“None taken.” Decker looked at his wife. “I thought of someone else. How about Abel Atwater?”
Rina said, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“The man knows his way around a toolbox.”
“Peter, he’s an amputee!”
“So I won’t put him on a ladder.” To Koby, Decker said, “He’s a terrific jack-of-all-trades.”
“When was the last time you talked to Abel?”
Decker shrugged. “I don’t know. About six, seven years ago. Doesn’t matter. We have that kind of a relationship.”
“How’d he lose a limb?” Koby asked.
“War injury in Vietnam.”
“So it wasn’t from a construction accident.”
“No, no, no,” Decker said. “He’s actually quite agile-”
“Peter, the man is not only an amputee, he has demons.”
“Last I heard, he doesn’t drink anymore.”
“The last you heard as of six years ago,” Rina said. “What about his chronic depression?”
“So what’s better than making him feel useful?”
Cindy said, “Uh, Daddy, I appreciate your help, but I think we might need something more than an amputee and old men with heart conditions.” She shrugged.
Koby said, “He already called up Mike. He might as well keep the lunch date.”
Abruptly, Cindy burst into genuine laughter. “All right. There’s nothing wrong with having lunch with an old friend. I do, however, have my reservations about Abel and his battle with the bottle.”
“Okay. Abel’s out but Mike’s in,” Decker said.
Cindy threw up her hands. “Deal.”
Rina began to clear dishes, but Decker told her to sit down. “I’ll do it.”
“I’ll help you,” Koby said.
“Bring in dessert while you’re at it,” Rina told them.
When the men left the room, Cindy said, “I married my father. Mr. Do-It-Himself.” She shrugged again. “What the heck. I figure when the house is torn apart, Koby will come to his senses.”
“That’s very smart of you.”
“Sometimes, it’s useless to make plans,” Cindy said.
Rina smiled. “There’s an old Yiddish expression: Mann macht und Gott lacht.”
“Which means?”
“Man makes plans and God laughs.”
THE RECTANGULAR STAGE was in the center of the room, the mirrored floor lit up from underneath. Surrounding the stage were bar stools of sweaty, boisterous men shouting encouragement to sinuous, wet female forms that pirouetted from four corner poles. Beyond the stage were sets of tables and chairs. A horseshoe-shaped bar spanned three walls. It was hot and moist and dark except where the spotlights hit the supple women.
There was a three-drink minimum at fifteen bucks a pop, whether it be water or booze. The clients were served by dancers wearing high-cut, black leather thongs and sheer lace bustiers.
Scott Oliver had chosen a corner table, and nursed a beer while taking it all in. He recognized three girls so far and that surprised him. He hadn’t been to Leather and Lace in over two years, and with the high turnover of dancers, he hadn’t expected to see anyone familiar. The dropout rate in these establishments was higher than a midcity school, some girls leaving because they had amassed enough money, others leaving because drugs and alcohol finally got the better of them, ravaging the faces as well as the bodies. It was a hard life, made more difficult by the constant onslaught of boors the women catered to. Oliver liked to think of himself as a respite for the women. He tipped big and dispensed legal advice free of charge. Of course, it wasn’t really free. The women would often do him favors in exchange, but in his mind the barter was a fair one.
A man was approaching him-midthirties, black T-shirt, black jeans, and leather motorcycle boots. He had a round face, small lips, thick brow, and dark curly hair. Dante Michelli was the owner of Leather and Lace and five other gentleman’s clubs. Oliver had heard that Michelli was a self-made man, a third-generation Italian-American from Brooklyn. As far as Scott knew, Michelli ran a clean and safe environment, the security of his patrons and girls ensured by a half-dozen bulldozer-looking men parked at strategic places about the floor. He took a seat at Oliver’s table without asking permission.
“What can I get for you, Detective?”
“I’m fine with my beer, Mr. Michelli, but thanks.”
“Call me Dante.” He waved a finger in the air and a leggy woman with a platinum crew-cut hairstyle was there within moments. “Get the man a fresh beer, Titania.”
“Not necessary, but thanks,” Oliver said.
Dante said, “You look like you’re here on business.”
“I am, but it has nothing to do with your business.”
That was exactly what the owner wanted to hear. The beer came a minute later, cold and premium quality. Oliver reached into his wallet, by Michelli put his hand over Oliver’s. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I won’t argue.” Oliver put away his billfold. “It’s either you pay or I have to file a forest’s worth of paperwork just to get reimbursed.”
The two men returned their eyes to the stage. Michelli spoke, still looking over his undulating ladies. “What do you need besides a beer?”
“I’ve got a problem, Mr. Michelli. I need to speak with one of your girls, only I don’t know her exact name. It might be Miranda or Melissa.”
Michelli shook his head. “Not familiar. What does she look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“So what do you know about her?”
“Only that she knows a man named Ivan Dresden.” Oliver sneaked a quick peek at Dante before returning his eyes to the stage. The man’s face was a blank. “I’m way more interested in Dresden than I am in the woman. Maybe you know him?”
“What does he look like?”
“Dark, good-looking, in his thirties. Some kind of finance guy.”
“That describes ninety percent of the clientele.”
Oliver was still looking at the stage, specifically at a blonde with size triple E hooters. She was pixieish, around five five, with a pug nose and long hair, and wide eyes. Her boobs were very nice to look at but way out of proportion to her body. It was a wonder that she didn’t fall forward whenever she took a step. “The man I’m looking for had a wife who perished in a plane crash a couple of months ago.”
Dante didn’t even have to think about it. “Jell-O.”
Oliver laughed. “Excuse me?”
“Sweet and jiggly in all the right places.” Dante regarded Oliver and grinned, showing perfectly shaped, yellow-stained teeth. “One of Jell-O’s regulars was getting too far behind in his tab. I was getting a little antsy, but he recently paid it off.”
“How big was the bill?”
“Fifteen grand.”
“Wow,” Oliver exclaimed. “That’s a lot of lap dancing.”
“That’s nothing,” Michelli said. “We have guys that run up that kind a bill in a single evening. But there was something about this dude I didn’t trust. I told Jell-O to take care of it…get some kind of ante into the pot. A week later, he paid it off in full.”
“Credit card, check, or cash?”
“Cash. That’s when Jell-O told me that the customer was always yakking about his wife dying in a plane crash. Not that he cared about the woman, just that he expected to come into lots of cash very soon, waiting for insurance to pay off.” Michelli took a fistful of peanuts from the nut dish and popped them into his mouth. “That true?”
“If she did perish in the crash, yes, that would be true.”
“But you think he bumped his old lady off or something.”
“I’m investigating a case, Mr. Michelli. Right now all I want to do is talk to the girl.”
“You’re looking at her,” Dante said.
“The blonde with the ginormous ones?”
“That’s her. I told you she was sweet and jiggled in all the right places.”
15