Death of the Marked, Page 2

  The Glove, as the locals call it, is an all nude dance club on one of the back streets off Duval. I’ve never been in there, but I hear the ladies are quite alluring and quite willing. Miss Velvet runs it. Rumor has it that she’s an ex pro whose sexual proclivities are legendary in Miami. She made a lot of money and decided to branch out into something legal. Angel had been one of her main attractions. Moves like a demented snake, rhythm descended straight from the devil, and lap dances that made you want to leave you wife yesterday. Brandy was almost as good. Redheaded and hot as they come. Five, six hundred cash on a good night. No telling what they’re doing or who they’re doing it to.”

  It wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear. Good old Sunny, always a fount of information, even if you didn’t want to know. She gulped her coffee, gave me another peck on the cheek, and headed for the beach.

  It was nearly eleven. I corralled Fritz and we walked to the station. We went up the steps to Frank’s office. The usual files and messages covered his desk. He rose to shake both our hands. I sat in one of the rough wooden chairs, but Fritz continued to stand.

  “Sorry to see you guys under these circumstances. I already made a few calls, pulled a few records.” he said. “Fritz, you got to tell me all you know.”

  His face flushed a bit and the words stumbled out of his mouth. Nothing I hadn’t already heard from Fritz or Sunny, but the voice came from far away and there was the plaintive tone, almost pleading, left over from the night before.

  “We’ll find her. The best place to start is The Velvet Glove. At least it should be interesting to meet Miss Velvet.” Frank was reassuring, but I’d seen that act before. He was thinking the same thing I was. Angel was off on another binge, crack, booze, who knows? She could be anywhere in Florida. Still he filled out the paper work, asked Fritz to sign something, and adding some curt instructions, handed it to a uniform. Fritz wasn’t happy, but he seemed satisfied, at least for the moment. “Thanks, Detective Beamon. I’m headed back to the dock,” he said and dragged down the stairs.

  “So what do you think, T.K.?”

  “The same thing you do, Frank. But he’s a friend of mine and I’ve known that Angel since she was seven or eight years old. I’m just trying to help.”

  “Aren’t you always?” he said and laughed. “So how’d you like to meet Miss Velvet?”

  Chapter 4

  Frank picked up the phone and dialed a number he had written on a yellow Post It note. The conversation was brief, but productive.

  “She doesn’t want us at the club. Cops and all that, but she agreed to meet us for lunch at Pepe’s. She made it clear it was on the department. One o’clock. Work for you?” I nodded. We drove over in Frank’s unmarked.

  We got there a few minutes early and were seated in the small garden. The plants were doing their Key West thing. Colors vibrant and full bodied. Oleander, hibiscus, bird of paradise and some spritely blooms I didn’t recognize. It was easy to identify her when she came in. Early fifties, bleach blond hair that still looked full and fresh, a body that was trim and even a bit luscious at her age. The make up was heavy, but discreet, sensuous red lips matched by a scarlet silk mandarin jacket covered in dragons. No bra. I knew because her nipples begged recognition. Tight black slacks and heels. She came directly to the table and smiled like she was meeting old friends. She shook our hands as Frank introduced us.

  “I am in a bit of a hurry, Detective, Dr. Fleming. Business always calls. Let’s order and let me address your questions as we eat.”

  It was cheeseburgers for Frank and me and a Caesar salad for the lady. Iced tea all around.

  “Miss Velvet, as you know, one of your employees, Angelica Monroe, has gone missing. Her father filed a report this morning. He is very concerned and we are talking to anyone who may have information as to her whereabouts.”

  “I can certainly understand his concern, but I haven’t seen Angel in a week or so. She did not show up for her shift on Thursday. She did not call or send a message with her roommate, Brandy. I actually had a check for her, a week’s pay. She never picked it up. That’s not like my girls at all.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe she was involved in any questionable activities? Or had any questionable associations?” She stiffened and leaned back in the chair.

  “I assure you, Detective Beamon, I know exactly what you imply. My girls are not hookers, nor are they users of any controlled substances. I make it very clear when they audition that any illicit activities will result in immediate dismissal. The Velvet Glove is simply an entertainment nightspot. We do not hire or serve minors. We do not service our customers anywhere except the bar. My girls are respectable young ladies employed in a legitimate business that allows them to use their God given attributes to make an honest living.”

