“Business is good,” said Milo.
“Business is great, wish I had a piece. I get bonuses, though.”
“Where’s corporate headquarters?” said Milo.
“Monterey Park. The original club is there, it was designed for an Asian clientele. There are seven others besides this one. Ontario, San Bernardino, Riverside. All the way down to San Diego County. My cash flow’s among the best.”
“Any other owners besides the guys from Monterey Park?”
“Nope.”
“Who owns the building?”
Savarin smiled. “Nice little eighty-year-old lady from Palm Springs who inherited from her husband. Grace Baumgarten. She came in one time, watched the girls dance, said she remembered when she could move like that.”
“Anyone else involved in the business?”
“Besides employees?”
“Any other owners?”
“No, that’s it.”
“What about bouncers? Any others besides the guys on tonight?”
“I use some Cal State football players from time to time,” said Savarin.
“Ever use a guy named Ray Degussa?”
“Nope. Who’s he?”
“A guy.”
“Okay, I won’t ask,” said Savarin. “But can I ask why you want to know about Angie and this Jerry guy and Christi? What I mean to say, is it something that could affect business?”
Milo showed him the death shot. Savarin’s tan lost some bronze.
“That’s Christi. Oh, man. What the hell happened to her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“Christi,” said Savarin. “Oh, man. She was basically a nice kid. Not too smart, but nice. Talk about your farm girl. I think she was from Minnesota or someplace. Natural blonde. Oh, man. That’s a shame.”
“Big shame,” said Milo.
“Let me see if I can find you that paperwork.”
*
Out in the vestibule Savarin unlocked one of the unmarked doors on a closet full of boxes and bottles of cleaning fluids. He rummaged through file boxes. It took a while but he came up with a single sheet of pink paper labeled Employee Data that listed a Social Security number and a mailing address for Christina Marsh and nothing else.
Vanowen Boulevard, North Hollywood. Not far from Angie Paul’s apartment complex. Christina Marsh had begun working at the club eight months ago, stopped showing up six months later.
Soon after Gavin had begun therapy.
Milo said, “There’s no phone number here.”
Savarin took a look at the sheet. “Guess not. I think she said she hadn’t gotten one yet. Just moved, or something like that.”
“From Minnesota.”
“I think it was Minnesota. She looked Minnesota, real creamy. Sweet kid.”
“Not bright,” I said.
“When she filled this out,” said Savarin, “it took her a real long time, and she was moving her lips. But she was a great worker.”
“Uninhibited,” I said.
“She’d squat for a dollar tip, show you everything. But there was nothing . . . foxy about it.”
“Sexy but not foxy?”
“Sexy because it wasn’t foxy,” said Savarin. “What I’m trying to say is there was nothing teasy about her. It was like fucking the pole and showing everything was just a way to show off what nature gave her. Wholesome, you know? Guys like that.”
Milo said, “Did she mention where she worked before?”
Savarin shook his head. “When I saw how she moved, I didn’t ask any more questions.”
“She have any regulars?”
“No, she wasn’t that way, she circulated.”
“Unlike Angie.”
“Angie knew she couldn’t compete physically, so she concentrated on finding one guy, really worked him. Christi was a people person, pulled in max tips. That’s why I was surprised when she didn’t show up. How long ago was she . . . when did it happen?”
“Couple of weeks ago,” said Milo.
“Oh. So she was doing something in between.”
“Any idea what?”
“I’d say dancing at another club, but I’d have found out.”
“The club grapevine.”
Savarin nodded. “It’s a small world. Girl moves to the competition, you hear about it.”
“Who’s the competition?”
Savarin rattled off a list of clubs, and Milo copied them down.
“The girls working tonight,” he said. “Any of them know Christi or Angie?”
“Doubt it. None of them have been here longer than a couple of months. Not at this branch, anyway. That’s our big thing. We cycle the talent.”
I said, “Helps avoid too many ‘Jerrys.’ ”