Michael Connelly (53 page)

A disk jockey in a sound booth at the left side of the stage announced the next dancer would be Randy. An old Eddie Money song, “Two Tickets to Paradise,” started blaring over the sound system as a tall brunette wearing blue jeans cut off to expose the lower half of her bottom and a neon pink bikini top charged through the shimmering curtain and started moving to the beat of the music.

Bosch was immediately mesmerized. The woman was beautiful and the first thought he had was to question why she was doing this. He had always believed that beauty helped women get away from many of the hardships of life. This woman, this girl, was beautiful and yet here she was. Maybe that was the real draw for these men, he thought. Not the glimpse of a naked woman, but the knowledge of submission, the thrill of knowing another one had been broken. Bosch began to think he had been wrong about beautiful women.

The waitress put down two beers on the little table and told Bosch he owed fifteen dollars. He almost asked her to repeat the price but then figured it came with the territory. He handed her a twenty, and when she started digging through the stack of bills on her tray for his change he waved it off.

She clutched his shoulder and bent down to his ear, making sure that she was at an angle that afforded him a look at her full cleavage.

“Thank you, darlin’. I ’preciate that. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“There is one thing. Is Layla here tonight?”

“No, she’s not here.”

Bosch nodded. And the waitress straightened up.

“How about Rhonda then?” Bosch asked.

“That’s Randy up there.”

She pointed to the stage and Bosch shook his head and signaled her to come closer.

“No, Rhonda, like help, help me Rhonda. She working tonight? She was here last night.”

“Oh, that Rhonda. Yeah, she’s around. You just missed her set. She’s probably in the back changing.”

Bosch reached into his pocket for his money and put a five on her bar tray.

“Will you go back and tell her the friend of Tony’s she talked to last night wants to buy her a drink?”

“Sure.”

She squeezed his shoulder again and went off. Bosch’s attention was drawn to the stage, where Randy’s first song had just ended. The next song was “Lawyers, Guns and Money” by Warren Zevon. Bosch hadn’t heard it in a while and he remembered how it had been an anthem among the uniforms back when he had worked patrol.

The dancer named Randy soon slipped out of her outfit and was nude except for a garter stretched tightly around her left thigh. Many of the men got up and met her as she danced her way slowly down the runway. They slid dollar bills under the garter. And when a man put a five under the strap, Randy bent down over him, using his shoulder to steady herself, and did an extra wiggle and kissed his ear.

Bosch watched this and was thinking that he now had a pretty good idea how Tony Aliso ended up with the small handprint on his shoulder, when a petite blond woman slid into the seat next to him.

“Hi. I’m Rhonda. You missed my show!”

“I heard that. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I go back on in a half hour and do it all over again. I hope you’ll stay. Yvonne said you wanted to buy me a drink?”

As if on cue Bosch saw the waitress heading their way. Bosch leaned over to Rhonda.

“Listen, Rhonda, I’d rather take care of you than give my money to the bar. So do me a favor and don’t go exorbitant on me.”

“Exorbitant . . .?”

She crinkled her face up in a question.

“Don’t go ordering champagne.”

“Oh, I gotcha.”

She ordered a martini and Yvonne floated back into the darkness.

“So, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Harry.”

“And you’re a friend of Tony’s from L.A. You make movies, too?”

“No, not really.”

“How do you know Tony?”

“I just met him recently. Listen, I’m trying to find Layla to get a message to her. Yvonne tells me she’s not on tonight. You know where I can find her?”

Bosch noticed her stiffen. She knew something wasn’t right.

“First of all, Layla doesn’t work here anymore. I didn’t know that when I talked to you last night, but she’s gone and won’t be back. And secondly, if you’re a friend of Tony’s, then how come you’re asking me how to find her?”

She wasn’t as dumb as Bosch had thought. He decided to go direct.

“Because Tony got himself killed, so I can’t ask him. I want to find Layla to tell her and maybe warn her.”

“
What?
” she shrieked.

Her voice cut through the loud music like a bullet through a slice of bread. Everybody in the place, including the naked Randy on the stage, looked in their direction. Bosch had no doubt that everyone in the place must think he had just propositioned her, offering an insulting fee for an equally insulting act.