  I couldn’t help but remember Gertrude’s line from Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”, “The lady dost protest too much, me thinks.” Righteous indignation is a great tool when it works, but Frank and I had both seen it piled high enough to fill the barn. “I am sure you are quite right, Miss Velvet,” he said. I put my fist to my mouth to stifle a quiet laugh.

  “I suspect Angel has simply found other interests. It happens quite often in our business. The girls come and go. She is obviously gone. I am sure she is safe and secure, probably moved on to something she finds more alluring. My apologies, but I must be on my way. Gentlemen, do drop by the club sometime when duty is not calling.”

  She had finished her salad. The interview was over. She smiled again and gave us a curt wave. Frank lingered over the last few French fries while I sipped my tea.

  “Not much there,” I said.

  “No. And she’s probably right. I checked Angel’s rap sheet. Not a pretty sight. She could be anywhere doing anything. Still gotta check it out. The next step is the roommate, but I’d be surprised if she has any news. I’ll check in with you later. If anyone asks, you’re doing some consulting work for the department. Kind of semi-official capacity. Maybe I can even sneak you a little stipend. Get it on the books. Expenses, you know.”

  “Thanks for the lunch. I won’t hold my breath on the stipend.”

  I crossed the street, passed by the junk shops and Turtle Kraals, then headed down the dock. On KAMALA, I picked up the phone and punched in the number of The Strip Search. Tracy was in. She wasn’t too busy and she could see me at the store when her girl got in at four. I did a little straightening up down below and headed toward Duval around three forty-five.

  Chapter 5

  When I got there, Tracy was wearing what I call her Strip Search Suit. No make up, white cotton blouse buttoned to the neck, baggy jeans and black flats. She had her hair pulled back in an old maid’s bun. But no matter how she tried, Tracy couldn’t look plain, much less dowdy.

  She hugged my neck and ushered me into her office. Somehow it looked different than when her late Uncle Malachi had been the proprietor. The Picassos from his blue period had disappeared and on one wall was a Renoir print of “The Boating Party”, the ladies smiling and proper and buckets of gaiety to go around. I’d always liked that piece. It’s an explosion of color and warmth and people are happy. It makes you smile. A few other female frills made the office much less dour. I knew she was trying to forget her uncle’s murder, and redecorating the office was part of it.

  “T.K., I know you wouldn’t be here on a social call. I’m guessing it has something to do with the disappearance of Angel. You know Key West. Word gets around fast.”

  “Tracy, I know you’re busy. Let me just ask you right out. Do you know her or any of the girls that work The Glove?” She leaned back in her chair and shook her head slightly. She measured her words for a moment, then spoke.

  “Some people might think Miss Velvet and I are in the same business, but we’re not. I don’t deal in any live flesh. I don’t know Angel, but I have known quite a few of those girls over time. A lot of them are single mothers just trying to keep their kids out of the free lun
ch programs. They aren’t hookers or some other kinds of degenerates. They work hard and the money is honest cash. I think some of them believe that Prince Charming will walk out of a fairy tale with the glass slipper. The fit will be perfect and they’ll leave one night to live happily ever after. But for now, they’re just trying to survive. No question, some of them are bad people. Dope, booze, sex drives them. Quite a few have been abused and they’ve come to believe what the scummy bastards say about them, that they’re worthless objects and deserve what they get. But still, that is the minority. The only one of them I really got know a little is Angel’s roommate, Brandy. Nice kid from up your way in the Carolinas.”

  “I know Detective Beamon is going to question her, but he’s a cop. It might scare her. I’d like to talk to her if she’s willing. Could you call her? Tell her I’m safe. I need to do it for Fritz and maybe Angel, too. You don’t know what might turn up.”

  She thought for a second, then said yes. “I got her number. When I reach her, I’ll give you a call if it’s okay. Some of those girls are very superstitious. They see Miss Julianne. Might help if she knows you two are friends.”

  I gave her a fatherly kiss on the cheek and told her I’d wait to hear from her.

