Ing of Clubs

Chapter 1

I came out of the dry cleaners carrying an armload of garments and spotted my partner Carla McBain behind the steering wheel of my little blue Honda Accord waving her hands like there was a spider in the car. "Linda! Linda!" she called excitedly. "Come here! Quick!"

I hurried over to her. "What's all the fuss?"

"I was listening to the police scanner and heard something you may be interested in."

Carla and I used to work at the police department before we were politely asked to leave before our lesbian relationship caused an embarrassment to the force. I didn't mind. It gave us the chance to hang out our shingle as private investigators. Carla still liked to monitor law enforcement activity on the scanner in the car. She said it also helped keep us up on criminal activity as a way of finding potential clients.

I opened the passenger door and hung our clothes on the hook over the back seat. "What did you hear?"

"Roger King's house was broken into last night."

"Oh my gosh!" Roger King was the owner of the Doll House gentleman's club. Carla and I worked there three or four times a week in order to supplement our income. I tended bar and Carla waited topless on the gentlemen clients. My curvaceous lady lover certainly had the figure for it. I hopped into the passenger seat. "Do you think we should go over there?"

"Absolutely," Carla nodded with stern conviction. "Whether Roger knows it or not, the man needs our help."

I frowned at my partner as she squealed the wheels pulling from the parking lot. "It's only a break-in. Could be nothing at all."

"I have a private detective's hunch there's more to it."

"I thought I was the private detective," I remarked dryly. "You mainly do the research and bookkeeping."

Carla flashed me a playful grin. "Your intuitive nature must be rubbing off on me." She returned her attention to the road. "I get a tingling sensation down South when I feel something is going down."

I chuckled under my breath. "Usually those tingles are from when I'm going down."

We pulled up to the curb on front of Roger's house. Roger King lived in a quaint little two-bedroom home of white aluminum siding and colonial blue trim. It was a nice unpretentious ranch house in a quiet suburb neighborhood.

There were no police cars around, only Roger's big black truck parked in the driveway. Carla and I climbed out and crossed the lawn to the front door. It was open. Carla rapped her knuckles on the screen door. Roger appeared a moment later. Our employer, Roger King, was a big man - six foot two and weighting in at about two hundred sixty or more. None of it was flab either. The guy used to be a defensive lineman for a professional football team until he blew out his knee one too many times. After he was forced to retire, Roger tried his best to keep in shape at the gym, but it wasn't easy with that bum knee. He did mostly upper-body stuff, which made him even more buff in the chest and arms.

The man still looked great for an ex-athlete.

Roger didn't seem too distraught, merely a tad surprised to see us there. "What are you two ladies doing here?" he asked.

I hedged and felt kind of foolish appearing on our boss' door step for no reason.

Carla chirped merrily, "We happen to be in the neighborhood and thought we'd drop by."

The man's face belied no emotion. "Come on in." He opened the door wider for us to enter. "As a matter of fact, I've had a bit of excitement this morning."

Carla feigned surprise and asked, "What kind of excitement?"

"Someone broke into my house last night."

"Really?" I asked. "Was anything taken?"

"I don't think so. Some of my pictures and trophies were moved about, that's all. Very strange. It was like somebody wanted to take a look around."

"That is weird," I mused almost to myself. I casually asked, "So how did they break in?"

"Jimmied the back door with a small tool like a pocket knife. I'll need to replace the lock."

"Do you want Linda and me to investigate it for you?" Carla offered candidly. She and I knew all too well that the cops would not pursue the matter if nothing was stolen.

Roger shrugged with indifference. "I don't think so. It was probably some fan from my pro ball days who wanted to get a gander at my souvenirs. I doubt they'll be back."

Carla patted the man on the arm and stated sincerely, "If you change your mind, give us a call, okay?"

Roger nodded soberly. "Sure thing."

