I swirled my finger in the air. “Is this area yours?”
“It is now.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, ever since them racist motherfuckers decided to take a cut of the prostitution action.”
“Who?”
“The B.S.C. The Brotherhood of the Southern Cross.”
“They're a motorcycle gang. They don’t mess around with prostitution. Drugs, yeah, but not whores.”
“It’s part of the new world order, baby. Times are tough so the sharks are starting to eat the other sharks. They started pushing me out about a year and a half ago. They control all of the working girls from Altamont to downtown. I got the shit east of Altamont. Some other nigger is controlling the tail in downtown.”
I nodded in understanding. That’s what bugged me about the area around the Brotherhood’s club house. There were no pimps on the street. There were hookers and dealers but no pimps.
“Who’s controlling the drug trade?”
“The Brotherhood. Ain’t no shit movin’ or happenin’ in their block unless they get a piece of it. They put a couple girls in the hospital who tried to say no to their protection.” He made air quotes with his fingers when he said ‘protection.’
“They rough up the girls?”
He nodded. “Stupid cracker motherfuckers. When they gonna understand that if you damage the merchandise they can’t produce?”
“Why do the girls stay in the area then? Why not move out here to you or downtown?”
“That section of east Sprague is hot. That’s where the action has been for the past five or so years. Plus, the Brotherhood is hooking them up with cheap dope.”
“What kind?”
“Whatever the girls want. Smack, crack or crank. They got their fingers in all of the pies.”
I tapped the picture of Fawn before scooping it up. “I want you to ask around about this girl. Find out which one of the Brotherhood was running her.”
“And just why in the fuck should I do that for you?”
“Because I’ll remove your competition if you do.”
Rolo slowly moved his jaw as he thought. “How will I get in contact with you?”
“Give me your cell number and I’ll check in with you.”
Rolo stared at me for a moment and noisily sucked air through his teeth. “Alright,” he said and rattled off seven digits. I repeated the numbers to myself several times before I had it memorized.
I stood up from the booth to leave.
“I seen your type come down after these girls before.”
“My type?”
“Yeah. A daddy trying to bring his little girl home. They never go home.” His eyes didn’t brag. “I’m sorry what happened to your girl. Nobody deserves that shit.”
I stuck out my hand and he shook it. “I’ll be in touch.”
Wednesday, April 14 th 1904 hrs Club Tip Top
TOWER
The sound of music and the smell of smoke blasted into me as soon as I opened the door to the Tip Top. The speakers were tinny and struggled to pump out Joan Jett’s I Love Rock ‘n Roll. As I walked down the short corridor to the seating area, none of the six pairs of eyes seated there took the time to look over. All were glued to the small stage at the front of the large room.
I glanced up to the stage. The woman dancing there was pushing forty. Loose skin adorned her belly and the backs of her arms, but her legs were surprisingly supple. She noticed me and flashed a confident grin as she gyrated her hips to the beat. I gave her what I hoped was a professional nod.
Several patrons noticed her gaze and a few of them started eyeballing me. I’m sure they made me as a cop right away.
I ignored their attention and most turned back to the spectacle on stage as I walked toward the bar. Out of habit, I moved to the end of the counter. Bartenders guard the turf behind the bar fiercely, but George didn’t react when I slid around the corner and stood behind it and looked out over the room. The patrons seemed to have forgotten me, except for the guy with a ponytail and three days of beard in the corner. He pulled down his John Deere hat and slumped in chair, rolling up his shoulders and turning his face away from me.
Odds were, that guy had an arrest warrant.
Two stools down, a dancer sat sipping a glass of water through a small red straw. She was slender, with her black hair cut in a short bob. A deep scar ran from beneath her left eye and arced across her lips to her chin. She looked me over, and then noticed me staring at her. She flashed a weak smile and looked back down at her glass.
George finished serving a guy at the other end of the bar and took the long walk down to my end. His large frame reminded me of a Middle Ages innkeeper. His face was more worn and haggard than I remembered, but it had been a while.
“Officer, how’s it going?”
“You remember me, George?”
He cocked an eyebrow at the sound of his name. Rubbing the gray stubble on his cheek, he looked me up and down for a few moments. The song playing ended and there was a few seconds of blessed quiet. Hardly any of the patrons spoke.
“You look familiar…” he said.
“I worked patrol about twelve years ago. Used to do a walkthrough here about once a week.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I think I remember now.”
He didn’t, but that was fine. The guy had seen a lot of faces in the last twelve years.
“Back then, that little redhead was dancing here. Marsha or something?”
He smiled. I saw that one of his front teeth was broken off and the tip was blackened. “Miss Marsha Mason,” he said. “I gave her that name after my favorite movie star. Yeah, she worked here for a long time.”
Joan Jett’s Do You Wanna Touch Me began blasting out of the speaker system.
I thumbed toward the stage without looking at it. “Who’s that one?”
“Oh, that’s Patti. She’s been here eleven, twelve years now.”
“Obviously a Joan Jett fan.”
He nodded but said nothing.
“Look, George, I’m investigating a case. I need to talk to you about this girl.” I showed him Serena Gonzalez’s California driver’s license photo.
No one in the bar was looking directly at us, but I knew everyone was watching out of the corner of an eye.
George knew it, too. He looked at the picture too long before handing it back to me.
“You want some coffee, officer?”
“No, thanks. Do you know this girl?”
“Is she in some kind of trouble?” he asked.
I motioned for him to lean in close. He looked at me reluctantly for a second then leaned in a few inches. I watched his eyes while I spoke.
“George, this girl was murdered.”
His eyes flared with surprise and he leaned back suddenly. “You’re serious?”
I nodded.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said, shaking his head. He ran his hands through his hair and when he looked back up at me, his eyes were watery. “Are you serious?” he asked me again.
“Yes. I’m trying to find her killer. I need your help.”
“Yeah, yeah. You bet. Whatever you need.”
“So you knew this girl?”
“Sure. She works here. I mean, she did.”
“What’s her name?”
George gave me a confused look. “You don’t know her name?”
“What name did she give you?”
“Serena. Hernandez or something like that.”
“Gonzalez?”
“Yeah, that was it. Her stage name was Rena.” He wiped his moist eyes and blew his nose into a light blue handkerchief. “I can’t believe she’s really gone. What happened?”
“I can’t go into that with you, George. It’s an ongoing investigation.”
“Oh.”
The small dancer from two stools down moved down to the stool directly across from me. “Are you all right, George? What’s wrong?”
George looked at me for permission. I nodded and watched her.
“Rena’s dead,” he told her.
Surprise registered on her face, followed quickly by tears. George handed her his handkerchief.