Frank Zafiro - Some Degree of Murder

“What was her name?”

“Lucy. No, it was a little different than that. Something Spanish.”

“Lucinda?” I guessed.

“Nah, but it was something like that. Anyway, she was the only one I ever heard her talk about. I got the impression she wasn’t close with the rest of her family.”

I took out my notepad and jotted the name down and a few other facts. “Did she say where she was from?”

“Some town in California. She only just left there a couple of months ago.”

“Salinas?”

“Yeah, that was it,” Gina said. “You know a lot about her.”

“I don’t know enough yet. When did she last work here?”

George thought for a moment. “I think it was Saturday ni-”

Gina interrupted him. “No, it was Sunday. You were off. Pearl was tending bar.”

“How late?”

“She left early,” Gina said. “It was slow. It was around eight or nine when she left. I only stayed another hour myself.”

“Any customers bother her that night?”

“Unh-uh.”

“Anyone leave right after her?”

“I don’t think so. There were only two guys in here and neither one was spending any money. I was on stage when she left and they both stayed through my set. In fact, they were both still here when I left.”

The music stopped and there was a smattering of applause and some more enthusiastic hollering from Patti’s Hat Brigade. Patti blew them kisses and pranced off stage.

“Gina, you’re up,” George told her.

I expected her to argue, but she didn’t say a word. She wiped her eyes once more with the handkerchief and hopped down from the stool. Her body was slender and shapely. She gave me a sad smile, making the scar tissue on her face stretch slightly. “The show must go on, you know?”

I asked her first and last name and her date of birth. She answered quickly and I scrawled the information on my notepad. As soon as she finished with my questions, she trotted up to the stage door, passing Patti on the way out. A couple of patrons whooped at her as she entered the door to backstage.

Patti approached the bar, wiping sweat from her body with a towel. She wore a flimsy half-shirt over her breasts. Despite her lined face and her flab, she radiated confidence. She gave me a sure, seductive smile.

“I didn’t do it,” Patti said, leaning over the bar and holding her wrists out to me. “But if I did, would you handcuff me?”

“Patti,” George said sharply. He motioned to the end of the bar. “Go sit with Tim.”

Patti gave him a dirty look but obeyed. She swayed down the bar, casting a glance back over her shoulder at me.

Racing guitar music came through the speakers. I recognized the song immediately. Sweet Child O’ Mine . One of Guns ‘n Roses’ first big hits. I glanced up at the stage as Gina moved gracefully onto it. Her arms moved in rapid, arcing patterns as she stepped to the center of the stage. Her face bore a faraway look and she ignored the hoots and waving dollar bills from the small crowd.

At the end of the first verse, she launched herself into the air and grabbed onto the pole just off center stage. Just as quickly, she wrapped her legs around the pole and then froze. Her body jutted out at ninety degrees and she held that position with the still strength of a gymnast. As the second verse began, she removed her bikini top and flung it off stage.

As she moved forcefully, full of grace and strength, around the pole, onto the stage, to her feet and back to the pole, her face never changed. If anything, she looked more sorrowful.

I turned away and asked George, “When was Rena scheduled for work again after Sunday?”

George squirmed. “Well, they’re not really scheduled. Like I told you, they’re independent — “

“Don’t bullshit me, George.” I kept my voice low. “I just want to know when she was scheduled to work again.”

George worked his tongue over his teeth behind tight lips. Then he said, “All right, well, there is sort of a loose sign-up sheet. Just to make sure there’s girls here.”

“So when was she signed up for?”

“Rena worked every night,” he told me.

“Every night?”

“Yeah. She only missed one or two days the whole time she was here.”

“Is that normal?”

George shrugged. “For some. If they’re making money, they work a lot. If they’re not making money, they work a lot so they can try to make money.”

“What’d you think when she didn’t show up for work Monday?”

“Nothing. I figured she took the day off.”

“You didn’t hear about the murdered girl we found over on Erie early Monday morning?”

George blanched. “Oh, shit. That was her ?”

I nodded. “What about Tuesday? Or tonight? What’d you think when she didn’t show up?”

“To be honest, I was starting to think she’d quit.”

“Quit?”

He nodded. “Yeah. All of us knew she could be making more money if she went to work out at Showgirls. I just figured she decided to go there.”

“She ever talk about that?”

“No, but I lose girls to that place quite a bit. Once they figure things out.” He didn’t have to explain the rest. He meant once they figured out where the Tip Top girls were on the pecking order and where the bigger bucks could be had.

I gave George my card. “Call me if you or anyone else thinks of anything or hears anything that might help.”

“Okay.”

“I mean anything that might help.”

“Got it. I will.”

VIRGIL

I’d been watching the action on East Sprague for a couple of hours when a maroon, unmarked patrol car pulled up in front of the Club Tip Top. I was sitting at a bus stop across from the bar, waiting for a ride that I would never catch.

A plain-clothes cop stepped out of the car and glanced up and down Sprague. He looked like a detective. An arrogant fucking detective with a sport coat that bulged under his left armpit. Shoulder rigs are designed for cross draws so the guy was right-handed.

He strutted around his car, shook his head at a clucker asking for a handout and yanked open the door to the bar. When the door closed, he disappeared from view. I pulled out a cigarette and lit up.

The human aquarium that is Sprague Avenue continued to thrive even without a functioning filter system. The sharks swam up and down the street, into doorways and alleys before popping out in other areas. The feeder fish meandered around, begging or soliciting, all with the same purpose in mind. I kept waiting for a Great White to show, but none of the Brotherhood popped out of their clubhouse and no one went in.

A large bus with the words Sprague Avenue / Downtown scrolling by on a reader board above the driver’s head pulled up to the curb in front of me. The door hissed open in front of me.

“Getting on?” the big woman behind the wheel asked.

I shook my head.

The bus wheezed as it pulled away from the curb and lumbered down the road.

I tossed my cigarette to the sidewalk and ground it out with my shoe. A light wind blew across my neck and I flipped up the collar of my jacket. I shoved my hands into my pockets and leaned back against the bench.

Twenty minutes later, the detective left the bar, climbed back into his car and pulled away from the curb. I stood and started the walk back into downtown.

As I passed the La Playa motel, which sat next to the BSC clubhouse, I suddenly stopped and looked around. Across the street, the Palms Motel squatted unceremoniously.

I trotted across the street and walked into the Manager’s office of the Palms Motel. No one was in the room so I slapped the small metal bell on the counter.