"Which kind of hostess was Ginger Buckey?" I said.
"I'm not sure, I think she was assigned to the guest floor."
"What are the duties of a guest floor hostess?" I said.
"Maid service, butlery. There's a pantry there, they are a bit like a concierge, and there are enough so that the members get immediate personal attention at any hour."
"Turn-down service, two chocolate mints on the pillow, that sort of thing," I said.
"Among many others," Gretchen said. "The girls are there to serve the needs of the members."
"Including sexual service," I said.
"We are not a house of prostitution, Mr. Spenser. Nor are we a college dormitory. The girls are free to form relationships with the guests, should they choose to."
"And if they don't choose to?"
"Our policy is very simple and it's part of our success. The member is always right. If there's a complaint about a girl, she is disciplined."
"What kind of discipline?"
"It depends on the complaint, fines, dismissal, other things."
"What other things?"
"I'm sorry again, Mr. Spenser. Specific company policy is confidential. I'm sure you understand."
"Any complaints about Ginger Buckey?"
"None," Gretchen said.
"How nice," I said. She seemed to remember Ginger after all.
We were back on the first floor, in the Edwardian foyer.
"So what do you think of our operation," Gretchen said.
"I think that if Walt Disney had been obsessed with sex and dominance, and was uncertain of his manhood and had grown up reading the novels of H. Rider Haggard and had the sensibility of a dung beetle he'd have founded a chain of clubs just tike this."
The bones in Gretchen's face seemed more prominent. "I see," she said. "Have you any further questions?"
"No," I said. "I'm going home and take a shower."
22
It was Tuesday and an unassertive spring rain was coming straight down. I had picked up two corn muffins and an extra large coffee, black, no sugar, at the Dunkin' Donuts shop near the corner of Exeter Street and walked down Boylston to my office on the corner of Berkeley. I had eaten the muffins at my desk and I was standing at my office window looking down at the street and drinking the rest of the coffee when the door opened. I turned. In came Brutus.
He was out of uniform. His massive upper body straining inside a silver Porsche racing jacket. He had on designer jeans and Reebok track shoes.
I said, "Tell me your name isn't really Brutus."
"Jackson," he said, "Charles Jackson."
"Where'd you play ball?" I said.
"Morgan State."
"Step slow for the pros?" I said.
Jackson grinned. "Step and a half," he said.
"You enjoy being called Brutus by a twerp like Perry Lehman?"
Jackson grinned more. "Shit," he said, "don't make no difference to me. Kind of money he pays me he can call me motherfucker, he wants."
He took my card from the side pocket of his silver jacket. The jacket was half unzipped and I could see that he was shirtless. I didn't see any sign of a gun though he could have had an ankle holster.
"Picked this up off Perry's desk when he went for his nap," Jackson said. "He usually take one, 'bout two bottles a champagne."
I nodded toward a chair. Jackson looked at it carefully, decided he'd fit, and sat gently. He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles.
"Tell me 'bout Ginger," he said.
"She was hooking in New York. Not very good. Street hooking around Times Square. I met her and talked with her. Couple days later she got shot to death. Nobody knows who shot her."
Jackson nodded.
"She had a pimp named Robert Rambeaux, I talked with him. Couple of days later he got beat up and is now scared to death."
"So if she's dead, how come you're looking for her?"
"I'm looking for a kid named April Kyle," I said. "She disappeared the same time Ginger got killed and Rambeaux got beat up. I haven't got a lead on her. I had a lead on Ginger. So I'm following Ginger, see if April turns up along the way. There's a connection, and eventually I'll find it."
"She was from Maine," Jackson said.
"Yeah, I know, I went up there, talked with her father."
Jackson nodded. "She was a good kid," he said. "Not smart as hell, but a lot of us ain't. Had a hard life. Artie Floyd brought her in couple of years ago, bought her from a place in Maine."
"I know," I said. "Finder's fee, he called it. Father sold her to the Maine place in the first place."
"Like I say, had a hard life. Broke her down pretty much, didn't have too much sass left by the time she come to the club. But they clean her up and dress her nice and she makes good money and nice tips fucking the members up on the fourth floor."
"That's how it's done?" I said. "Tips?"
"Pretty much. Broads get minimum wage for being hostesses, members tip them for fucking."
"The club get a cut?"
Jackson shook his head. "Don't need it. Make the dough on memberships and booze, and the magazine and the resorts and shit. The poontang just a fringe benefit, make the asshole members feel good."
"So where'd Ginger go?"
"She went to the islands with a member, never came back."
"Which islands?"
"St. Thomas, got a club resort there."
"What's the member's name?" I said.
Jackson shook his head. "Don't know. Never know. Just noticed one day she gone and later got a card from St. Thomas. Guess she didn't stay with him."
"Guess not," I said. "When she go?"
"'Bout Christmas."
"You got the card?" I said.
"Shit, man, you think I keep postcards? I read it and threw it away. How 'bout Miss Coolidge, she tell you anything?"
"Just that Ginger worked there and then left. Dates are right."
"They ain't going to tell you shit," he said. "Something funny 'bout it all."
"What?" I said.
Jackson shrugged, "Don't know. Just, everybody don't talk about Ginger, or where she gone."
"You ever ask?"
"Naw, I just go 'bout my business there, do my Brutus act, make sure the members don't get out of hand, make sure the girls behave, make sure old Marse Lehman got champagne. I start asking questions and they fire my ass and I have to go to work. I hate work."
"Never much liked it myself," I said. "Wouldn't they fire your ass for talking to me?"
"Sure, I just figure you won't tell them."
"Do other girls go off with members?" Jackson put one of his big Reeboks on the edge of my desk.
"Some," he said. "Not too often."
"How does it come about?" I said.
"Come about," Jackson said, "shit. You talk pretty fancy for a guy with a neck like mine."
"Sound mind in a healthy body," I said. "How does the going off with a member work?"
"Got me," Jackson said. "You understand I'm mostly window dressing. Big black dude stand around and look bad. Part of the look, you know? They actually go round to black schools and recruit ballplayers. Make old Perry feel bold have a few black studs standing by."
"Yowzah," I said.
Jackson shrugged. "You think you gonna play ball all your life, then you twenty-four and you finished and ain't no real market for running over offensive tackles. Better than stealing."
"And Perry's fun to be around."
Jackson shook his head. "Man's a douche bag," he said, "but he got a touch for money."
"When things are going bad," I said, "you can feel good about not being Perry Lehman."
"Cheer you right up, man," Jackson said.
"You know anything about how heavily he's connected?"
Jackson shook his head. "Nope. He talk like he got the heaviest connections you can get. But the man's a blowhard. He talk like that anyway, whether he got connections or no."
I nodded. "True," I said. "Anything else I should know?"
"A lot you should know, man, but that's all I got to tell you."
I stood up. "Thank you," I said. "If there's something I can do for you sometime, I will."
Jackson stood up. We shook hands. "Going down to the islands?" he said.