Erica Spindler - Last Known Victim

Stacy watched her a moment, then ducked through the stage door.

She caught sight of Tonya right away, recognizing her from her photograph. She stood in the wings, watching Yvette’s performance.

Stacy crossed to her. “Tonya?”

“Yes?” the woman responded.

“I’m Brandi. The new girl.”

Tonya Messinger looked like she had been around the block a few times-and like someone you didn’t want to cross. Stacy judged her age to be fifty, though her estimate could be off. Tobacco, alcohol and hard living all took their toll.

“You’re late.”

“Am I? I thought-”

The woman cut her off. “If your shift starts at nine, I want you here at eight-forty-five. You’ll be punched in and at your station by start time. No excuses.”

She eyed her, and Stacy had the feeling that in those few moments Tonya had calculated her age, weight and bust size.

“Sure you don’t want to dance? We could use another girl and the tips are a lot better.”

The Wonderbra wasn’t quite that wonderful.

“Dancing’s not my thing. I’m not very good at it.”

Tonya laughed, the sound deep and raspy from a life time of smoking. “Honey, dancing’s not what you need to succeed out there. Trust me, you’ve got the talent. Add some attitude and you’d be good to go.”

Stacy pretended to be flattered. “Wow, thanks. I’ll think about it.”

“Do that. In the meantime, let’s get you out on the floor.”

While they headed back out front, Tonya gave her directions. “My job is to keep the girls in line. There’s no drug use on my watch. No freebies for any reason. No catfights unless it’s part of the show. That includes the wait staff.”

She looked meaningfully at her, and Stacy nodded that she understood.

“Your job is twofold. Push the drinks. Try to up-sell with call brands. Buy me a drink is code for ‘Let’s party.’ The girls make their money from tips-if you step on their toes, you’ll regret it.

“Some of the girls drink, some don’t. Whether they do or not, if the patron offers to buy a drink, he’s charged. The girls will let you know ahead of time what they’re drinking. Some like tonic water, some a soft drink or juice. If a patron pays for a cocktail, he wants to see her drinking it.

“Patrons will ask you to deliver messages, tips and little gifts. If you screw with that, you’ll be sorry.

“In that vein,” the older woman went on, “flirt. Be sexy. But if a patron comes on to you, you decline. Your job is pushing drinks, period. Got all that?”

Stacy said she did, and the next few hours passed in a blur of pats on her behind, suggestive comments and leering looks. Not that all the club’s patrons were lecherous jerks. She had a table of folks visiting from Indiana. They’d never seen “anything like this before” and had stared, open-mouthed and slightly embarrassed. She’d also served a table of LSU guys-she’d carded them-who had been very respectful. Although it had been a breath of fresh air, being treated like someone’s mother hadn’t done much for her ego.

Waldon had arrived and sat at a table in her station. He seemed to be enjoying this assignment way too much, and when he leered at her, she “accidentally” spilled part of a drink on him to cool him off.

In that time, their suspect hadn’t shown and the closest she’d gotten to Yvette was when the dancer came over to “party with” the LSU boys.

They hadn’t had much money, and she had moved on.

Stacy finally got her opportunity late in the evening. Tonya gave her a note to deliver backstage to Yvette.

Stacy found her in her dressing area, reapplying her makeup. A cigarette burned in an ashtray on the vanity.

Stacy tapped on the door. “Tonya asked me to bring you this.”

Yvette stared at the note, a frown wrinkling her brow.

Stacy watched her. “Is something wrong?”

Yvette tossed the note on the vanity top, her expression dismissive. “Just some freak. I get a lot of that.”

“I’ll bet. I mean, you’re really good.”

“You think so?”

The eagerness in her voice revealed just how young she was. Stacy lowered her voice so she wouldn’t be heard by the others. “You’ve got the best act, hands down.”

“What’s your name?”

“Brandi.”

“How do you like the job so far?”

Stacy shrugged. “It’s okay. Tips have been pretty good.”

“You want some advice?”

“Sure.”

“Stay on Tonya’s good side, ’cause she can be a real bitch. Play the game. It doesn’t mean jack and you’ll make lots more money.”

“The game?”

“Yeah, you know. Play to the guys. Give ’em what they want.” Yvette took a drag on her cigarette, then tamped it out. “Ted’s a dog. He’ll want to do you, so watch yourself. He’ll offer crank, pills, booze…just stay clear.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“I’ve got to watch out for my own ass, you know? I’m not going to be in this dump forever. I’ve got plans.”

Stacy wanted to ask what they were, wanted to ask if she had a special “guy.” But she knew better. This had been a good first meeting. If she pushed too hard, too fast, the other woman would shut down.

“Well, thanks,” she said, taking a step back. “I’ve got to get back out there.”

Hours later, Stacy finished her shift and headed home. Marcus never appeared, and she hoped he hadn’t been tipped or gotten spooked. By the end of the night Yvette had seemed annoyed, and Stacy wondered if it was because of the boyfriend’s absence.

It’d been interesting watching the girls work. The way they turned it on and off. When performing for a customer, it was as if no one existed but him. The minute they walked away, it was all about the next guy.

It seemed like such a lie.

Or was it? The guys knew, right? They couldn’t really think these girls were all turned on? It was just one big, hot fantasy.

Was that what guys wanted? Stacy wondered. A big, hot fantasy? Was that what Spencer wanted?

What did he want? They’d moved in together almost by accident. Because of Katrina. Because she’d needed a place to live and he’d had one.

And she had stayed. By a mutual, unspoken agreement. It’d been two years and she would have to say their feelings for each other had neither progressed nor deteriorated.

Inert. Is that how she would describe their relationship? She hoped not because thinking of it that way made her feel uncomfortable-and a bit ridiculous, as well.

How else should she describe it? They’d moved in together “almost by accident.” They had stayed together by an “unspoken agreement.”

He hadn’t brought up marriage. He hadn’t said he loved her.

And neither had she.

She stood in the bedroom doorway, watching him sleep. She had showered, washing away the stink of cigarettes and the layers of makeup, and changed into an oversize T-shirt. Was she waiting for Spencer to take the lead? she wondered. Did she want him to?

She wanted marriage, children. A normal life. Those longings had prompted her to try leaving police work behind, to try a fresh start in a brand-new city.

Instead, she’d gotten pulled back into police work-and she’d met Spencer. Become involved with him-and ended up in this almost-by-accident, unspoken-agreement relationship.

But how could she have a normal life when the future was so uncertain? Look at Sammy: wrong place, wrong time, and now Patti was a widow. Neither she nor Spencer were cut out to be anything but the cops they were. Was it fair to want children, to offer them such an uncertain future?

Stacy slipped into bed beside Spencer.

“How’d it go?” he mumbled.