I glanced up from washing some wine glasses as a topless waitress named Muffy set a tray of empty bottles and glasses on the bar. Muffy was a tall slender gal with a wild mane of wavy blonde tresses cascading over bare shoulders and huge artificial boobs. Those babies weren't just enhancements, they were enormous. They looked like two soccer balls mounted on her chest. Being a lady with a minimal bust, I can appreciate the appeal of having a pair of big bazoongas, but these honeys were noticeably phony. I'd bet when you pressed the two of them together they'd still leave a gap in the girl's cleavage wide enough to slide a salami through. Perhaps that was the whole intention, figuratively speaking, though I doubted salami was the chick's meat of choice. Muffy was one mighty sexy girl. She was a real sweetheart who always had a bright smile and kind word to say no matter how hectic it got at The Doll House gentleman's club.

"The boss wants to see you," Muffy groused with a slight roll of her eyes to the ceiling.

After Roger King retired from professional football, he went into business for himself and opened The Doll House. I believed it was for several reasons. Though the Doll House was promoted as a bona fide gentleman's club, everyone knew it was little more than a topless bar, and bars were easier to operate than your typical restaurant. No need for a kitchen, chef, bus boys or dish washers. All you needed was a liquor license and a bevy of lovely ladies to serve drinks and you were in business. Plus the stigma of a gentleman's club made the owner feel more like an entrepreneur catering to upper class clientele than mere patrons of a glorified tittie bar.

Secondly, most retired athletes liked to capitalize on their former fame by opening up sports bars, sports themed restaurants, gymnasiums, and the like. I suspected Roger King didn't want to have the constant reminder that his glory days were over and that he was a washed up ex-football player. The man was leaving that chapter of his life behind and starting a new endeavor, though the notoriety of his former pro ball stardom didn't hurt his business promotion one little bit.

The third reason, and in my opinion the most important, was that Roger constantly found himself surrounded by gorgeous half-naked women. Any aging athlete loves to feel as though he is still popular with the ladies, and a room full of scantily-clad lovelies added to that illusion. I of course, was the exception to the rule. As the bartender I got to wear a white tuxedo shirt, black bowtie and black slacks. My attire added a dash of sophistication of the establishment. I also didn't have much of a figure to speak of. Petite breasts, narrow hips and unimpressive butt. My figure served me well when I was a police officer. I was grateful I was not of the caliber of the lovely gals who waited topless on tables. Personally I preferred to reserve my nakedness for the bedroom.

I furrowed my brow with a quizzical expression. "Roger wants to see me?" That usually wasn't good news. The man probably wanted to chew me out about something, though I couldn't imagine what.

I wiped my hands on a bar towel and waved a waitress named Janet to come over. She was a petite gal with short dark hair cut in an Audrey Hepburn style and a high firm chest. "Cover for me, will you, hon?" I said.

Janet smiled sweetly and nodded. "Of course." She took over for me behind the bar as I headed to the boss' office.

As I crossed the lounge and entered through the 'Employees Only' door, my mind raced trying to remember what I may have done wrong. Was it some ill remark I made in passing? That couldn't be it. I was always pleasant to my customers and co-workers. I couldn't remember any altercation with any of the girls or patrons in the recent past either.

My sex life, maybe? I doubted it. It was no big secret that Carla and I were lovers, certainly nothing for anyone to be concerned about. So long as we didn't kiss and grope and make out in front of the customers, what we did in our free time was our own affair.

I couldn't think of a single thing I said or did that was worthy of a reprimand by the boss. I surmised that maybe I wasn't in for a dressing down after all. Maybe I was up for a raise.

One can only hope.

I rapped my knuckles on his office door and poked my head inside. "You wanted to see me?"

Mister King sat behind a large desk of dark oak working on the ledger books. Roger never seemed to grasp the benefit of using a personal computer. The man preferred to do things the old fashioned way with paper and a pencil. Roger leaned back in his leather reclining chair and gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

I moved to the padded armchair in front of his desk and sat quietly with my hands cradled in my lap. I tried to appear unassuming, preparing myself for the possible berating that was about to commence.

"How are things going with your other job as a private investigator?"

Oh crap. So that was what this was all about. One of the customers must have had a beef about me working as a PI on the side. Roger had no problem with my other occupation when I originally started working for him. He simply didn't want me going around advertising the fact. It would not help his business at all if clients thought they were being watched by someone who might relay their clandestine visits to the Doll House back to their wives or business associates. I promised Roger from the onset that I would never bring aspects of my other job down to the club. Being a private eye didn't generate enough money to live on, so working nights at the club helped supplemented my income.