  Sunny was working. I stopped by The Raw Bar for a cold one on the way back to the boat. It was Louis at his best, hustling sweating bottles to the charterers, eyes exploding with mock amazement as the fish they’d lost got bigger. His phony island accent was as thick as ever and the bar was lined with dollar bills. He grinned at me and winked.

  I didn’t have to wait long to hear from Tracy. The next morning the phone rang.

  “I talked to her, T.K. She sounds kind of scared, but she will meet you. But it’s going to have to be at the Glove. I think maybe she’s afraid to be seen anywhere else and she wants to check you out before she says anything that might come back to haunt her. Said to come in after her shift starts at eight. Sit at the horseshoe, order a drink. When she finishes her set, she’ll come to you and hustle you into a lap dance. Those booths are the most private place in the club.”

  It sounded a little too 007 for me, but I agreed. I thanked Tracy and told her I’d stay in touch. When Sunny came by the next morning, I filled her in on the latest and told her I was going to do a little field research.

  “Oh yeah, and just what field are you researching? The anatomy of wayward nymphs? That’s no place for a respectable scholar like yourself, Dr. Fleming. I thought your specialty was English Literature, not errant wildlife.”

  “Well, Sunny, a man has to make sacrifices in pursuit of knowledge.” I was glad she laughed.

  “I’m off tonight. You probably need some private tutoring on the finer points of female manipulation and gratification. See you around ten. My place, Big Boy.” She shot me her best “Mae West come hither” look and scooted off KAMALA. She sauntered down the dock, hips swaying like a surly hammock in a strong breeze. She turned and blew me a pouty kiss. Then she was gone.

  Chapter 6

  I turned down the alley and spotted the sign. From the sounds echoing off the brick, Sunday must be a good night for voyeurs. The neon flashed scarlet and a purple border framed a feminine gloved hand. It was single wooden door with a small dusty window. The brass handle was well worn, the zinc showing through. I turned it and a billow of smoke escaped in a rush. I stepped inside. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to lack of light.

  “Good evening, sir. The cover is ten dollars,” seemed to rumble out of a cave next to me. I wasn’t prepared for this. To my left, I’d guess 6’8”, probably 270, with shoulders like mounds of granite, biceps the size of my thighs. He was dressed in camo from head to toe. Huge black boots that laced up the front. He still had the GI cut and his face was thick and chiseled. A sharp, clean scar ran down his forehead and over his cheek. Some plastic surgeon hadn’t quite earned his money. The giant wasn’t smiling. I reached for my money clip and pulled out a ten. Suddenly Miss Velvet was at my side. She looked even better in the dark. The wrinkles had disappeared and her breasts begged to escape from a tight red satin pullover top. She grabbed my arm.

  “It’s okay, Large. A guest of the house.” He nodded slowly and put his ham sized hand down at his side. I slipped the ten back into the fold.

  “That’s Large Larry,” she said, “Afghanistan vet. Got a little too close to an IED. He’s actually very gentle, but also very loyal. Doesn’t like anyone getting rough with the girls. He can hurt people if he doesn’t scare them to death first. I like to hire our boys in uniform when I can. Patriotism and all that. I must say I didn’t expect you to take me up on my invitation, Dr. Fleming.”

  “Please. Make it T.K. Theodore Kassel, if you’re interested. It never seemed to fit.”

  “I am interested, T.K. The pleasures of my guests are always foremost in my mind. Let me offer a cold beverage.”

  “Thank you, an Ice house would be great.” She offered a courtly nod and signaled the bartender.

  “First one’s on the house,” she said, “but please be generous with my ladies.”

  On the right was a long mahogany bar with a brass foot rail that ran its length. The matching stools were filled with men of all ages. They laughed and stared as the girls worked the crowd. Each of them wore what might generously be called a thong and a spaghetti strap top that barely covered their nipples. There were no runners-up. Blonds, brunettes, Latinos, blacks, one Asian girl, each of them ready for the runway. They laughed and cooed, flashed their eyes, and patted the boys on the knees trying to convince them that this would be the best good time they’d ever seen. A few minutes in the back booth, a private dance, and all for a mere $35. Tips appreciated, of course.

