the cramped foyer were covered with a dark wood paneling. A red upholstered door separated them from the interior of the club, and beside the door was a podium, with an erotic Chinese painting hung on the wall behind it. As they entered, a hulking man in a gray business suit slipped through the red door and confronted them with a smile. He had curly blonde hair and a bushy mustache.
He glanced at Cordy without interest, then his eyes lingered on Serena, drinking her in from head to toe.
“It’s free for you, sweetheart. For Dudley Moore here, it’s $24.95 cover.”
The gorilla grinned at Cordy, and Serena thought she could see actual smoke coming out of her partner’s ears.
“We’re not customers,” Serena said, flashing her shield. “We’re from Metro. We’re investigating a murder.”
The smile vanished, replaced by cool indifference. “Whose?” the man asked, shrugging his broad shoulders.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. It’s a Jane Doe, found in the desert, back of her head bashed in. We think she may have worked one of the clubs.”
Cordy slid a Polaroid from inside his jacket and presented it to Superman. “Recognize this girl?”
Serena watched the man’s reaction, noticing his skin grow a shade paler and an involuntary grimace tighten his face.
“When was she in the business, 1940?”
“If you lie out in the desert for a few days, be sure to use sunblock,” Serena said. “Do you recognize her?”
“No.”
“Any of your girls gone missing in the last few days?”
The man laughed. It came out as a booming guffaw. “Are you kidding? Girls come and go every week, every day. This ain’t exactly career work, you know?”
“We’re just talking about the last few days,” Serena said. She hated guys like this. Users. They gobbled up young flesh and then spit it back in the street when its value was gone.
“The answer is no.”
“How about tattoos? You got a girl with a heart tattoo on her left breast?”
“Tattoos? We got dragons, kittens, boyfriends, barbed wire, sunflowers, and Dwight Yoakam. No hearts.”
“You’re sure?” Serena asked.
The man grinned. “I’ve seen them all.”
“I’m sure you won’t mind if we talk to the girls ourselves,” Cordy said.
“You got a warrant?”
“We don’t need a warrant to talk,” Serena said. “On the other hand, if you want us to get a warrant, and we happen to find any drugs around here, well, that’s going to take a bite out of business, isn’t it?”
“Make it quick,” the man replied, scowling. “And hey, some of the girls may look young, but they’re all over eighteen, all right? I checked their IDs.”
“Sure,” Serena said. Her fake ID at sixteen had gotten her into clubs easily enough. Back in the bad days.
They pushed through the red door and entered the club. It looked and sounded identical to the seven others they had already visited today. The music, loud enough in the foyer, was deafening inside. A large, elevated runway, interrupted by shiny brass poles that reached to the ceiling, jutted out into the center of the club. Narrow schoolroom tables surrounded the runway, with squat stools squeezed side by side along the tables. Most of the action was on the runway, but there were also three low stages, with circular benches fitted around them, scattered across the club floor. Velvet-lined booths hugged the walls. The rest of the place was crammed with dinner tables and cocktail tables.
The club reeked of beer and pheromones. A hazy cloud clung near the ceiling, where the smoke from the cigarettes gathered.
Serena counted about thirty men, ranging from horny college kids in T-shirts to old men in suits, with a mixture of freaks and drunks thrown in. Some of them got into it, hooting and hollering, trying to get as close to groping the girls as they could without getting bounced. Others sat in awe, their jaws hanging open, silly grins on their faces. Others sat and sipped their drinks and watched through slitted eyes. Those were the scary ones, who didn’t show any emotion at all.
Serena felt the same claustrophobic sensation she had felt in all the other clubs. Involuntarily, she looked down, expecting to see her own body exposed, wondering what it would feel like to trade places with the girls up there. She was the only woman in the club, except for a couple of cocktail waitresses, who was wearing more than panties. Not surprisingly, she didn’t attract much attention, except from a few men who didn’t expect to see any women here at all who weren’t naked. Those that looked at her gave her the same appraising glance they gave the girls onstage. Serena felt sick.
She studied the faces of the girls parading down the runway, looking past the plastic smiles. You could see their age in their faces. The more makeup they wore, the more they were trying to cover up. In the smoky, dark environs of the club, it usually worked, because most of the men didn’t bother looking at faces. Serena could tell, though. She could look in their eyes and see their secrets. This was a higher-paying joint, where the girls were younger, not yet ravaged by alcohol or drug abuse. A girl here could still fool herself that she would wind up rich, like another Jenna Jameson. But Serena had seen too many wasted faces over the years, perched atop taut bodies. Eventually their bodies sagged, too, and the downward spiral began.
