“May I ask what your business is?”
“I’m a security consultant. Doing a job for Max Climer, down the street.”
This news did not impact his pleasantness. He gestured to the visitor’s chair, still smiling. “Please sit, Mr. Quarry.”
I did. “I understand, sir, that you’re part of a citizen’s group that objects to Mr. Climer doing business on your... turf?”
He started nodding halfway through that. His chair was a high-back swivel number that made him look like the king of his little kingdom. “That’s true in a sense, Mr. Quarry. As far as it goes.”
“How far would that be? I noticed, for example, that you carry Climax Magazine and a number of other pretty explicit men’s magazines.”
He nodded, the smile never leaving. “We do. I share with Mr. Climer an enthusiasm for the First Amendment. I am happy to sell my customers whatever reading material might interest them.”
“Well, that confuses me, Mr. Peck. Hasn’t your group made its opposition to Mr. Climer’s business painfully clear? Haven’t you made efforts to have city ordinances introduced to hamper or block his activities?”
The smile continued, as did his patience. “Mister... Quarry, was it? Mr. Quarry, the Highland Strip Merchants Association is concerned with improving the reputation of this area. We have a business district that is coming back rather successfully after a dismal period. Are you familiar with what this area had become?”
“I’m not local, but I understand it was considered the heart of the Memphis drug scene.”
“Heroin, cocaine, morphine, PCP, barbiturates and amphetamines, LSD, mescaline and of course marijuana, sold openly. Well, of course it led to police raids, and then riots, when the students who frequented the area felt they were being invaded for no good reason.”
What it is ain’t exactly clear.
“Eventually shops that were fronts for drug-selling were closed down, by which time many legitimate businesses had already been driven out. The Strip became... ‘uncool.’ For several years, we were a ghost town. And now the area is fighting back.”
“And you see Max Climer as a threat to that.”
He raised a gentle hand. “We... or at least I... have no objection to his publishing business. It’s somewhat disconcerting that much of his photography is conducted on those premises, but... out of sight, out of mind. The problem is the Climax Club. It’s a hotbed of prostitution and illegal drugs.”
I shifted in the metal chair. “Mr. Peck, the Climax Club is no wide-open dope-selling operation. And if there’s any prostitution going on, the management isn’t part of it. They may look the other way, when a dancer ‘dates’ a patron after hours, but...”
“Even if I grant you that,” Peck said, finally frowning, “presenting as it does ‘exotic dancing,’ the Climax Club sends a very wrong signal to a city just coming to accept an improved Highland Strip.”
“The members of your association — just how deep does their animosity toward Max Climer go?”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“I’m looking into anonymous death threats.”
He sighed, shook his head. “Well, that’s to be expected, with an iconoclast like Mr. Climer. But retailers, merchants, aren’t likely to stoop to that level. We’re honest businessmen, not... hoodlums.”
“Sometimes honest businessmen do business with hoodlums, though.”
And another frown. “What are you implying?”
“You own and operate two adult bookstores elsewhere in the city. The sort of hardcore pornography sold in those kinds of shops is often generated by organized crime.”
The smile returned, but it was no longer pleasant or friendly. “I am the largest distributor of books and magazines in a three-state area, Mr. Quarry. I distribute to my own and to other stores, and my holdings include half a dozen adult bookstores, in those three states. My enterprises are in no way criminal.”
I shrugged. “It’s just that old saying about lying down with dogs and getting up with fleas... if you are dealing with the kind of people who generate hardcore pornography, you might be in a position to have somebody, well... taken care of.”
His face became the blank thing he hung his smiles on. “This conversation, Mr. Quarry, has taken an unpleasant turn. And if I may say so, an unnecessary one.”
“How so?”
“I understand that Max Climer is seriously contemplating moving his operation elsewhere — his publishing to bigger, more modern quarters, and the Climax Club to a more appropriate area out on Winchester Road.”
“In which case you’d have no gripe with him.”
“No. Quite the opposite.”
“How’s that?”
And now the smile returned. “We sell a lot of copies of Climax Magazine at our various locations, Mr. Quarry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to get some work done so that I might have the rest of the day with my family.”
In Germantown, the high-income area just east of Memphis, with its public parks, planned neighborhoods and low crime rate, I tooled the Mustang convertible through winding suburban streets with colonial and farmhouse-style homes until, on Scarlet Road, I came to the future home of the editor and publisher of Climax Magazine. I was not alone, by the way.
Obviously one of the newer mansions in the area, its single sprawling floor was a ranch-style gone mad, white brick with black roof trim, square windows and a bright pink front door. It looked like the most expensive trailer in the world. I left the Mustang on the circular redbrick drive where the pink Caddy and several sporty cars were parked, and advanced hand-inhand with my date to the pink door.
Max Climer had left word at the club for me to join him here this afternoon. He wanted to show off the new digs. I could bring a guest if I wanted to.
Leon, the bartender who gave me the message, said, “Mr. Climer says he figures you made some friends while you were in town,” meaning the strippers. Well, I didn’t feel like asking Brandi. I’d thought about inviting that redheaded waitress, Sally, but instead had a wicked little notion, and invited Climer’s niece, Corrie Colman, instead.
She had jumped at the chance to see what kind of “hedonistic indulgence” her uncle was about to immerse himself in, but I had warned her on the way over, “Chances are he and Mavis are throwing an orgy or something. But don’t worry.”
“Oh?” she’d asked, not make-up-free this afternoon, the pouty mouth all glossy red, the big brown eyes framed in light green shadow.
“I’ll corner the market on you myself.”
She giggled at that, but didn’t seem sure I was kidding. Neither was I.
So we stood together on the little porch with the big pink door in front of us and I rang the bell. Corrie was in a black tube top and flared jeans with a red floppy hat. If you care, I was in a gray polo and jeans. Mavis, who answered the door, was not in jeans. She was in a gold-chain bustier top through which her nipples poked and red-trimmed white panties that her pubic patch showed through, her dark hair up with a gold tiara and matching dangling earrings.
Corrie and I exchanged glances that said, Orgy.
“Come in, you two. Jack, who’s your little friend?”
Corrie wasn’t that little, particularly since she was in platform shoes. But Mavis was a tall drink of water. Water I wouldn’t suggest drinking.
“We’ve met, actually,” Corrie told her.
Nothing registered on the pretty yet horsey face.
“I’m Vernon’s daughter. Cordelia?”
“Oh! The demonstrator!”
That made it sound like she went door to door with vacuum cleaners.