“Keep it down, Randy,” he quickly said.

“It’s Rhonda.”

“Rhonda then.”

“What happened to him? He was just here.”

“Somebody shot him in L.A. when he got back. Now, do you know where Layla is or not? You tell me and I’ll take care of you.”

“Well, what are you? Are you really his friend or not?”

“In a way I’m his only friend right now. I’m a cop. My name’s Harry Bosch and I’m trying to find out who did it.”

Her face took on a look that seemed even more horrified than when he told her Aliso was dead. Sometimes telling people you were a cop did that.

“Save your money,” she said. “I can’t talk to you.”

She got up then and moved quickly away toward the door next to the stage. Bosch threw her name out after her but it was crushed by the sound of the music. He casually took a look around and noticed behind him that the tuxedo man was eyeing him through the darkness. Bosch decided he wasn’t going to stick around for Rhonda’s second show. He took one more gulp of beer—he hadn’t even touched his second glass—and got up.

As he neared the exit the tuxedo leaned back and knocked on the mirror behind him. It was then that Bosch realized there was a door cut into the glass. It opened and the tuxedo stepped to the side to block Bosch’s exit.

“Sir, could you step into the office, please?”

“What for?”

“Just step in. The manager would like a word with you.”

Bosch hesitated but through the door he could see a lighted office where a man in a suit sat behind a desk. He stepped in and the tuxedo came in behind him and shut the door.

Bosch looked at the man behind the desk. Blond and beefy. Bosch wouldn’t know whom to bet on if a fight broke out between the tuxedoed bouncer and the so-called manager. They were both brutes.

“I just got off the phone with Randy in the dressing room, she says you were asking about Tony Aliso.”

“It was Rhonda.”

“Rhonda, whatever, never-the-fuck-mind. She said you said he was dead.”

He spoke with a midwestern accent. Sounded like southside Chicago, Bosch guessed.

“Was and still is.”

The blond nodded to the tuxedo and his arm came up in a split second and hit Bosch with a backhand in the mouth. Bosch went back against the wall, banging the back of his head. Before his mind cleared, the tuxedo twirled him around until he was face-against-the-wall and leaned his weight against him. He felt the man’s hands begin patting him down.

“Enough of the wiseass act,” the blond said. “What are you doing talking to the girls about Tony?”

Before Bosch could say anything the hands running over his body found his gun.

“He’s strapped,” the tuxedo said.

Bosch felt the gun being jerked out of his shoulder holster. He also tasted blood in his mouth and felt rage building in his throat. The hands then found his wallet and his cuffs. Tuxedo threw them on the desk in front of the blond and held Bosch pinned against the wall with one hand. By straining to turn his head Bosch could watch the blond open the wallet.

“He’s a cop, let him go.”

The hand came off his neck and Bosch gruffly pulled away from the tuxedo.

“An L.A. cop,” the blond said. “Hieronymus Bosch. Like that painter, huh? He did some weird stuff.”

Bosch just looked at him and he handed the gun and cuffs and wallet back.

“Why’d you have him hit me?”

“That was a mistake. See, most cops what come in here, they announce themselves, they tell us their business and we help ’em if we can. You were sneaking around, Anonymous Hieronymus. We have a business to protect here.”

He opened a drawer and pulled out a box of tissues and proffered it to Bosch.

“Your lip’s bleeding.”

Bosch took the whole box.

“So this is true what she says you told her. Tony’s dead.”

“That’s what I said. How well did you know him?”

“See, that’s good. You assume I knew him and put that assumption in your question. That’s good.”

“So then answer it.”

“He was a regular in here. He was always trying to pick off girls. Told ’em he’d put ’em in the movies. Same old stuff. But, hell, they keep falling for it. Last two years he cost me three of my best girls. They’re in L.A. now. He left ’em high and dry once he got them there and did what he wanted with ’em. They never learn.”

“Why’d you let him keep coming in if he was picking off your girls?”

“He spent a lot of bread in here. Besides, there’s no shortage of quiff here in Vegas. No shortage at all.”

Bosch headed in another direction.

“What about Friday? Was he here?”

“No, I don’t—yes, yes he was. He stopped by for a short while. I saw him out there.”

