The place was kind of a bar and kind of a strip club and it wasn't doing much of a job at being either. The building was old and the age showed. The ceiling had been one of those fancy tinwork things at one time. I only knew that because enough layers of paint had peeled off in a couple places to reveal the original metal surface. It was impossible to tell what the last paint color had been. All the years of cigarette and cigar smoke had stained it a yellow brown. The place even smelled bad. The aroma of stale tobacco smoke mingled with the smell of stale beer and cheap booze. On top of that was the smell of urine that wafted through the place anytime a guy went in or out of the john.
At one time, the place had probably been a decent neighborhood bar. It was easy to imagine the Friday night crowd laughing and having fun at the end of the workweek. There used to be bars like that in each neighborhood of the city. They were the gathering points for the working class crowd, and throbbed with music and laughter every Friday and Saturday night. During the weekdays, those bars served as a place for workers to unwind with a beer or two and maybe share a few stories before going home after work.
Now, it looked like the bar proper was probably half its original length because it just stopped half way down the wall. There was no end bar or pass-through. It just ended, like somebody with a huge saw had just cut it in two and dragged out the other half. What had probably once been several tables for four against the opposite wall were just two and those were crowded into the corner by the door.
The back half of the building was where the strippers danced. There was a small stage against the back wall, and rows of folding chairs facing it. It was almost three in the morning, so there were only a handful of men sitting in those chairs and watching the girl on stage. Most likely they were waiting to see if she'd go home with one of them. It couldn't have been because she was erotic because she wasn't.
I say she was a girl out of habit. She was probably forty or better and her face looked like those forty years had been pretty rough. Even the thick makeup she'd plastered on couldn't hide the slight droop of her jowls and the lines in her forehead and around her eyes. She was down to only a thong panty and was starting to work her ass in hopes of getting a few tips. I did see a couple of wadded up bills fly up on the stage. If I'd been in her audience, I might have tossed her a couple out of pity, but pity would have been the only reason.
Her breasts weren't really all that big, but they sagged so much her nipples pointed straight down when she was standing. The ass she was working was dimpled all over with cellulite and her ass cheeks sagged too. On top of all that was a roll of fat that hung down from her belly when she was bent over like she was.
I figured her for a woman who'd danced when she was young and just kept on dancing because that's all she knew. The average age for a dancer in an up-scale club is about twenty-two, and most have stopped by twenty-five or so. Some of them find a guy and get married. Some end up in adult films for the next ten years or so. Some do both. A few end up like the dancer I was watching.
I wasn't there for a drink. I knew I'd have to order one or I'd be asked to leave, but I probably wouldn't drink it. I wasn't sure how the place ever got a business license because it was so filthy, but I suppose like a lot of other things in this city, money will turn a health inspector's head the other way.
I wasn't there to watch the woman either. I don't like strip clubs. In the better clubs, the girls do what they do because it pays well. They don't care about any of the men in the audience. Usually, the rules of the club don't permit them to have any contact with a customer outside of a lap dance anyway. To me, strip clubs are like when you were a kid and went through the Christmas catalogue picking out everything you wanted and knowing you probably weren't going to get any of it.
Clubs like this one just make me feel sorry for the women. The dancers aren't necessarily that old, but they're too old to earn a living dancing in a really nice club and end up in dumps like this one. Many have to turn to the world's oldest profession to make ends meet. If they're doing drugs, and many are, they become slaves to the club owner and their pimp.
I've arrested enough of them to know what I'm talking about. I drove a patrol car for fifteen years before making it to detective. I worked another five years in vice and have seen a lot of clubs, prostitutes, and pimps in the process. The last five I'd worked in homicide. That's why I was at "Heels" that night.
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She'd called the station and asked to speak to the Captain. Jackie, the female officer at the desk, asked why. The woman said she'd only tell that to the Captain. Jackie put her through to Captain Blake. He took some notes and then passed those notes to me.
The woman wouldn't give the Captain her name. All she told him was someone was trying to kill her. She said she'd be at a place called "Heels" on Thirty-Sixth and when an officer came to talk to her he should wear street clothes with a pink shirt. She also said he had to come at exactly two forty-five AM or she wouldn't talk to him.
I laughed when the Captain asked me if I had a pink shirt.
"Captain, you've known me long enough to know I'm not that in touch with my feminine side."
"Well, go get one and then get your ass down to some dive called "Heels."
He filled me in on what little he knew about the woman, all two sentences of it. Then he smiled.
"She's probably just paranoid about some guy she thinks is following her, but go check her out. If it's nothing, you can write that up and close the case. If there is something to what she thinks, we need to get on top of it before the worst happens."
At two-forty I parked my personal car a block from Heels and walked up to the door. After waiting outside until my watch said two forty-five, I went through that door.
I really wasn't sure what to do, so I went to the bar and ordered a club soda. The bartender frowned when he sat the glass down and then said, "That'll be three bucks." He stood there drumming his fingers on the bar as I tossed three ones down in front of me, and kept drumming them until I added another single. One look at the glass told me that club soda was going to sit there untouched until the place closed. There was some sort of brown ring in the bottom.
I was sitting there watching the stripper when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a petite little brunette about forty looking at me. She pointed to the two tables in the corner.
"Maybe you should go sit at that table over there. I'll bring you a fresh drink."
Figuring this was the woman I was supposed to talk with, I picked up my glass and walked over to one of the tables. The brunette came over a minute later with another club soda.
"Willard never gets the bottoms of the glasses clean, not that anybody in this dump would care. I washed this one myself and the club soda is from a fresh bottle, not from the dispenser on the bar. You don't look like you belong in a place like this. Why are you here?"
"I'm Detective Ames, Detective Harry Ames. A woman called the station and asked to talk to an officer. I'm him. Are you the woman?"
The woman sighed.
"I was afraid they'd think I was crazy or something and wouldn't send anybody. I can't talk to you now. You'll have to wait until we close up at three and I get changed. I'll meet you outside in front."
At five till three, the DJ playing songs for the dancers announced they would close in five minutes. The woman on stage stopped dancing and picked up the few bills laying on the floor, then picked up her clothes and walked off the stage. One by one, the men in the chairs tipped up their bottles or glasses to drain them and then filed out the door. I went out with the last two and stood by the curb in front of the door. By innocently brushing my ankles together, I reassured myself the snub.38 was securely in the holster on my left ankle. If there was any area of the city I might need the backup weapon, this was it.
At ten after, she walked out the door and up to me. She'd changed from the waitress uniform with little shorts, low cut top and black stockings to jeans and a tank top.
