‘Onyx.’
Onyx is stick thin with a drawn face. A pair of obvious implants strain against the pink bikini she wears.
With a practised spiel she works at my defences, trying to entice me into the private dance.
Ignoring her questions about the existence of a Mrs Frank, I start asking a few of my own.
Onyx isn’t much help as she has only worked here for six weeks. What I do get from her is she doesn’t think the guy who owns the club is as bad as some of the sleazeballs she’s worked for. Although she admits she thinks he has other businesses as well as the club.
I slip her enough money to cover the beer and the private dance I am never going to have and ask where I can find Hank Young.
Her eyes become slits. ‘You a cop?’
‘No. A potential business partner.’ I shrug. ‘For one of his other businesses. Not this one.’
Onyx tosses a fearful glance over her shoulder towards a door marked ‘Private’. ‘He don’t take kindly to unexpected visitors.’
‘Then be a honey and go tell him to expect me. You can also tell him it’s about Candice and that I’m a couple of hours ahead of the cops.’
Onyx stalks off towards the door, heels clacking as she goes; the seductive sashay has vanished from her gait as she tries to guess who and what I am talking about.
Five minutes later she hasn’t reappeared, although one of the obvious security cameras now points at me. I settle back in my seat, give the camera a wave and pretend to drink my beer.
Nothing happens for the next few minutes until Mr Steroids comes over to me. ‘Mr Young isn’t here today. I suggest you try coming back in twenty years.’
I keep my voice even and save the steel for my eyes. ‘He is here and in a moment I’m going to walk through that door marked private. If you try and stop me, you will be responsible for your own injuries.’
He lays a hand on my shoulder pushing me into the seat.
Digging a thumbnail into a pressure point on the inside of his wrist, I use my left hand to remove his and stand up. Thoughts of a counterstrike register in his eyes, so I squeeze a fraction harder, causing him to yelp and reconsider.
I look him in the eye and release my hold on his wrist. ‘You can lead the way, or I can knock you down and walk over the top of you. What’s it gonna be?’
Mr Steroids ambles towards the door rather than giving me a verbal answer.
I follow him but make sure there are a few paces between us in case he gets brave or stupid. There is also the possibility he isn’t the only goon on the premises.
Leading me through the door, he takes me into the non-public areas where there are a storeroom, kitchens, a changing room for the dancers and various other storage areas.
He doesn’t hesitate before knocking on an unmarked door.
This is a good sign as far as I am concerned. Hank Young doesn’t scare him more than I do after a simple move like squeezing on a pressure point. That tells me Hank Young isn’t too much of a tough guy and neither is his bouncer.
‘Enter.’
When we enter Hank Young’s office I get a glimpse of more than just the physical person. There are posters of girls dancing in the club on every spare piece of wall space and there is what looks like a hide-a-bed against the back wall. It doesn’t require too much stretching of the imagination to work out how job interviews go in a strip club.
Hank Young is a stereotype if ever I’ve seen one. Mid-fifties with a bald strip on top of his head, his remaining hair is greased into an oily ponytail. A faded sports coat adorns the back of his chair and his desk is littered with various bits of paper and two huge computer screens.
I wait until Mr Steroids takes up a position in front of the door before I take a seat. Deciding to try a gentle approach first, I lean back in the seat and try to look as non-threatening as I can. ‘I’m not here to cause you any problems, Mr Young. I’m here for information on one of your employees.’
‘So I heard.’ His brow creases. ‘You also said something to Onyx about being a couple of hours ahead of the cops.’
His accent isn’t local, it’s more New York than Salt Lake. That is telling in itself. Either he is well-enough connected to keep the local gangs off his back or he pays them off.
‘Kira Niemeyer, who works as Candice for Fantasy Courtesans, has been murdered. Her body was found yesterday and after looking into her life, I was led to your door.’ Pressing home the advantage of surprise, I paint the blackest picture I can. ‘The cops’ll follow the same trail I have and when they come here they’ll tear your businesses apart. Interview all your staff, all your customers.’
I see his pudgy face blanch at the idea of the cops focusing on his business and the customers of Fantasy Courtesans. The investigation would ruin him and probably end in a lot of expensive divorces for his clients.
‘If you help me solve this case, perhaps we can work together to limit police involvement.’
The resistance drains from him. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘I want the real names and contact details for Kira’s last ten clients and the dates she saw them.’
He starts to fiddle with his computer, but I’m not finished. ‘I also want references from other girls who’ve seen these ten clients. I want to know about any kinks or attitude problems.’
He looks up from the keyboard he is pecking at. Fear fills his eyes. ‘That’ll take days to do. The police’ll be here soon won’t they?’
‘Yeah, so you’d best get those answers as soon as you can.’
‘There’s no way I can get all that information together before the police get here.’
I throw him a glimmer of hope.
‘Perhaps not. But if you’re in the process of getting it, they may go easier on you.’
My logic gets a nod of approval before he turns back to his computer.
After five minutes he’s scribbled out a list of names and the dates they’d seen Kira aka Candice.
The most recent client had seen her ten days ago, the previous to him had been three weeks ago.
Reading down the list, I see regular gaps of two or more weeks between each client.
I rap my knuckles on the desk. ‘Are there usually gaps this long between clients?’
‘No. The girls who work for Fantasy Courtesans usually only see one client every month or six weeks. Candice is, sorry, was one of our most popular courtesans and she chose to see more clients than anyone else.’
‘Do you know if she worked for anyone else?’
‘She didn’t as far as I’m aware, but she might have.’ Young adds an email address to each of the names on his list. ‘That’s the only contact details I have for them.’
I look at the list again. Some of the dates match Kira’s Amex usage. ‘On some of these dates she flew to LA. Did she visit clients at their own place?’
‘Certainly not! My girls are not dial-a-hooker bimbos. They are high class courtesans.’
I make a point of looking around his office with a cynical expression. ‘So what was she doing in LA, when according to you she was with clients?’
‘Some of our regular clients organise vacations where the courtesans accompany them to various Caribbean resorts. They meet at LAX before flying to the client’s chosen destination.’
I can’t help but notice how he refers to his stable of hookers as courtesans, as if using a classier word makes it less immoral and more legal. No amount of verbal window dressing can disguise the fact he is a pimp based in a strip club.
I don’t expect any more from him, but I push to find out more about the names on the list from his other girls and place a card on his desk as I rise to leave.
‘Call me as soon as you learn anything.’
Young fingers the card I’ve given him. ‘Mr Boulder, while I am sympathetic to your cause and grateful for your coming here rather than just informing the police, I do not like the way you have assaulted my employee. Should you further trouble any members of my staff, you may find you regret it.’