“Always. Kept to himself, too.”

“Angie ever mention his name?”

“I’m thinking,” said Savarin. “Maybe Larry? She only mentioned it one time, and that was when she gave her notice. To be honest, I wasn’t sorry to see her go.”

“Small rack,” said Milo.

“That and not the best attitude. Up there- onstage, it’s all about putting yourself in a special place. A giving place. You’ve got to convince the clients you care about them. Angie had a sullen thing going on. Some guys dig that, the thrill of the chase, you know? But most of ’em want big smiles, this big welcome. That’s what we’re all about.”

“Welcoming the clientele.”

“Hospitality,” said Savarin. “When someone spunkier came along I’d probably have let Angie go. You can teach someone moves, but if they don’t want to learn hospitality, you can’t teach them.”

“So she came in here and gave notice and said she was going off with Larry.”

“I think it was ‘Larry,’ ” said Savarin. “Don’t ask me to swear on it.”

“What she say about him?”

“She said she’d gotten a better offer from one of her regulars. Making it sound like she was getting some kind of important job, but I figured he was putting her up on the side.”

“Why’s that?”

“Guy like that,” said Savarin. “Money to burn, she’s thirty years younger than him. You don’t come in here looking for office managers.”

“She said he had an office?”

“Maybe… this was months ago.”

“Could the regular’s name have been ‘Jerry’?” said Milo.

Savarin brightened. “You know I think it was. Larry, Jerry… who is he?”

“A guy.”

“He hurt her?”

Milo shook his head. “What about Christina Marsh?”

“Christi? Friend of Angie’s. Referred Angie to us. She quit, too, maybe a month after Angie. Her I was sorry to see go. Not huge in the chest department but big enough, and with a real nice shape to them- like pears, you know? Sweet little pink nipples, she didn’t have to rouge ’em. Her whole body had this milk-fed thing going on. Limber, too. She could really work the pole.”

“Why’d she quit?”

Savarin shook his head. “Her I don’t know, she just stopped showing up. I called her once, twice, she didn’t return, I moved on.” He held out his hands. “This business, pays to be philosophical.”

“You have a number for her?”

“Probably somewhere. The owners come in periodically and clear paper, but maybe something’s still there.”

“Who are the owners?”

“Consortium of Chinese-American businessmen. Lucky guys.”

“Business is good,” said Milo.

“Business is great, wish I had a piece. I get bonuses, though.”

“Where’s corporate headquarters?” said Milo.

“Monterey Park. The original club is there, it was designed for an Asian clientele. There are seven others besides this one. Ontario, San Bernardino, Riverside. All the way down to San Diego County. My cash flow’s among the best.”

“Any other owners besides the guys from Monterey Park?”

“Nope.”

“Who owns the building?”

Savarin smiled. “Nice little eighty-year-old lady from Palm Springs who inherited from her husband. Grace Baumgarten. She came in one time, watched the girls dance, said she remembered when she could move like that.”

“Anyone else involved in the business?”

“Besides employees?”

“Any other owners?”

“No, that’s it.”

“What about bouncers? Any others besides the guys on tonight?”

“I use some Cal State football players from time to time,” said Savarin.

“Ever use a guy named Ray Degussa?”

“Nope. Who’s he?”

“A guy.”

“Okay, I won’t ask,” said Savarin. “But can I ask why you want to know about Angie and this Jerry guy and Christi? What I mean to say, is it something that could affect business?”

Milo showed him the death shot. Savarin’s tan lost some bronze.

“That’s Christi. Oh, man. What the hell happened to her?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Christi,” said Savarin. “Oh, man. She was basically a nice kid. Not too smart, but nice. Talk about your farm girl. I think she was from Minnesota or someplace. Natural blonde. Oh, man. That’s a shame.”

“Big shame,” said Milo.

“Let me see if I can find you that paperwork.”

Out in the vestibule Savarin unlocked one of the unmarked doors on a closet full of boxes and bottles of cleaning fluids. He rummaged through file boxes. It took a while but he came up with a single sheet of pink paper labeled Employee Data that listed a Social Security number and a mailing address for Christina Marsh and nothing else.

Vanowen Boulevard, North Hollywood. Not far from Angie Paul’s apartment complex. Christina Marsh had begun working at the club eight months ago, stopped showing up six months later.

Soon after Gavin had begun therapy.

Milo said, “There’s no phone number here.”

Savarin took a look at the sheet. “Guess not. I think she said she hadn’t gotten one yet. Just moved, or something like that.”

“From Minnesota.”

“I think it was Minnesota. She looked Minnesota, real creamy. Sweet kid.”

“Not bright,” I said.

“When she filled this out,” said Savarin, “it took her a real long time, and she was moving her lips. But she was a great worker.”

“Uninhibited,” I said.

“She’d squat for a dollar tip, show you everything. But there was nothing… foxy about it.”

“Sexy but not foxy?”

“Sexy because it wasn’t foxy,” said Savarin. “What I’m trying to say is there was nothing teasy about her. It was like fucking the pole and showing everything was just a way to show off what nature gave her. Wholesome, you know? Guys like that.”

Milo said, “Did she mention where she worked before?”

Savarin shook his head. “When I saw how she moved, I didn’t ask any more questions.”

“She have any regulars?”

“No, she wasn’t that way, she circulated.”

“Unlike Angie.”

“Angie knew she couldn’t compete physically, so she concentrated on finding one guy, really worked him. Christi was a people person, pulled in max tips. That’s why I was surprised when she didn’t show up. How long ago was she… when did it happen?”

“Couple of weeks ago,” said Milo.

“Oh. So she was doing something in between.”

“Any idea what?”

“I’d say dancing at another club, but I’d have found out.”

“The club grapevine.”

Savarin nodded. “It’s a small world. Girl moves to the competition, you hear about it.”

“Who’s the competition?”

Savarin rattled off a list of clubs, and Milo copied them down.

“The girls working tonight,” he said. “Any of them know Christi or Angie?”

“Doubt it. None of them have been here longer than a couple of months. Not at this branch, anyway. That’s our big thing. We cycle the talent.”

I said, “Helps avoid too many ‘Jerrys.’ ”

“Keeps everything fresh,” said Savarin.

Milo said, “It’s a small world. Maybe one of the girls knew Angie or Christi from before.”

“You can go backstage and talk to them, but you’d probably be wasting your time.”

“Well,” said Milo, “I’m no stranger to that.”

Backstage was a cluttered corridor crowded with costumes on racks and makeup on tables, bottles of aspirin and Mydol, lotions and hair clips, ambitious wigs on Styrofoam forms. Three girls lounged in robes, smoking. A fourth, slender and dark, sat naked with one leg propped on a table, trimming her pubis with a safety razor. Up close, the pancake makeup caked. Up close the girls looked like teenagers playing dress-down.

None of them knew Angela Paul or Christina Marsh and when Milo showed them the death shot, their eyes grew frightened and wounded. The girl with the razor began to cry.