“Sure… can I lock up?”

“Yup.”

The three of us descended the stairs, and Milo had Ballou point out Angie Paul’s parking slot. Empty.

“She still driving a ’95 Camaro?”

“Think so,” said Ballou. “Yeah, bright blue.”

We returned to the Seville. Half past midnight. No parking ticket.

“Lady Luck’s smiling down on us,” said Milo. “Finally.”

I said, “Christina Marsh.”

“Yeah, could be.”

I started up the engine and he slapped a manic cha-cha beat on the dashboard. Three Scotches and Lord knew how many consecutive work hours, and he was running a mental marathon.

“Good morning,” I said.

“You tired?”

“Not a bit.”

“Me neither. When’s the last time you visited a strip joint?”

“Not for a while.”

“I’ve been to a few,” he said. Big grin. “Seen women strip, too.”

CHAPTER 36

The Hungry Bull, West L.A. branch, was on Cotner off Olympic, in an industrial zone that smelled like rubber cement. Next to the club was a Rolls-Royce junkyard, husks of once-glorious chassis and auto viscera piled high behind chain-link.

Not much farther was a co-op art gallery where a gifted painter had been strangled to death in a bathroom. The last case Milo and I had worked together. If he was thinking about that, he wasn’t showing it.

The club was housed in a windowless hangar painted matte black. Double-quilted chromium doors looked tacked on. A neon sign promised strong drinks and beautiful women.

The industrial setting was perfect: no daytime neighbors with NIMBY fever, no one to complain about the hyperdisco two-four boogie beat punching through black stucco.

The strip joint billed itself as a “gentleman’s club.” The parking lot was full of dusty compacts and pickups, and the two dark-haired guys guarding the doors were elephantine and tattooed. Somehow, I doubted we’d find jowly hale-fellows savoring cognac and fine cigars amid book-lined, mahogany splendor.

Milo showed his badge to Elephant One and received a bow-and-scrape. “Yessir, what can I do for you?”

“Rick Savarin on tonight?”

The bouncer’s cantaloupe face was bisected by an old gray knife scar that ran from the middle of his brow, changed direction across the bridge of his nose, meandered across his lips, and terminated in the crook of a chin you could lean on for support.

“Yessir. He’s in his office. Someone will direct you, sir.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Elephant Two, even bigger and sunglassed, held the door. Immediately inside, yet another giant, this one lanky and long-haired and Caribbean, ushered us to the left, down a short corridor that ended at swinging doors, also quilted, in black vinyl.

The main room’s color scheme was black with crimson trim. Three steps led to a sunken pit where intent-looking men ringed a circular stage. Two women danced naked, pulling off some pretty good gymnastic moves, and making love to stainless-steel poles. Both were ultrablond, big-haired, rail-thin, with breasts inflated well past biology. Each wore a red garter on her left thigh. The girl with the sun-ray tattoo bluing her entire back had more cash stuffed in hers.

We reached the black vinyl doors. The lanky giant pointed and pushed them open. He stayed behind as we entered a short vestibule with two unmarked wooden doors and one with an aluminum sign that read MANAGER.

Before Milo could knock, the door opened, and a young man wearing an extravagant black toupee smiled and held out his hand. “Rick Savarin. Come on in.”

Savarin had on a soft-draping, powder blue suit with shawl-lapels, black silk T-shirt, blue Gucci loafers with no socks, a gold chain around a too-tan neck. His office was small and functional and smelled like a Shirley Temple. On his desk was a framed photo of a plainlooking woman and a puzzled toddler.

Savarin said, “My sister, back in Iowa. Sit down, make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you guys something to drink?”

“No thanks,” said Milo. “You from Iowa, too?”

Savarin smiled. “Long time ago.”

“Farm boy?”

“That was a real long time ago.” Savarin slid behind his desk, sat, wheeled his chair to the wall, braced himself with a loafer on a drawer handle. On the wall were several nude calendars with the Hungry Bull logo and one from a liquor distributor.

“So,” he said, tenting his hands. He looked around thirty-five, was well built, with puffy blue eyes and a tense mouth. When the mouth opened, a band of flashy dentition blared forth. Snowy caps. The hairpiece looked borrowed.

Milo said, “Angie Paul.”

“Angie?” said Savarin. “She worked here a while back. Her stage name was Angie Blue.”

“The nails.”

“The nails, the G-string, she drove a blue car. It’s a competitive environment, and the girls figure they need something distinctive. In Angie’s case a nice rack would’ve helped, but she convinced herself blue was a big deal.” Savarin chuckled. “So what’s she been up to?”

“We’re looking for her as a person of interest,” said Milo. “When did she stop working here?”

“Four months ago.”

“Did she quit or was she fired?”

“She quit,” said Savarin. “One of the customers- one of her regulars- swept her off her feet.”

“Fraternizing with the customers?”

“It’s against the rules, and we do our best to enforce it. But the girls who work here aren’t exactly into rules.”

“Who was the regular?”

“Some middle-aged guy, used to show up two, three times a week, then we wouldn’t see him, then he’d be back.”

“To see Angie?”

“Always,” said Savarin. “Lucky for her.” He passed a hand over his chest. “Some guys like the natural look. With all the silicone and saline I see all day, frankly a girl with a sweet face and a natural rack is a turn-on for me. But most customers?” He shook his head. “Even guys who like natural want something, and Angie was pretty near flat. I didn’t want to hire her, but she had good hips and a good butt, moved good during her audition. Also, she caught me at a time when I was low on girls.”

“This regular really went for her.”

“He came only on days when she was dancing, sat right in front, kept his eyes on her nonstop. She started doing her thing for him. He tipped her heavy; I guess they developed a relationship.” Savarin scratched his head. “I never saw her do a lap dance for him; that should’ve tipped me off.”

“How so?”

“He had no need for lap because he was getting it after hours.”

“Describe this guy.”

“Middle-aged, pretty ordinary,” said Savarin. “I never learned his name because he always paid cash and sat by himself and one time when I went over to ask if there was anything he needed, he blew me off.”

“What’d he say?”

“He just waved his hand, like don’t bother me, I’m concentrating. Fine with me, it was his cash. He drank mostly soft stuff but a lot of it. Five, six Cokes a night. With lime. Occasionally he’d want some rum in it.”

“Middle-aged,” said Milo.

“I’d say fifty. Six feet tall, kind of skinny- kind of slumpy.”

“Slumpy.”

“Standing bent over, you know? Like something was sitting on his shoulders.”

Milo nodded. “What else?”

Savarin said, “Let’s see… gray hair.”

“Gray comb-over?”

Savarin flinched. “I wouldn’t call it a comb-over. Not a formal, sprayed-in-place comb-over. This was more like he was shoving what he had to one side and forgetting about it.”

“What about his clothes?”

“Casual- sweaters. I can tell you what he drove. Little Baby Benz, black, or maybe gray. Dark. Mr. Businessman. I figured him for money, some guy with an office, a lawyer or something.”

“He always come in by himself?”