The strip joint billed itself as a “gentleman’s club.” The parking lot was full of dusty compacts and pickups, and the two dark-haired guys guarding the doors were elephantine and tattooed. Somehow, I doubted we’d find jowly hale-fellows savoring cognac and fine cigars amid book-lined, mahogany splendor.
Milo showed his badge to Elephant One and received a bow-and-scrape. “Yessir, what can I do for you?”
“Rick Savarin on tonight?”
The bouncer’s cantaloupe face was bisected by an old gray knife scar that ran from the middle of his brow, changed direction across the bridge of his nose, meandered across his lips, and terminated in the crook of a chin you could lean on for support.
“Yessir. He’s in his office. Someone will direct you, sir.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Elephant Two, even bigger and sunglassed, held the door. Immediately inside, yet another giant, this one lanky and long-haired and Caribbean, ushered us to the left, down a short corridor that ended at swinging doors, also quilted, in black vinyl.
The main room’s color scheme was black with crimson trim. Three steps led to a sunken pit where intent-looking men ringed a circular stage. Two women danced naked, pulling off some pretty good gymnastic moves, and making love to stainless-steel poles. Both were ultrablond, big-haired, rail-thin, with breasts inflated well past biology. Each wore a red garter on her left thigh. The girl with the sun-ray tattoo bluing her entire back had more cash stuffed in hers.
We reached the black vinyl doors. The lanky giant pointed and pushed them open. He stayed behind as we entered a short vestibule with two unmarked wooden doors and one with an aluminum sign that read MANAGER.
Before Milo could knock, the door opened, and a young man wearing an extravagant black toupee smiled and held out his hand. “Rick Savarin. Come on in.”
Savarin had on a soft-draping, powder blue suit with shawl-lapels, black silk T-shirt, blue Gucci loafers with no socks, a gold chain around a too-tan neck. His office was small and functional and smelled like a Shirley Temple. On his desk was a framed photo of a plainlooking woman and a puzzled toddler.
Savarin said, “My sister, back in Iowa. Sit down, make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you guys something to drink?”
“No thanks,” said Milo. “You from Iowa, too?”
Savarin smiled. “Long time ago.”
“Farm boy?”
“That was a real long time ago.” Savarin slid behind his desk, sat, wheeled his chair to the wall, braced himself with a loafer on a drawer handle. On the wall were several nude calendars with the Hungry Bull logo and one from a liquor distributor.
“So,” he said, tenting his hands. He looked around thirty-five, was well built, with puffy blue eyes and a tense mouth. When the mouth opened, a band of flashy dentition blared forth. Snowy caps. The hairpiece looked borrowed.
Milo said, “Angie Paul.”
“Angie?” said Savarin. “She worked here a while back. Her stage name was Angie Blue.”
“The nails.”
“The nails, the G-string, she drove a blue car. It’s a competitive environment, and the girls figure they need something distinctive. In Angie’s case a nice rack would’ve helped, but she convinced herself blue was a big deal.” Savarin chuckled. “So what’s she been up to?”
“We’re looking for her as a person of interest,” said Milo. “When did she stop working here?”
“Four months ago.”
“Did she quit or was she fired?”
“She quit,” said Savarin. “One of the customers—one of her regulars—swept her off her feet.”
“Fraternizing with the customers?”
“It’s against the rules, and we do our best to enforce it. But the girls who work here aren’t exactly into rules.”
“Who was the regular?”
“Some middle-aged guy, used to show up two, three times a week, then we wouldn’t see him, then he’d be back.”
“To see Angie?”
“Always,” said Savarin. “Lucky for her.” He passed a hand over his chest. “Some guys like the natural look. With all the silicone and saline I see all day, frankly a girl with a sweet face and a natural rack is a turn-on for me. But most customers?” He shook his head. “Even guys who like natural want something, and Angie was pretty near flat. I didn’t want to hire her, but she had good hips and a good butt, moved good during her audition. Also, she caught me at a time when I was low on girls.”