Authors: Rex Burns
The west end went four miles toward the mountains and was dotted with drive-in restaurants, a plentiful scattering of bars, and a line of motels that did business by the hour rather than by the night. It was mostly the teenie’s drag strip. The east end was called adult—adult films, adult bookstores, adult arcades, adult live shows. It went across the prairie in the direction of Kansas, leaving Denver around mile eight, and then staggering on as far again before fading into the bug-spattered neon of all-night truck stops and cut-rate gas stations with their scratched and scarred “adult dispensers” on the grime-streaked walls of men’s rooms.
At this, the lower end of the strip, a short walk from the capitol, the Cinnamon Club’s glowing pink-and-green sign hung out over a sidewalk crowded with night people. The car glided past a Laundromat, half-filled at one-thirty in the morning with customers hunching their shoulders against one another. Across the street, a dark-colored van sat in the unlit parking lot of a small group of closed shops. Around the van half-a-dozen men of various ages clustered wearing the street uniform of the dope world: tattered fatigue jackets, Levi’s, hats of several styles, vests. One, standing at the open door, carefully counted out his money while the driver, glancing anxiously at Wager’s unmarked car, snapped his fingers.
“You recognize that dude?”
Axton craned his neck. “No. New pusher in town.”
Wager tried to see the plates on the van, but they had been bent and smeared with dirt; besides, it was an item for Vice and Narcotics. If they had the time, if they had the manpower, if they had the interest, Vice and Narcotics might set the dealer up for a buy-and-bust. Had Wager and Axton swung around to arrest them for what was plainly a rolling dope market, the money and the dope would disappear into the vehicle, and so would the case—in some kind of constitutional infringement. It wasn’t enough anymore to witness a crime in progress; you had to get a warrant to investigate a homicide if it was on private property. There was a lot of talk about some pendulum swinging back toward law enforcement, but Wager hadn’t seen it yet.
He pulled into a yellow zone near the corner, half-aware of the cautious eyes slanting their way from the strolling crowd. Their car caused a subtle undertow among the people walking or standing and talking, or alone and watching the action along the street. A teenaged whore in white shorts turned away abruptly to wander toward the other end of the block, her legs awkwardly thin and bony on tall sandals. From the shadowy landing of a stairway leading up to the cheap apartments above the stores, a figure withdrew into the darkness. Wager and Axton locked the car’s doors and walked toward the glare of light. Along the curb, eyes slid away from them, and a grimy pair of panhandlers eased out of their path.
The Cinnamon Club advertised its shows as Sweet-n-Spicy. A glass case at the brightly lit entry showed a fly-specked collection of nude girls standing at the edge of a stage, smiling regally down at the camera. At the top, near the center, stood one who looked like Annette Sheldon; it was hard to tell, though, because the stiff poses and the harsh light made them all look alike, except for the various hairstyles.
“Let’s get some culture,” said Max.
The white glare of the entry wasn’t only to illuminate the come-on shots; it was to keep exiting customers from being mugged, at least until they stepped off the club’s property. It was also a kind of barrier: the inside was almost black; anyone—customer, cop—had to pause a moment to let his eyes adjust and give the bouncers and B-girls a chance to look them over. Wager’s ears told him that the room was not very crowded tonight, and when his vision cleared, he could pick out empty chairs along the runway where customers sat and drank and watched. Of the faces he could see, most were young; but at least one gray head near the wall caught a remnant of pink light. Here it was, a half-hour before closing—one of the busiest times of the night—and the place was half-empty.
Voices were muffled by the thudding crescendo of stereo music while, on the runway in a dim glow of red lights, a dancer writhed under the stroke of her hands and snapped her long hair back and forth whip-like across her torso. Her thumb edged under the narrow panties and began to slip them down one pale hip with a slow, pumping motion to show a corner of dark hair to a man who held a bill out and tucked it into the girl’s garter.
Axton led Wager to the bar dotted with faces that seemed rubbery and smooth in the glow. As he stepped to the serving station to catch the eye of the bartender, a heavyset man in a sport coat materialized from the back and tapped his arm.
“Not there, friend—that’s the waitresses’ stand.”
Axton looked down at the bouncer. “Police. Where’s the manager?”
