“Anyway,” she said through a tantalizing smile. “I think you get the gist of it. I’ll explain the rest on the way.”
It stretched the bounds of believability to think that the sad-eyed waif swinging idly around the center of three dance poles was a day over seventeen years old. O’Hearn had been dead right. Cheekie’s was not the sort of establishment that liked to leave much to the imagination, and the poor thing wore little but a hungry look and a back covered in fading bruises. Techno music thrummed and blared, heavy with base. Multicolored lights flashed and spun in a layered haze of cigar and cigarette smoke, smoothing out the girl’s flesh and muting her injuries, but Bowen saw them clearly enough. His knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists, walking between the front row of semicircular booths that surrounded the stage, hunting for someone to punish. Two sorry looking men in their late forties slouched over half-empty beer bottles, either still glassy-eyed from a long night, or getting an early start on a day of drunken leering. Bowen considered busting a bottle over each man’s head on principle alone. Ronnie must have felt him tense and let her head loll against his shoulder as they walked past the men.
“Remember,” she said, “we’re here to see what crawls out of the woodwork, not send everyone running. You’re my manager, not Dudley Do-Right here to save the day.”
“Got it,” Bowen grunted. “But when we’re done here, I’m smackin’ the hell out of somebody.”
Regaining a semblance of control over his emotions, Bowen gave a toss of his head toward a big-jawed fat man who pecked away at a laptop computer at the farthest booth from the door. The stubby big toe of a cigar smoldered in a ceramic ashtray beside the computer, providing the fat man with his own personal cloud. Greasy black hair was slicked backward from a high forehead and bristled over the collar of a dingy white shirt. A minuscule pair of reading glasses perched on the end of a large nose. The glasses didn’t quite reach the fat man’s ears and seemed held in place by the sheer width of his face. A green lamp sat on the table in front of him beside a stack of cash-register and credit-card receipts.
The man snatched off the glasses when he saw Bowen and rubbed his eyes between a chubby thumb and forefinger. His vision apparently cleared enough to see Ronnie and a fleshy smile took over his jowly face. His cheeks moved upward at the effort, causing him to squint.
“Word is you’re looking for dancers,” Bowen said over the thrumming noise. He gave a toss of his head toward Garcia.
The fat man picked up a handheld remote control and turned off the music, throwing the strip club into a startling quiet. The skinny thing on stage continued her half-hearted gyrations, and the two men in the booth behind them didn’t appear to notice the silence.
“I always have need for dancers,” the fat man said, his eyes crawling up and down Ronnie like bugs. “Provided price is right.” He spoke with a strong Eastern European accent that Bowen couldn’t place — like Russian, but not quite. “It also depends on what she is willing to do on side.”
“Take a look at her first,” Bowen said, imagining he was showing a prize racehorse — barely able to hide his disgust. “Then we’ll talk specifics.”
Ronnie winced when he took her by the arm and nudged her forward, gritting her teeth and drawing away. Bowen had forgotten about her injured shoulder, and his heart sank to think that he’d hurt her. The fat man grinned. It was common for men in this business to tenderize their female merchandise.
“I am Gugunova,” the fat man said. The drooping smile on his face was absent even a shred of kindness. “Those fortunate to work for me call me Gug.” He pronounced it Goog, and Bowen wondered if he knew how fitting the name seemed for his ponderous size.
Gug canted his head to one side, squinting through the smoky bar haze at Garcia. “What is your name and where are you from?”
“Veronica Dombrovski.” Ronnie began to speak in halting English, playing the nervous girl fresh to the big city. “I am from Moscow, er, Drezna really. My parents… my brothers, they work textile mills. Very poor—”
She launched into a string of perfect Russian, presumably saying the same thing again to make sure Gug believed her story.
Bowen, who was lucky to get the grammar correct in an English sentence found himself mightily impressed.
The fat man held up his hand to shush her. “You speak English well enough for Drezna River kitten.” He flicked fat fingers in a circle beside his face, motioning for her to turn around. “Let us see if you speak the important language, Veronica Dombrovski.” His eyes slid up and down her body. Bowen grabbed the edge of the booth to keep from slapping the man’s eyes out of his head. Gug suddenly turned to look at him, eyeing the injuries on his face.
“And who are you to her?”
“Manager,” Bowen said, knowing that if he said any more he’d come unglued.
“How would someone like you manage beautiful kitten like our Veronica?” Gug scoffed. “It appears to me that you have trouble managing yourself.” He looked at Ronnie again and licked his carpy lips. “The world is a mean and lowly place, kotyonok. I think you are in need of real manager to take care of you.”
Bowen took a half step forward, but Ronnie blocked him with her hip. Her eyes flew wide, more innocent than Bowen knew them to be. “I dance maybe?” she said.
A new man wearing a tight, muscle-mapping T-shirt swaggered in through the darkness from some door beyond the leather booths in the back. Knee-length gym shorts showed off his cantaloupe calves. Obviously Gugunova’s muscle, he stood behind his boss with folded arms, glaring at Bowen as if he’d been summoned to throw out the garbage. Younger than the deputy, probably not yet thirty, he wore an overconfident smirk along with the tight gym clothes. His head was shaved, his face shiny and youthful — oblivious to what he was about to get himself into. It made sense that the corpulent boss would have a duress button somewhere under the private table. Guys who called themselves Gug were not likely to stomp their own snakes.
A slender Asian woman wearing a tight halter top and white short shorts seemed to materialize from the same darkness to ask if Bowen wanted a drink. She shot Ronnie a look of pleading despair, as if warning her not to jump into this pit of vipers in which she found herself.
A tinkling bell of the front door preceded Thibodaux’s entrance. The big Cajun took a minute to look around the place, as anyone would when walking into a dark strip club in a shady part of town. Apparently satisfied, he waved at the Asian waitress to get her attention, and then took a seat at the booth on the other side of the two drunks. He would have a good view of the stage and it put him within launching distance of Gug’s table should Bowen need assistance.
Bowen looked back and forth from Jacques to the muscle-bound kid standing behind the fat man, before tapping Ronnie on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I don’t trust a man who has to call in his ugly bodyguards to watch a chick dance.”
Roaring with laughter, Gug smacked the flat of his hand on the table, causing the Asian girl to flinch as if she’d been slapped.
“I only have one bodyguard, Mr. Manager,” the fat man said. “This new gentleman is not on my payroll. He is patron. People come to my place for entertainment. How about you let Veronica Dombrovski entertain?”
Bowen leaned in so only Ronnie could hear. “We can still stop this,” he whispered.
“Let’s see what happens,” Ronnie whispered. “Just try not to swallow your tongue.” She tossed him a mischievous wink before climbing up onto the stage.