I considered the possibility that one of the girls at the club heard about my other occupation and felt uneasy about it. My housemate, lover, and investigative assistant Carla McBain waited topless on tables at the club. She certainly had the body for it. Carla was a gorgeous redhead with an amazing hourglass figure that most ladies would sell their souls to have. Carla might have let slip that she and I used to be cops and now do private investigations on the side. Maybe one of the girls took offence to having to work beside ex-cops. I didn't want Carla to get into any trouble on my account. Carla and I fell in love at the police department and we were politely asked to leave before our relationship caused the force any public scandal or embarrassment. I didn't want the same thing to happen at this establishment as well.

I tried to act nonchalant. "Um . . . things are okay, I guess." If I was to be terminated because a client was uneasy about having a PI tend bar, it was best to cut me loose as quickly and painlessly as possible.

"Hmmm," Roger grunted, his big paw of a hand stroking his chin. The fellow fell silent a moment as he weighed his next sentence. I remained quiet. I debated pleading my case, but thought that might make things worse. I had Carla's interests in mind as well as my own. I knew how much she enjoyed working at the club and waiting topless for the customers.

My boss regarded me evenly. "I've given this issue quite a bit of thought," Roger said. "I want to hire you."

I was instantly taken aback. "You . . . what?"

"I want to employ your services as a private investigator."

I was speechless and downright flabbergasted. Nobody from the club had ever approached me about doing some consulting work for them before. "You want to hire me?" I stammered, struggling to regain my composure. This wasn't what I expected at all. Then again, it sure beat getting called on the carpet or possibly getting fired.

"Do you have a problem with that?" Roger asked evenly.

I suddenly felt silly and more than a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry," I winced. "I didn't expect you to invite me to your office to discuss utilizing my other services." My boss regarded me soberly, his face revealing no expression. "Quite frankly, you caught me off guard," I continued. "I mean, why talk to me now? Why not wait until my shift was over, or arrange to meet with me tomorrow?"

"What I have to discuss with you is a matter of some delicacy. I made up my mind this evening to hire you and didn't want to wait lest I change my mind."

I nodded with understanding. "I see." I relaxed a little seeing as I was now the professional investigator interviewing a client. "How can I help you?"

Roger leaned forward in his chair and rested his forearms on the desk. "You realize you have to keep this matter to yourself. I don't want everybody knowing I'm hiring you to help me out with a personal problem. It might cause uneasiness among customers and employees here at the club. In fact, somebody working here may actually be involved."

I nodded again. Roger was in some difficulty with a person or persons unknown. Blackmail was my guess. Though what he had worth hiding I hadn't a clue. If someone uncovered a past indiscretion from his pro ball days, what would it matter now? Roger might even laugh it off and blame it on the wild life of a professional athlete. I doubted the man had done anything too serious in the past to be concerned over.

"What about Carla McBain?" I asked. "She's my partner." The man gazed evenly at me and I felt my face redden. "With my investigations, I mean." I shifted awkwardly in my seat. "And . . . in other ways too."

"I know all about your love life."

"You do?"

"Yes. Women tend to talk. It's hard not to hear some of the gossip. However, what you do behind closed doors is entirely your own business."

"Thanks, Roger. Carla McBain is my lover and my partner. We've been together for a few years now. She helps me out on cases too. I may find the need for her assistance on this one. I'd feel better if I didn't have to keep your hiring me a secret from her."

"Will she be able to keep it to herself?"

"Carla is the very soul of discretion."

Roger leaned back in his chair and thought a moment. "All right. Just the two of you then."

"Thanks." I relaxed a little and leaned back in my seat. "So what is the problem?"

"Someone has been sending me threatening letters."

I regarded the man without expression. "About your personal life or your business?"

"Mostly personal."

"You say you received letters in the past?"