Hesitating until Axton showed his badge, he said, “Come on, gentlemen.” His tongue had trouble with all those syllables, and it came out “gemmn.”
He shoved through empty tables and chairs and past the end of the runway, where a man stared with a lax smile at the dancer who had now turned her back and was looking over her shoulder. The music’s volume was lowered. The other side of her panties inched down and she ran her tongue in circles over wet lips as her shiny hips ground in the glow.
“Just a minute,” said the bouncer. “I’ll see if he’s in.” The man’s hairy knuckles rapped twice on the door and he opened it to peek in. Then he stepped back. “Go ahead, gemmn.”
The manager was in his fifties and wore a Hawaiian-print sport shirt that bulged out over a stomach as tight and round as a bowling ball. Graying hair tufted above his ears; the rest of his head was shiny. He took off a pair of horn-rimmed bifocals as he stood in the dimly lit office and held out his hand. He had a wide smile and guarded eyes. “Police? What’s the problem, gentlemen?” He waved toward a wide couch that filled one wall. “Sit down. You want some coffee? A drink?”
Wager folded his badge case; they remained standing. “Did Annette Sheldon work for you?”
“Shelly?” The man’s baggy eyes blinked. “She’s been found?”
“She’s a homicide victim,” Wager said.
“Ah. Well, shit. Well, that’s really bad.”
“She worked here, is that right?”
“Yeah—a long time. Longer than me. … How’d it happen? Who did it?”
“She was shot. We don’t have a suspect yet. What’s your name?” asked Wager.
“You got to ask me like that? Like I’m a suspect?”
“That’s not what we meant, sir,” said Max. “We need your name as her employer.”
“Berg. David Berg.”
“You’re the manager?”
“Manager, owner, chief accountant—you name it. I don’t dance. That’s the only thing I don’t do around here.”
Axton looked up from his notebook. “I thought Irv Sideman owned this place.”
“He used to. He sold out to Jim Parmelee, what, a year ago. Parmelee couldn’t make it, and I bought it from him six months ago.” He ran a palm across his shiny head. “I should have waited another six months. Parmelee would have paid me to take it.”
“How long did Mrs. Sheldon work here?”
“She came when Sideman had the place, I think.” He glanced at the steel filing cabinet against the shadowed wall of the small room. “I could find out from the pay records. It’d take some time, though.” The telephone clattered and a light winked under one of its plastic buttons. “Excuse me.” Berg sat back in his swivel chair, the soft glow of the desk lamp catching a film of sweat on his face. “Yeah?” He listened a moment. “How much and what bank? … Okay, get the number and go ahead and cash it. If not, give him a free drink and say we’re sorry.” He hung up. “Out-of-state check,” he explained. “I got to okay every one. People are pushing a lot of bad paper lately. Bad times, bad paper.”
“It’s not too big a crowd tonight,” said Max.
“Listen, I’m not knocking it—I wish all of them were this good.” His head wagged sadly. “Weeknights, I’m lucky to make the overhead.”
“When did you see Mrs. Sheldon last?” Wager asked.
“Last weekend, what, Saturday? Yeah. She showed up Saturday for work and then Tuesday her husband, what’s his name, he called to ask where she was. First I knew she was missing, I swear.”
“You didn’t see her Sunday or Monday?”
“We’re closed then.”
“Mr. Sheldon didn’t call until Tuesday?”
“My private number’s unlisted. In this business …” He ended with a shake of the head.
“Do you know Mr. Sheldon?”
“I seen him once or twice. He seems like a real gentleman. But I can’t say as I know him.”
“Did you see Mrs. Sheldon leave the club last Saturday?”
Berg shook his head. “Unless it’s payday or unless they got a problem, I don’t see the girls come and go. We have a business meeting once a week—Thursday morning. That and payday’s about the only time I see all of them.”
“She was at last Thursday’s meeting?”
“She was still working Thursday night. You miss a meeting, you’re out on your sweet ass.” He smiled, “That sounds hard, maybe, but some of these young ladies, they never had discipline in the home, you know?”
“Did she have any men friends other than her husband?”
“You mean was she cheating on him? Not with my customers! The young ladies dance for the customers. When they’re not dancing, they serve the customers their drinks. The rest of the time they leave the customers alone and vice versa. This is a clean establishment, gentlemen. Wholesome exotic dancing, you know? You could bring your wife or mother here. Some broad tries dating up the customers, out she goes on her sweet ass.”
