“Did you save Suzy’s employment forms? Withholding, Social Security, that kind of thing?”
“Can’t save what I don’t have, guys. The only forms we keep are for the alcohol-license Nazis and the pests from the health department. The girls aren’t employees, they’re independent contractors. That’s pretty much the industry standard.”
“Did Suzy mention other places she’d worked?”
Consuela Baca got out a raspy fragment of laughter before being seized by a coughing fit. Another belated mouth-cover. “Sorry, sorry, don’t want to infect you. No, she didn’t mention because I didn’t ask. It’s not like we demand résumés. They prance in with no appointment, get naked, strut their stuff. They’re up to our standards, we give them tryouts. They show up on time and stay sober, we give them time slots. Even the long-timers don’t last. Suzy was a short-timer. Weeks, not months.”
“How come?”
“Beats me,” said Baca. “One day she just didn’t show up. No big deal, there’s never a shortage of product.”
Milo slipped the photo back in his pocket. “What can you tell us about her?”
“Only my impression,” said Consuela Baca. “Quiet girl, not much of a personality — oh, yeah, she claimed to be a student.”
“Where?”
“She never said. And she could’ve been lying. That’s what the girls do. They lie.”
I said, “Another industry standard.”
“You’ve got that right. We sell fantasy. Once it crosses over to reality — too many zits on an ass, too strung out to move right — it’s goodbye, Cutie, because you’ve crossed over into honesty and honesty kills business. When the girls are up on stage, they’re dream receptacles, not real people. I’m not going to sit here and tell you they’re actresses — though some of them would like to think so. But we do run a show. Pretending for dollars. Good liars find it easier to pretend. I know my talent pool, guys. If we kept petty cash around, it wouldn’t last a nanosecond.”
“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”
“Oh, do I,” said Baca. “It’s like juvenile hall. Someone willing to do the job isn’t going to be a goody-two-shoes church virgin. Not that we haven’t had some of those trying to break loose from Daddy and Mommy.”
I said, “Free spirits.”
“Girls gone wild or trying to.” Tiny smile. “Like I used to be.”
“Suzy didn’t come across like that?”
“Hmm — you know, in her own way, maybe she did. Not a firecracker, a smolderer. That can be just as sexy.”
She sniffled and dabbed, used her eyes to redirect us to her photos.
I said, “Those are pretty artistic.”
“Thank you kindly, sir. The guy who took them was an artist. Did his main work for the studios back in the forties, got ripped off like everyone else who worked for the studios, not a penny in royalties. When he retired he freelanced. A customer who’d seen me on stage hooked him up with me. George — George Grumann — was looking for a quote unquote ‘ice goddess.’ He took one look at me and said, ‘The Valkyrie has arrived.’ It was fun.”
She gave herself another long look. “I think they came out quite well.”
“Terrific.”
She nodded, sneezed, coughed. “Sorry, I’m not used to having people over when I’m feeling shitty. I get that itchy throat, I usually take zinc right away and it kind of works. But it also makes me super nauseated and I just got over a stomach flu so I figured I’d muscle this one out.”
She cleared her throat at high volume: grinding gears. “God, I sound like a wild pig.”
I said, “Hope you feel better soon.”
“That’s sweet. Thank you.”
“What did Susan say she was studying in school?”
“She never got that specific. Not to me, anyway. I don’t encourage chitchat. Show up, look hot, do your thing, keep the alcohol flowing and the cocks hard.”
“Was there another girl she might have confided in?”
“Not that I saw,” said Baca. “She wasn’t Miss Congenial, kind of kept to herself. I heard a couple of the other girls call her a snob. Actually, it was along the lines of ‘what a cold bitch.’ ”
“Do you remember who said that?”
“You’re kidding. We’re talking two years ago, maybe more. No one around then is working for me now. Even if they have the attention span, they make bad choices and age fast.”
Sliding a hand down her own sleek thigh, as if soliciting contradiction.
I said, “Did George Grumann ever take pictures of her?”
“Oh, no,” said Baca, smiling. “George has been gone for — I’m not going to tell you how long on the grounds it might incriminate me.” A beat. “He died twenty-two years ago. A year after he took my glams.”
“What else can you tell us about her?”
She shrugged. “Her street presence was drab. She’d show up for work in clothes designed to limpy-poo a cock. First time, I said to myself, this one has the bone structure and the bod but no clue, it’s not going to work out. But when she auditioned, she was tarted up the wazoo. Full-on makeup, smoky eyes, inch-long lashes, collection of not-bad wigs, fuck-me shoes, red micro-dress you could use for a handkerchief. When she got up on stage her dancing was different but actually pretty hot.”
“Different how?”
She loosened her hair, freed a cascade of ice. “What I just told you, smoldering not burning.”
“On the subtle side,” I said. “Wouldn’t think that would work.”
Consuela Elena Baca sighed. “You’re big boys so I’ll explain it in big-boy terms. It’s like with fucking, guys. You know how some women scream and thrash and make all those good noises, and others lie back with their eyes closed and this satisfied smile on their faces but they’re both sexy? Suzy was the second type. She’d get up and do this little side-to-side shuffle, even look a little bored. She’d start off staring at the floor then slowly she’d raise her eyes and make contact with losers in the front row. Suddenly everyone’s looking at her. Same thing with the pole. She’d take her sweet time getting with it and when she did, no acrobatics. More like she’s hugging it romantically. Stroking it.”
Licking her lips, she demonstrated. “Slo-ow. Not much in the way of calorie expenditure but there was something about her the clients dug. Maybe it was the holding back. Like in their monkey brains, pleasing her was some fantasy goal. That can be real sexy.”
Recrossing her legs, she offered a view of the other thigh. Shifted a bit more. No underwear. “Whatever it was, it worked. She did okay on tips and the booze flowed.”
Milo said, “She auditioned in a red dress.”
“All she ever wore was red,” said Baca. “It went great with her coloring, no argument from me. The bar bill’s rocking, you’re rocking.”
“Any idea where she got her clothes?”
She laughed. “These questions. We’re not talking designer stuff, guys. Probably Frederick’s, Trashy, Next to Naked, Stage Hollywood, one of those. Or a vintage place that specializes in body-conscious. This town, there’s no shortage of fuck-me rags.”
Milo scrawled rapidly. “We’re pretty ignorant about that stuff. Any other names you could give us?”
She rattled off several more shops. “You’re writing it down? You’re actually planning to visit each one of them?”
“All in the name of public service.”
“Well, enjoy your work.” She patted her nose. Cricked her neck and gave a low moan. “God, my joints — I need to rest, guys.”