"Some, though not like the most recent one. The others were chastising me for exploiting women, giving up football, that sort of thing. Typical disgruntled public stuff. These latest letters are different. They're much more personal. At first I ignored them, but they became more hostile and aggressive. None of them were mailed, so I have no envelope with a post mark or return address. Just a single sheet of paper stuck in my mailbox or left in my front door." Roger opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a sheet of paper. "I found this latest one on my kitchen table this morning after the break in." He handed me the page. "I didn't show it to the police because I didn't want to make a big deal out of it. Apparently someone broke into my house during the night and left it there. My guess is it's the work of some crazed fan or some nut job."

I accepted the paper from him and examined it. "Standard sheet of copy paper," I frowned, flipping it over in my hands. "Black ink printer with standard font - Times New Roman 12 point, I think. Anybody with a personal computer and a cheap printer could have written this." I glanced at him. "That's the problem with modern technology. People don't write personal letters anymore. Forget about handwriting analysis or trying to get a clue as to the author's identity from grammar and spelling. There are word processing programs to fix errors in spelling and improper word usage. With a borrowed computer terminal at the local library or junior college any illiterate bum could come off sounding like a college professor."

"Exactly," Roger agreed.

I read the page. It contained a single paragraph making vague allusions to partnerships and betrayal. A couple of words leaped out at me as having a distinct feminine quality like those found in steamy romance novels. "It mentions partners in here," I said. "Did you have a partner when you started the Doll House?"

"No."

"Any women you were in a relationship with who felt jilted or abandoned?"

"No."

I frowned and set the paper on his desk. "Someone is taking a past relationship with you very personal. We could be looking at a very disturbed and unbalanced individual."

"No doubt someone who wants to ruin me."

"I think it goes much deeper than that. This is personal. You say the other letters were left at your home. The person wanted to send you a message. However, it became obvious that you were not taking them seriously. That was why the person broke into your house. He or she wanted to make sure you would not ignore this one."

"What do you suggest I do?"

"Well, there's no use calling the police. Most likely they would say there's nothing they can do since no crime has been committed other than putting a scare into you. The best they could do is put your home under surveillance, though I seriously doubt it. They don't have the manpower to monitor every person who receives a crank letter."

"Do you think this is a crank letter?"

"No. I do not."

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

I shifted slightly in my seat. "Tell me, boss, what are you doing later tonight?"

The man looked at me curiously. "You mean, after we close up the club?"

"Yes. What were you planning to do after that?"

"Go home, have a drink or two, and then go to bed."

"Would you care for some company?"

Roger's narrowed his eyes. "Company?"

"As long as you don't have other plans," I said, "I'd like to come home with you tonight."

"To protect me?" he grunted.

"To pick your brain about the case," I explained. "Sometimes when you talk about your life and events in it, a memory is jarred loose that may prove significant."

Roger regarded me skeptically. "What about your relationship with your female partner? If the gals here caught wind you were coming home with me, they might get the wrong idea."

I chuckled under my breath. "It will give them something to gossip about, that's for sure. Of course, you and I know nothing is going to happen."

The man leaned back in his chair and smiled. "True. You're not my type."

I couldn't stop my eyebrows from leaping up. "Not your type?"

Roger grinned. "You're too intelligent. I prefer women who are not interested in lively conversation and witty repartee. As an ex-jock, my focus tends to be more on a lady's physical attributes and not so much on the intellectual."

I scowled playfully at the man. "So you're saying I'm not attractive enough for you?"

"Let's just call you cute and smart and leave it at that."

I nodded. "Fair enough." I rose to stand. "I should be getting back to the bar. I've been in your office too long. The girls might become suspicious. As you pointed out, the author of these notes may be someone working here . . . someone who is jealous, mentally unbalanced, and very determined." I paused. "Have you ever had a dalliance with a girl working at the club?"

"No. That would leave me wide open for a possible sexual harassment case and accusations of favoritism. You ladies have enough control over my business affairs without me throwing those elements into the mix."

I quickly mentally scanned through the bevy of beauties working at the club. They were all gorgeous and friendly ladies, though I couldn't think of anyone who was particularly chummy with the boss. "Just thought I'd ask." I turned for the door. "I'll tell Carla I'm going home with you tonight."