“No one ever asks the girls for a date after the show?”
“Well, sure—that’s human nature, right? But all she’s got to say is she’ll lose her job. It gives the girls an excuse they appreciate, you know? I find out somebody’s hustling customers, she’s through. Period. I make this very plain at the hiring interview. I tell them the rules and tell them they can be replaced like that if they break the rules—it’s simple as that.” He thought a minute. “Of course, what they do on their own time away from here, that’s their business. I’m not a fascist, right? But this is a clean place; if Shelly had something going on the side, it wasn’t from here.” The telephone rang again and, after a terse conversation, Berg hung up. “Things get real busy about this time,” he hinted.
“Annette Sheldon never broke the rules?”
“Not here. But like I say, away from here … But she was a real nice young lady, Annette. This is a terrible thing, a real tragedy to happen to such a really talented and lovely young lady.”
“Who might have seen her last?” Max asked.
“The other girls. I guess you want to talk to them?” At Wager’s nod, he pressed a button under the lip of the desk. “Sure. The place is yours. Anything I can do … a real tragedy.” A knock on the door and the bouncer’s wide head poked in. “The last set’s just going on now and the bar’s closing,” Berg told them. “The girls should be in the dressing room soon. Cal, take these gentlemen back to the dressing room. You gents want a drink, it’s yours. But—ah—try not to shake the young ladies up, okay? They got artistic temperaments, you know? Real prima donnas, every one.”
Cal the bouncer said “Follow me” and led them back across the edge of the dark floor where, with intermission, waitresses in hot pants over Danskin leotards moved from table to table getting the last orders before the final set. In his glass-faced booth above the stage, the disc jockey had shifted tapes and in place of the stomach-punching thud of the previous music, the ripple of a quiet jazz guitar flowed over the gradually rising voices and sharp
tink
of glass.
This door was down a short alley separated from the main room by heavy drapes. Another curtain arced away and led to the rear of the dancing ramp, so the girls could make their entry high upstage. Once more, Cal knocked and stuck his head around a door. He mumbled something indistinguishable, then said, “All right, gemmn,” and headed quickly back toward the noise. Closing time was busy for him, too.
Wager and Axton stepped into the hot and heavily perfumed air of a dressing room smaller than Berg’s office. Two light mirrors formed one wall above a shelf littered with makeup and wadded tissues. Along the facing wall was a series of narrow metal doors with combination padlocks and a long bench holding bits of clothing and street shoes. It looked like a gym locker room. An opening at the far end led to a toilet stall, its metal door crayoned in lipstick graffiti.
Four young women looked at them as they came in, one quickly turning her back to snap her bra in place before tugging on a blouse. At one light table, a girl whose bright red hair formed a corona of tight curls wiped cleanser across her face and tossed the tissue near a garbage can.
“We’re with the Denver Police,” Wager announced. “We’d like to ask you some questions about a homicide victim who worked here: Annette Sheldon.”
“Who?” A girl wearing a short, stained dressing gown looked up from tugging on her pantyhose.
“Shelly,” said Axton. “Annette Sheldon. She used the name Shelly.”
“Oh—Shelly’s dead? God!”
Axton and Wager asked them to please wait around until they could be interviewed, then each chose a girl and started the questions. Wager, trying to ignore the glimpses of pale flesh, began with the curly-haired redhead who sat on the bench and smoothed her short robe over her knees. She smiled widely but nervously at him.
“Can I have your name, please?”
“You mean my real name?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She crossed her legs tightly and tugged again at the robe. “Is this going to be published? I mean, like in the newspapers?”
“No, ma’am. But whenever we take a statement, we like to get names and addresses in case we need to verify something later on.” He did not mention the possibility of subpoenas for court appearances.
“Myrtle Singer. 1423 Clarkson, Apartment 2-D.” She spelled her name for him.
“Miss or Mrs.?”
“Ms.”
He wrote it that way. “Do you use an alias, Ms. Singer?”
“You mean a professional name? Yeah. Scarlet.” She patted her hair, making her gown gap slightly. “Because I’m a redhead. A real one.” She had large breasts and that very white skin that a lot of redheads have.