Richard Aleas - Little Girl Lost

“And you had no idea where Miranda went after she left?”

“None. Not till you guys called me.”

“Do you know what happened to the other two? Jessie and Tracy?”

“I think they were living together for a while. Then they broke up. You know how it goes. I think Tracy’s dancing somewhere in the city. I haven’t heard from Jessie in ages. Maybe Tracy would know how to find her.”

Maybe she would. “How could we find Tracy?”

Susan spoke up. “Pete gave me the number of her booking agent, a guy named Andrew Kodos. I have a call in to him.”

“Good,” I said. “Well, Pete, I think that covers it. You’ve been very helpful.” I stood up, and Susan stood with me.

“So?” he said. “You think you’ll be able to use me?”

“There’s an excellent chance,” Susan said. “We’ll let you know.”

“You’ll call me?” he said, miming a phone receiver with his thumb and pinky.

“We’ll call you,” I said.

We backed away toward the pool table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw there were two guys there now, but instead of playing, they were watching the TV. As we passed them, I realized the story being covered was the Lenz murder: the newscaster was standing across the street from the Sin Factory and the picture framed in a box over his shoulder showed Lenz’s face next to mine. “… sources have informed us that the only suspect in the shooting, private investigator John Blake, was released from custody earlier today. Police say they are investigating other leads, but so far they haven’t released any further information. We’ll be updating the story as soon as they do. Pat?”

The two pool players watched us closely as we walked past them, then they both leaned their cues against the table and one stepped forward, the taller of the two. It was the one who’d been in the bathroom earlier, and he looked like he benchpressed more than I weighed.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re the guy they were talking about.”

I shrugged, turned to go, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me. “Go on,” I said to Susan, “I’ll handle this.”

“I’m not going to-”

“Go.” I pushed the big man’s hand off my shoulder with the back of my arm. “Why don’t we each mind our own business?”

“Wayne Lenz and I did time together,” he said, clapping his hand back where it had been. “Who killed him is my business.”

“Mine, too,” I said, “and if you leave me alone I might be able to find out.”

“He might be able to find out,” he said over his shoulder to his buddy. “You hear that?” He looked back at me, and there was no trace of sympathy in his voice. “You want to give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just break your fucking neck?”

From behind the bar came the sound of a pumpaction shotgun being racked. Trunks leveled the long barrel at the lot of us. “Take it outside,” he said.

The hands lifted from my shoulders and the guy gave me a little push that rocked me back on my heels. “Private investigator,” he said, in a voice that suggested he thought private investigators fell somewhere between worms and dogshit on the evolutionary scale. “Why don’t you investigate this?” He reached back with one of his big fists, and I put up my own smaller ones to block him.

“Outside,” Trunks barked, and gestured with the gun.

“Hello?” Susan had taken out her cell phone and was speaking into it loudly, pointedly, staring Lenz’s old cellmate in the eyes as she did. We were all watching her – even Pete Cimino was watching from his booth in the back. “I want to report gunfire coming from a place called Dormicello – Yes, officer, west Third Street, that’s right. Please send someone immediately.”

The guy looked from Susan to me, to Trunks, and back again. She didn’t blink. “The cops will be here in a minute,” she said.

He stepped back, dropped his fists, angrily picked up his cue stick. “Next time,” he said.

We didn’t turn our backs on him, and Trunks kept the gun up till we were at the door.

“You didn’t really call the police, did you?” I said.

“Of course I did. Those guys could have killed you.”

“You called the police on Zen’s,” I said. “I can never show my face in there again.”

She patted my cheek. “Well, then, honey, we’re even.”

We walked away from Zen’s as quickly as we could. Trunks could take care of himself – he’d have a good hiding place for the gun, and maybe one for himself, too. As for Zen, she might forgive me in time, depending on how badly the police shook her down. The police, though, were unlikely to be as forgiving, so it was important that they not find me at yet another scene where shooting had been reported.

We headed east, putting the sound of police sirens further behind us with every step. As we went, I told Susan about my morning, about getting out of jail and watching the video, and about what I figured Jocelyn had done.

“It’s hard to believe,” she said. “Nothing I’ve heard makes her sound like the sort of person who could turn into a murderer.”

“Anyone could,” I said. “If they thought their life depended on it.”

“I guess.”

“Have you learned anything that would help us track her down?”

“Only what Cimino told us. I’ve made a lot of calls, and I’ve found some people who remember Miranda and Jocelyn, but no one who worked with them more recently than Cimino.”

“Where does he work?”

“He runs a club called Shots down on Houston.”

“I don’t know it. What’s it like?”

“It’s not Scores. You don’t get your Charlie Sheens and your Howard Sterns going there. But it’s a lot higher on the food chain than Carson’s or the Sin Factory.”

“Have you ever worked there?”

She shook her head. “It’s a little out of my league.”

“Miranda danced there.”

“Sure, when she was doing her act with Jocelyn. That was a hot act. After they broke up, she wasn’t so hot any more. She had to work the same places as the rest of us.”

“See, that’s what I don’t understand,” I said. “You’re a beautiful woman, you’re a good dancer-”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming,” she said.

“No, no ‘but.’ It’s just that I don’t understand why – and please don’t take this the wrong way – but what I don’t understand is why someone like you or Miranda would need to work at a place like the Sin Factory. It’s such a dump – it’s small, it’s dark, it’s a rotten place. The managers are crooks. You should be able to find work at better clubs.”

“I do,” she said, only sounding a little defensive. “Sometimes. Some of the places I work at are better. Some are worse. But you’ve got to work. You know? After you’ve been doing this for a while, you learn not to be so choosy. Every place has spotlights, they’ve all got stages and poles and guys who grab your ass, the managers are always crooks – so one night you’re here, the next you’re there, does it really matter where ‘here’ and ‘there’ are?”

“Of course it matters,” I said. “It matters whether you’ve got ten guys watching you or a hundred-”

“No, see, because the places where you’ve got a hundred, you’ve also got ten times as many girls. You can make less money at the bigger clubs.”

“Okay, but the tips – the guys at the Sin Factory were laying down ones and fives. I think I saw one twenty once.”

“Yeah, Mandy’s guy. He came every night.” Susan stopped to catch her breath. I glanced around, but no one I saw looked like they were paying attention to us. “The truth is, John, fives add up. Even ones do. Yes, twenties are better. I won’t lie to you, I didn’t like working at the Sin Factory. But you take what you can get. There are only so many good clubs – most of what’s out there isn’t so good. But you’ve got to eat every night, not just a couple of times a week, and there are a lot of girls out there who’ll take the jobs if you don’t. Ones and fives are a lot better than nothing, and if you start turning down gigs, that’s what you end up with pretty soon – nothing.”