Charles Steel looked up at the neon sign that blinked a garish invitation to the Bottoms Up Gentleman’s Club. Under the words “Hottest Strip Club in Eden” flashed the silhouette of a nude woman, snaking around a stripper’s pole.
Charles strolled through the pockmarked parking lot to the windowless stucco building that housed the club. He pushed through twin glass doors, embossed with matching silhouetted dancers, and stepped into the unattended lobby, then pushed aside strips of satin fabric to enter the lounge.
Charles edged along an elevated runway, studded with footlights, making his way to a long, hardwood bar against the back wall.
There were no customers sipping beer and ogling nude dancers. For that matter, there were no strippers swirling onstage or swinging from poles. It was four in the afternoon, and the fun was still to come. Charles spotted a short, balding man in a red, polyester shirt and khakis behind the bar, standing on his tiptoes to stock liquor on the shelves along the mirrored wall. The man pushed fifths of Jack Daniels into place, while humming an off-key rendition of “New York, New York.”
This dealer in babes and booze—framed by a sign for “$20 Lap Dances”—looked familiar. Who did this short, balding denizen of a dive bar, this middle-aged caricature in red polyester, look like? A movie star? That was it. The barman was a dead ringer for Danny DeVito.
Charles choked back a laugh. “Good afternoon. How are you, sir?”
The barman eyed Charles’ reflection in the mirror. “You’re early. The show doesn’t start until five. How about a drink?”
Charles pulled out his wallet, extracted a hundred-dollar bill, showed it to the barman, and laid it on the bar. “I’ll have a Genie. Keep the change.”
The DeVito-lookalike served up the beer and palmed the hundred. “Benjamin Franklin.” He planted the bill in his front pocket. “My favorite president.”
“Charles Steel.” He extended a hand across the bar. “Private investigator.”
The bartender shook it. “Frank Valentine. I own the place.”
“Frank. I’m looking for a former employee of yours. She used to work here. Her name was Erin Lambert.”
“Erin Lambert?” Valentine looked up at the ceiling. “Not ringing a bell. I just can’t…”
Charles laid down another hundred.
The proprietor swiped it and found his memory. “Erin Lambert. Been a long time… ten years, maybe? We called her by her stage name, Breeze.”
“Breeze?”
“Sweet kid. What a shame.”
“She was murdered, yes.”
“Hanged.”
“Tell me about her,” Charles said.
“What about her?”
“She had a drug problem?” Charles asked.
“Who doesn’t?” Valentine replied.
“She dated your bouncer.” Charles delivered the statement as a matter of fact. “Jimmy Dean Bernadi.”
Valentine screwed up his face like he’d just tasted rancid meat. “Bernadi. I fired his ass. Good riddance to bad rubbish.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons.” Valentine’s face turned as red as his polyester. “Two reasons.”
“Yeah?”
“Jimmy got his rocks off hurting women.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t tolerate anybody roughing up my girls.”
“He roughed up Erin?” Charles asked. “I mean, Breeze?”
“Bad.”
“The other reason?”
“The bastard was lifting twenties from the till.”
“Got it.” Charles nodded, unsurprised. “Where is Bernadi now?”
Valentine swiped a rag over the bar, shaking his head and laughing out loud. “Jimmy Dean Bernadi is the biggest heroin dealer in the four-county region. He spends most of his time babysitting his addicts down at the abandoned looney bin.”
“Angel’s Gate?”
“Yep.”
“West of town?” Charles asked. “On Old Route 5?”
“You got it. There’s only one.”
“Thanks.” Charles drained his Genie. “Got to run.”
“Don’t go there, man.” Valentine threw the rag into a bin and put his hands on his hips. “Do not go to Angel’s Gate. It ain’t safe. The devil’s in that place.”
Charles Steel smiled at Frank Valentine. “It’s cool. I’m not going there.”