She remembered arriving in town at sixteen, just her and a girlfriend, both of them escaping from their lives in Phoenix. Serena got a job at one of the casinos. Her girlfriend wound up here, at one of the clubs, doing lap dances. She tried to talk Serena into doing it, too. The money was better. It was tempting, but Serena had already seen enough of men that she couldn’t imagine parading herself in front of them. Lucky for her. Her friend moved up to a nicer apartment, did some low-budget porn films, and eventually wound up with AIDS. She died a hideous death at age twenty-two.
The girl in the desert was dead. Her friend was dead. Sometimes Serena felt guilty that she had survived.
A cheer arose from one of the satellite stages. Serena and Cordy edged closer, watching a hole appear in the center of the small stage. Slowly, rising out of the well, they saw two black arms, sensually twisting to the music. The girl emerged inch by inch as the elevator platform rose from beneath the floor. Her long arms went on forever, and then Serena saw dark hair and a sculpted ebony face. This girl was perfect, barely eighteen and stunning. A newcomer—Serena could see it in her eyes. The girl was still aroused by the hypnotic spell she could cast and the throaty bellows of the men. She was enjoying herself, and the men knew it. There was nothing more exciting than a girl who was truly trying to turn them on and not playing a weary game. The men knew the difference, and this girl was it.
Someone shouted, “Lavender!”
The girl turned to the man who had called her name and gave him a thick-lipped smile and a wink. All the while, she kept dancing, as more of her body rose into view. She wore a spaghetti-strap teddy that was ruby red against her coal skin. Her breasts were ready to burst out of the lace. The flaps of the fabric left her taut stomach bare, and below, she wore a thong panty. Her legs, trim and smooth, stretched down to blood-red pumps with three-inch heels.
“Put your tongue back in your mouth,” Serena told Cordy.
“It’s hard, mama, it’s hard,” he whispered.
“Is that a weather report from down south?” Serena asked, grinning.
Cordy didn’t reply. He was transfixed, watching Lavender pop the buttons one by one, letting her cleavage spill out.
“What gives, Cordy? I thought you liked your girls short and blonde.”
“A good salsa is made up of many chiles,” Cordy said.
“What is that, a Mexican proverb?”
“Nah, it’s my new philosophy of life.”
Serena watched as Lavender finally revealed her giant nipples, as hard as bullets. The girl cupped her full breasts in her hands as the crowd screamed.
“Come on, Don Juan, let’s go backstage.”
Serena dragged Cordy, craning his neck to keep an eye on Lavender, to the back of the club, where another upholstered door was labeled PERFORMERS ONLY. It was manned by a beefy black guard who wore a don’t-fuck-with-me scowl. Serena explained that they needed to talk to the girls, and he scrutinized their shields before grudgingly standing aside.
Cordy smiled sweetly as he passed the guard. “Will the girls be self-conscious with a man down there?”
Serena laughed. The guard didn’t.
They went down a flight of stairs, then entered the dressing room, which was a beehive of activity, filled with at least ten girls in different stages of nudity. Some were adjusting their breasts inside skimpy costumes, ready to go onstage. Others patiently sat before lighted mirrors and applied their makeup. Three girls who had completed their shifts were changing into their street clothes. They paid little attention to Cordy and Serena, although a couple of the girls gave Cordy an inviting smile. He smiled back.
Serena started with the girls who were getting ready to leave the club. One was already dressed; the second wore a black bra and jeans; the third, a natural redhead, was stark naked. She was reaching for a camisole on a hanger inside her locker.
“We’d like to ask you girls a few questions,” Serena said.
The girls, who were chatting and laughing loudly together, clammed up. One of them shrugged indifferently. The redhead, seeing Cordy, twisted so her nude body was on display, right down to the trimmed auburn mound between her legs. She looked him right in the eyes and grinned, daring him to look down. Cordy resisted, although Serena knew it was killing him.
Serena explained why they were there and described the dead girl in general terms, mentioning the heart tattoo on her breast. When they heard about the murder, the girls’ attitude changed. They were in a business that attracted more than a few sick freaks, and when one of their own got killed, they all immediately wondered who did it and whether they might be next on a killer’s hit list.
“What about it?” Serena asked. “Do you know her?”
The girls glanced at each other.
“Girls come and go,” the redhead said, idly stroking one of her breasts. “I mean, that description could fit a hundred girls who work in various clubs.”
“How about the tattoo?” Cordy asked.
They all shook their heads.
It had been the same story all day. Girls come and go. Who notices if they’re here one day and gone the next? And so many of them are young and half-blonde.
They quickly interviewed the other girls in the dressing area and got the same response from each one. They were about to leave and head for the next club on their list when Cordy pointed at the stage lift, which was now revolving slowly back to the floor, with Lavender on it, carefully balancing so she didn’t tumble off. The black stripper stepped off onto the floor, and the lift returned upward to the circular stage.
