Located primarily on the 400 block of East Baltimore Street, The Block is home to several bars, strip clubs, and sex shops. Originally several blocks long and famous for its burlesque houses in the early twentieth century, the strip had shrunk and become seedier by the 1950s, marked by a notable increase in crime, prostitution, and drug dealing. Many considered the criminal activity ironic, considering the location of Baltimore Police Department’s Central District headquarters—at the east end of The Block.
Harrison had taken Kendall’s advice and spent a few hours with Angie, then headed toward The Block to chase down the stripper lead. It was a long shot it would amount to anything, but if Mixell had been serious—that the stripper was his soul mate—now that he was back in the area, perhaps they had reconnected. Find her, and he might find Mixell.
This time of night, the traffic was heavy and the bars full as he drove east, searching for the Player’s Club. He parked in a garage not far away and entered through a small door to find a surprisingly upscale establishment with a retro decor harking back to Baltimore’s burlesque days, along with two dancers hanging upside down on a two-story stripper pole. Two other women were working walkways on either side of the main stage, with the edge crowded with men waving folded dollar bills at the dancers.
The bar was likewise crowded, but Harrison found an opening and waited his turn for service. The bar was tended by a woman who was as attractive as the dancers onstage, if not more so. She finished serving a customer, then approached Harrison.
“What can I get ya?” she asked.
“What do you have on tap?”
“How about a Topless Blonde?”
The woman smiled, giving Harrison a moment to realize she was talking about a beer and not one of the blond dancers onstage.
“It’s pretty good,” she added, “made by a local microbrewery, Chesapeake Brewing Company.” She leaned closer and placed her elbows on the bar, providing Harrison a clear view of her cleavage. “It’s got a nice body. You should give it a try.”
Harrison nodded and a cold beverage was soon in his hand. He took a long pull and agreed with the bartender—the Topless Blonde was quite good. After a few more sips, Harrison caught the bartender’s attention.
“Can I talk to the manager?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “What for?”
“Nothing to be worried about. I need some help.”
“What kind of help?”
He pulled up a picture on his cell phone. “Recognize this guy?”
Harrison already knew the answer. The bartender looked to be in her mid-twenties, and Mixell had frequented this place fifteen years ago. She would’ve been around ten years old.
After she shook her head, Harrison said, “I’m hoping your manager remembers this guy.”
“Why are you looking for him?”
Harrison debated whether to continue with the bartender’s inquisition. She was doing an admirable job running interference for her boss.
He smiled. “Manager, please.”
She cast another suspicious look at him as she pulled a cell phone from under the bar and dialed. She explained the situation, listened for a few seconds, then hung up.
“He’ll be out in a minute.”
A short while later, a tall, lanky man with long black hair and heavily tattooed arms and neck emerged from a back room. He eyed Harrison as he approached, then stopped beside him.
“Name’s Steve Reed,” he said. “And you are?”
“Jake,” Harrison replied. Not wanting to spook the manager with the details of his current employment, he chose a different tack. “Former Navy guy, working a new gig.” Attempting to ward off additional inquiries, he said, “The gig’s not important.”
Reed evaluated Harrison’s assertion, then replied, “How can I help?”
“I’m looking for a guy who dated a stripper who used to work here.” Harrison showed him Mixell’s picture. “Would’ve been a customer about fifteen years ago. Recognize him?”
Reed studied the photo, then replied, “Yeah, I recognize him. Don’t remember his name though. Big guy, well built, with a temper. Like you said, he dated a stripper. A platinum blonde who went by the stage name of Angel, but the guys called her Trish the Dish.”
“Trish the Dish?”
“Yeah. She was pretty hot and she dished out what she had to the guys, if you know what I mean.”
Harrison nodded. “What was her name?”
Reed shook his head. “I don’t recall.”
“Do you have any employment records, something with her name and address?”
“Nothing that far back. Just seven years, for tax purposes. In this line of work, the fewer records the better.”
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“She quit one weekend. Got engaged to some guy and was going to start her life over, or so the story went. Haven’t seen her since.”
Harrison pointed to Mixell’s photo. “To this guy?”
“Don’t know for sure, but I reckon so. She was pretty tight-lipped about personal stuff.”
“Can you describe her?”
Reed shrugged his shoulders. “White girl, average height and build. Beautiful face, nice tits and ass, lean legs. Platinum blonde most of the time, but sometimes dyed her hair pink or purple.”
“Did she have any friends or family?”
“No family I know of, and the girls around the club were the only friends I saw her hang out with. But I can’t help you there either—those girls are scattered to the winds. I’m lucky to hang on to someone for two or three years.”
“Is there anything else you remember that might be helpful? Where she went to next? What she might be doing now?”
“She said she was paying her way through college, going to have a respectable life. But I’d take that with a grain of salt. Her story was the same as every stripper. Deep down, they’re all good girls working nights to pay for college or to put food on the table until they get that big break in their acting or dancing career. At least that’s what they tell the guys.”
“Got it,” Harrison replied.
As he searched for another line of questioning that might produce a lead, the manager asked, “So why all the sudden interest in this stripper?”
Harrison was surprised by the manager’s question. “What do you mean, all the sudden interest?”
“A woman was in here earlier today, asking the same questions.”
“Did you get her name?”
Reed shook his head. “But she’s hard to miss—a tall Arab chick. A real looker. I offered her a job and she gave me a look to kill. Daggers for eyes, that girl. Know her?”
“Maybe,” Harrison replied, although he was sure it was Khalila. Why was she running down this lead, and why without him? Was she trying to help, or was she trying to get to the stripper before he did? If the latter, what were Khalila’s plans if she caught up to her?
As usual with Khalila, there were more questions than answers.
Harrison pulled a Bluestone Security business card from his wallet and handed it to the manager. “If you remember anything that might be helpful, give me a call.”