  To the left was the horseshoe. It was a long, narrow table that fronted the length of the stage. There was enough space for your drink and an ashtray and plenty of room for a girl to get close enough to feel her breath on your neck. The current performer was hanging onto a brass pole attached from floor to ceiling. Joan Jett’s “I Hate Myself for Loving You” blared from the bevy of speakers. The bass thumped up your leg and drove right into your crotch. A voice boomed out of the speakers, “Let’s hear it for Jesse and stay tuned for our next lovely lady, the red-haired siren, the Queen of Tarts, the voluptuous Brandy.” Jesse made the rounds at the horseshoe playing coy and smiling. She left the stage with a handful of bills in her garter.

  I looked for a place near the stage and sat down. The bar was wet with stale beer and ashes. It started low, but I quickly recognized the strains of a song from the first Steppenwolf album, “The Pusher.” Slow and bluesy, pumping with the mournful backbeat and wailing guitars. John Kay screamed, “Godamn, Godamn the Pusher.”

  Brandy was everything the DJ had promised. Fiery red hair draped over her shoulders. Perfectly sculpted breasts, an hourglass figure with legs that didn’t seem to end. She wore nothing but high heels, a scarlet garter and a black two inch ribbon around her neck. Her pelvic area was shaved into the shape of a small heart. Miss Velvet talked about God given attributes. Brandy had them all. Her hips swayed as she caressed her breasts. She pointed periodically to that spot between her legs and nodded her head. The guys at the horseshoe were mesmerized. She’d catch one of them leering, get a foot or two from him, grind her hips, and point to the garter. They couldn’t grab the cash quick enough. A few ones, but five seemed like the magic bill. It rated an extra shake and a close up of things sweet enough to eat.

  John Kay continued to rasp and she moved over in my direction. She turned and put a beautiful ass about six inches from my face. She shook it a bit and grinned at me over her shoulder. She ran her hand up between her legs. I reached for a five and slipped it into her garter. The voice again, “And let’s hear it for Brandy. A few wolf whistles and a raucous round of applause. “Up next the alluring Stephanie. Hold your seats and be kind to the ladies who make The Velvet Glove Key West’s premier gentlemen’s club. Brandy extracted her dues from the admiring patrons,
then came to my chair.

  She smiled and leaned against me. I could smell the sweat through the not so cheap perfume. Her skin glistened. “You look lonely, Doc. Maybe Brandy can show you something to get your mind off all of those bad things. I promise you won’t be sorry. But I’m awfully thirsty. Maybe you could buy me a drink?”

  I signaled to the waitress. She brought me another Ice House and what Brandy called “the usual.”

  It was a murky blue liquid over ice in a brandy snifter. Maybe vodka, maybe colored water, but she took a good slug when it came. She took me by the hand and let me toward a dark corridor next to the stage. We walked down a short hall with small cubicles. She pushed me into the third one and closed the red curtain. I sat on a small wooden bench with my back against the wall. I could hear moaning from next door, but I wasn’t sure whether it was the girl or the guy.

  “Be still,” she ordered’ “and keep your hands at your side. You’re gonna like this.” She put her hands on my shoulders and leaned over until her breasts were against my chest. She spread her legs and straddled my thighs.

  “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said, “but you are friends with Miss Julianne. She’s good to us. I don’t know much. Me and Angel are M’s girls. We’ve been to the mansion in South Beach, but they keep us in the dark.” She giggled at her own pun and looked down at her forearm.

  In the weak light I could make out a tattoo marking her pale, but perfect skin. It was a dagger with a snake encircling it. On the left was the inscription, ‘Tread.’ And opposite it was the word ‘Die.” There was a small M below the art. Even in the poor light, the thing was menacing. I thought about Angelica’s angel with the death’s head.

  “I haven’t seen her or heard from her in a week, but she didn’t always tell me everything. I know she had this boyfriend. I think he was in Miami. I never met him, but I think she called him Anthony or something like that. We can’t talk here, too many ears. I’m coming to your boat tomorrow around eleven. Have some coffee ready. That’s it for now. Look excited when we leave. Sorry. I got to have the thirty-five. The club gets a take.”