She was naked except for a tiny G-string, fringed with cash stuffed inside. Her breasts jiggled as she crossed the tile floor, her high heels clicking. She stopped in front of a Coke machine and extracted a dollar from her waist. She bought herself a diet soda, popped it, and took a long swig. Then her eyes settled on Serena and Cordy.
“What do the two of you want?” Lavender demanded.
“They’re police,” the redhead called out helpfully. She was now dressed in the camisole and leather pants. “Looking for a missing girl.”
“We’re all missing,” Lavender said.
Cordy made no pretense of keeping his eyes off this girl’s body. He made eye contact, then slowly let his gaze drop down her long expanse of nude skin, pausing in all of the interesting places. Lavender had an amused smile on her face.
“Guys pay good money to see that,” she said. “What makes you think cops get it for free?”
“If we go to dinner, that wouldn’t be free,” Cordy said. “What do you say?”
Serena rolled her eyes.
Lavender laughed. “Is your dick as big as your balls?”
“Only one way to find out,” Cordy said.
Lavender glanced at Serena. “I take it you and he are not an item? I don’t get into this three-way stuff.”
“We’re barely partners,” Serena said, giving Cordy a sharp elbow to the side. “After today, maybe not at all.”
“What’s your name?” Lavender asked, looking at Cordy again. Serena knew the girl was interested. It was strange, watching Cordy’s magnetism at work. She herself didn’t feel it, but a lot of girls did.
“You can call me Cordy.”
“I’ve got a few inches on you, Cordy. I wouldn’t want to hurt you accidentally.” Her lips twitched into a grin.
“You can’t hurt anyone when you’re tied up,” Cordy teased her.
“Okay, that’s enough, boys and girls,” Serena said. “No más, Cordy, you hear me?”
“Friday night?” Cordy continued, smiling at Lavender.
Lavender shrugged, but it was an acquiescence. “Okay, slick. You got it. Pick me up here at eight o’clock. We’ll have six hours until my next shift.”
Serena sighed. “That’s great. Real romantic. Meanwhile, we’ve got a dead girl, and we’re trying to find out who she is.”
“Girls come and go around here,” Lavender said.
“I know. This one came and went. Five-foot-seven, black hair dyed blonde, somewhere between seventeen and twenty-five, or that’s what we’re guessing. She’s probably been missing at least two or three days.”
“Could be anybody,” Lavender said.
Cordy reached out and brushed his index finger below Lavender’s left nipple. “She had a heart tattoo right about here.”
Damn, the guy was good. Sometimes Serena felt like a robot, watching all the sex in this town and feeling no emotion about any of it.
She knew what the other cops called her. Barb. Not for Barbara—it was short for Barbed Wire. The girl with the high fence and the NO TRESPASSING sign. That was her own fault. Even when she liked a man, she usually found a way to leave him bleeding on the other side, instead of letting him in. Sometimes she envied Cordy that he could make it look so easy.
“A heart?” Lavender said slowly.
Serena saw it in Lavender’s eyes. For the first time that day, she felt her pulse quicken.
“You knew her?” Serena asked.
Lavender bit her lower lip. “Maybe. There was a girl at the last club where I worked, had a tattoo like that, matched that description.”
“What was her name?”
“Christi. Christi Katt. I mean, I figure it was a fake name, okay? Like I’m not really Lavender, and if I ever tell you my real name, I know you too well.”
“What was the club?” Cordy asked.
“The Thrill Palace. On the Boulder Strip.”
Serena knew it. “You know where this girl lived?”
“She had a dump of an apartment over near the airport. Oh, shit, what was the place called again? Vagabond, I think. Yeah, the Vagabond Apartments. Fits, huh? Most of the rentals there are weekly, I bet. Maybe daily.”
“You remember much about her?”
“Not a lot. She wasn’t a talker. Came in, did her thing. Most of the girls, we pal around, but she didn’t do that.”
“When did you last see her?” Serena asked.
“When I left the club,” Lavender said. “About a month ago.”
Cordy reluctantly slid the photo out of his coat pocket. “Could this be her?”
Lavender glanced at the photo and immediately shut her eyes, looking away. She opened them again and took another quick look. “Shit. That really sucks. No one deserves to look like that, I mean no one.”
“Could that be her?”
Lavender squinted. “Could be. I don’t know. Who can tell from that? Christi was really pretty, not like that thing. Hell, she was almost as sexy as I am. If that’s her—well, shit.”
She shook her head and handed the photo back upside down.
“Thanks, Lavender,” Serena told her. “You’ve been a big help.”
Cordy winked. “Gracias. See you Friday.”
“Hey, you’ve already seen me, slick,” Lavender said. “Friday I get to see you.”