With his hand he indicated a panel of video monitors showing every angle of the club and front entrance. It was equally as impressive as the setup Hank Meyer had shown Bosch at the Mirage.

“You remember seeing him, Gussie?” the blond asked the tuxedo.

“Yeah, he was here.”

“There you go. He was here.”

“No problems? He just came and went?”

“Right, no problems.”

“Then why’d you fire Layla?”

The blond pinched his lips tight for a moment.

“Now I get it,” he said. “You’re one of those guys what likes to weave a web with words, get somebody caught in it.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, nobody’s caught anywhere. Layla was Tony’s latest fuck, that’s true, but she’s gone now. She won’t be back.”

“Yeah, and what happened to her?”

“Like you heard, I fired her. Saturday night.”

“For what?”

“For any number of infractions of the rules. But it doesn’t really matter because it’s none of your business, now is it?”

“What did you say your name is?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how ’bout if I just call you asshole, how would that be?”

“People ’round here call me Lucky. Can we get on with this, please?”

“Sure, we can get on with it. Just tell me what happened to Layla.”

“Sure, sure. But I thought you were here to talk about Tony, least that’s what Randy said.”

“Rhonda.”

“Rhonda, right.”

Bosch was losing his patience but managed to just stare at him and wait him out.

“Layla, right. Well, Saturday night she got into a beef with one of the other girls. It got a little nasty and I had to make a choice. Modesty is one of my best girls, best producers. She gave me an ultimatum: either Layla goes or she goes. I had to let Layla go. Modesty, man, she sells ten, twelve splits of champagne a night to those suckers out there. I had to back her over Layla. I mean, Layla’s good and she’s a looker but she ain’t no Modesty. Modesty’s our top girl.”

Bosch just nodded. So far his story jibed with the phone message Layla had left for Aliso. By drawing it out of the blond man, Bosch was getting a sense of how much he could be believed.

“What was the trouble between Layla and the other girl about?” he asked.

“I don’t know and don’t really care. Just your typical catfight. They didn’t like each other since day one. See, Bosch, every club has its top girl. And here, it’s Modesty. Layla was trying to move in on that and Modesty didn’t want to be moved in on. But I have to say, Layla was trouble since she came here. None of the girls liked her act. She stole songs from the other girls, wouldn’t stop with the pussy dust even when I told her, we just had a lot of trouble with her. I’m glad she’s gone. I got a business to run here. I can’t be babysitting a bunch of spoiled cunts.”

“Pussy dust?”

“Yeah, you know, she put that sparkly stuff on her snatch, made it sparkle in the dark and twinkle in the lights. Only problem is those sparkles come off and get on the suckers. She does a lap dance on you and
you
end up with a crotch that glitters. Then you go home and the wife figures it out and raises holy hell. I lose customers. I can’t have that shit, Bosch. If it hadn’t been Modesty, it would have been something else. I got rid of Layla when I got the chance.”

Bosch thought about the story for a few moments.

“Okay,” he said. “Just give me her address and I’ll be on my way.”

“I would but I can’t.”

“Don’t start that shit now. I thought we were having a conversation. Let me see your payroll records. There’s got to be an address.”

The man called Lucky smiled and shook his head.

“Payroll? We don’t pay these broads a dime. They ought to pay us. Comin’ in here, it’s a license to make money.”

“You must have a phone number or an address. You want your man Gussie here to go down to Metro on an assaulting-a-police-officer clip?”

“We don’t have her address, Bosch, what can I tell you? Or her phone number.”

He held his hands out, palms up.

“I mean, I don’t have addresses on any of the girls. I set a schedule and they come in and they dance. They don’t show, they aren’t allowed back. See, it’s nice and simple, streamlined, that way. It’s the way we do it. And as far as the assault thing goes with Gussie, if you want to do that dance we’ll do it. But remember you’re the guy what came in here by hisself, never said who you were or what you wanted to nobody, had four beers in less than an hour and insulted one of the dancers before we asked you to leave. We can have affidavits to that effect in an hour.”

He raised his arms again, this time in a hands-off manner as if to say it was Bosch’s call. Bosch had no doubt that Yvonne and Rhonda would tell the story they were told to tell. He decided to cut his losses. He smiled glibly.