Death, Taxes, and Hot Pink Leg Warmers by Diane Kelly Read Free Book Online Page A

“I’m Tyson.”
    He’d always be Tarzan to me.
    “Sara.”
    As I shook his hand, I noticed an electronic keypad was mounted on the outside wall next to the doors. I supposed it made sense to have a keypad instead of regular door locks. Given the turnover in the club, it would be much easier and cheaper to change the access code when an employee quit or was terminated than it would be to change locks and distribute new keys.
    The bouncer stepped in after me, calling out to a cocktail waitress. “Yo, Tiff. This chick needs to see Merle.”
    Chick? What the cluck?
    The young blonde waved me in. “This way.”
    The inside of the club was decorated in black and gold, with elevated black vinyl booths around the perimeter and black-topped bar tables closer to the stage. The platform was T-shaped, like the runway in a fashion show, with the main part centered along the back wall and an extension jutting out into the room. The effect was phallic. Three poles graced the stage, one at each end of the T.
    Only one of the poles was in use at the moment, the one at the tip of the T, closest to the buffet where the late lunch crowd was filling their plates with all-you-can-eat cocktail shrimp for $4.99. A tall Asian woman with black hair that hung well past her tatas gripped the pole with one hand and slowly bent and straightened her knees in a slow-motion repetitive crouch, as if she were riding an invisible carousel horse. She put the “ho” in “Hi-ho, Silver.” Another dancer, this one with shoulder-length brown hair and an athletic build, gyrated at a table for a trio of businessmen peeling shrimp and dipping them in cocktail sauce. The men cast occasional glances at her between bites of seafood and bits of conversation.
    The club’s wallpaper featured a ziggurat motif typical of the Art Deco style. A number of wide mirror panels hung behind the stage and along the walls, probably as much to make the place seem bigger as to reflect the dancers, make the patrons believe they were getting more boob for their buck. As if the nearly naked girls onstage and their writhing reflections weren’t enough, an abundance of nude statutes stood around, the subjects shamelessly showing off their bodies. All of the statues were female, not a Penis de Milo in sight. Talk about your sexist work environments.
    The waitress led me past the restrooms to a door marked PRIVATE—EXECUTIVE OFFICES , which was guarded by another keypad and another long-haired goon. When the waitress informed the guy why I was there, he stepped aside wordlessly, punched a series of four numbers into the pad, and opened the door.
    “In there,” the girl said. “The room on the left.”
    “Thanks.”
    The goon closed and locked the door behind me. I found myself in a small, dark hallway. The door to the right bore a fancy gold nameplate for MR. DONALD GEILS, PROPRIETOR . The plaque should have read PIMP AND DRUG LORD . The door on the left contained a small, square reinforced window panel and was unmarked, neither of which was surprising for an office in which a lot of cash was handled. A security keypad was mounted next to each door.
    I knocked on the door to the cash office and waited.
    A few seconds later, an older man’s round face appeared behind the glass. “Are you Sara?” came his muffled voice.
    No. “Yes.”
    The dead bolt slid aside with a click and the door opened, revealing Merle. He looked like an aged Charlie Brown, with a boxy build, short arms, and a disproportionately large head that was entirely bald except for three dark hairs curling haphazardly across his forehead. He wore gray pants and a thin white dress shirt, slightly wrinkled and open at the throat. No tie. No jacket.
    His gaze went up and down, taking all of me in, though the assessment was in no way sexual. When his eyes returned to my face, he said, “You look like a girl who’s got her head on straight.”
    “Thanks.”
    He held out a hand. “Merle Vasilakis.”
    His last