Body Work (5 page)

“I, uh, Vic . . . Did you ever find out who put that piece of glass in the Body Artist’s paintbrush?”

“No, why? Has it happened again?”

Petra shook her head. “No. I just wondered.”

She had taken off her ski jacket. Underneath, she had on a big sweater topped by a fringed buckskin vest. She wasn’t taking money from her dad, but her mother had restocked her closet during their Christmas ski trip.

She started braiding and unbraiding the fringes on the vest. I tried to curb my impatience. She was troubled, and like all troubled people who come to that corner alcove it was hard for her to get to the point.

“I sent the brush up to a forensic lab I use,” I said. “The glass didn’t have any germs or poisons on it, and they couldn’t lift any fingerprints from the handle. Do you think you know who did it?”

Petra looked up. “No . . . No, I don’t . . . But I sort of wondered . . . The atmosphere at the club, ever since that nightreally, ever since after Christmas—it’s changed. Olympia is, like . . . I don’t know—”

“You’re wondering if Olympia spiked the brush?” I cut into her dithering.

She made a face. “It’s nothing so concrete. But there’s this woman who comes in almost every time the Body Artist is performing—I think her name is Nadia—and she does this same picture over and over. She’s really good, compared to all the weirdos and sleazoids who want to paint their names or, you know, something gross, but—”

“Was she there when Jake and I came right after Thanksgiving? She was painting pink hats, and a woman’s face, and she got that tattooed guy all wound up.”

“That’s her. Well, Olympia and the Artist have been arguing about her. It’s almost like—well, the way they talk—it’s sort of like Olympia and the Artist are lovers, or were lovers—I don’t know—something like that. And now this Nadia is coming between them, or something.”

“It is tiresome when people bring their love life to work, but unless you feel threatened I wouldn’t worry about it. Just stay out of the middle. Or quit if it gets too rocky.”

“I’m not a baby, I don’t care who sleeps with who, although it is like being back in tenth grade when they flaunt it at you.” She leaned forward in her earnestness, her hands on her knees. “Vic, I know you and Uncle Sal both were kind of down on me working at a club, but when I started there I loved it, I loved everything about it. The energy, my coworkers, the acts. Olympia, she’s amazing. Her music is so cutting-edge, she’s so bold. She’s only a few years younger than my gran—my mom’s mom—but she’s so together! I loved working for her. Now, though, she doesn’t seem the same. And it’s not just the stuff with Nadia and the Artist.”

Her voice trailed away, and she started pulling at a loose thread in her jeans, hiding her face from me.

“What’s going on, Petra? What aren’t you telling me? Drugs?” I added sharply when she didn’t answer.

She looked up at me, her mascaraed lashes brushing her brows. “I don’t know. I mean, I know people there are using—you’re running around, waiting tables, you see who’s putting stuff up their noses or into their drinks or whatever—but I never saw any sign that Olympia was using or even dealing. I did ask Mark—Mark Alexander, her bouncer—and he says Olympia doesn’t tolerate drugs in the club . . . at least, not staff bringing them in.”

I nodded but took Mark’s assurances with a grain of salt. If people were doing drugs in the club, it was because Olympia was turning a blind eye.

“It’s really Nadia and the Artist that seem to cause—well, they don’t cause it—but whenever Nadia shows up, even though all she does is paint on the Artist, everyone is out of whack. Like those guys, the tattooed guy and his friends. The one guy, Chad, he gets so furious I think he might have a heart attack on the spot. I don’t know why he keeps coming back, but it’s, like, he can’t leave the club alone. And Olympia, she’s, like, Let him come in, as long as he isn’t violent, because his gang runs up these huge tabs.”

She grinned briefly. “And then his buddies leave these humungous tips because they feel embarrassed. So, of course, in a way we all welcome them on the nights they show up.”

She started tearing pieces from her coffee cup. “The problem is, this guy has been hitting on me, and when I put him down, Olympia behaved really oddly.”

“What guy?” I demanded. “Chad?”

“No. Chad only cares about Nadia. I mean, she’s the person who winds him up, or maybe it’s the Artist—it’s hard to be sure. This older guy, he’s kind of crude, and he can’t keep his hands to himself. So first I kidded him, you know, going, ‘Whoa, buster, seems like your fingers kind of forgot curfew. Better tell ’em to stay home where they belong.’ Well, that was like slapping a whale with a goldfish—totally useless. So next time I kicked him good on the shin, and he talked to Olympia, and she came to me and said I couldn’t go around kicking customers. So I explained what happened, and she said, Are you sure? And I said, I know what a hand feels like when it’s inside my pants, and she said, If I overlooked it, there’d be something extra in my pay envelope. But—”

“Quit.” I said flatly. “If Olympia is running drugs—and a bar is a perfect Laundromat for drug money—you don’t want to be there when the cops shut her down. And if she’s pimping for some sleazoid, you need to run for the exit.”

“I will if I have to. But, Vic, it’s almost four hundred a week in tips I’m getting there, pretty much tax-free. And my day job, I don’t know how much longer they’ll keep me on. Would you—I know it’s a lot to ask—but could you—”

“What, shoot him?” I asked when she broke off.

That made her laugh.

“If you could do it and not get caught, I’d be your slave for life! No, but could you check him out, do you think, see who he is, see if there’s something you could do to make him stop?”

“Do you have his name?” I asked.

“Olympia calls him Rodney. I’m not sure what his last name is—Stranger-Danger, maybe.” She scrolled through her cell phone and held it out to me. “This is what he looks like.”

She’d taken his picture from above, when she was passing his table. It wasn’t a good likeness, but it didn’t surprise me to see it was the guy I’d pegged as an off-duty cop. Petra wasn’t working tonight, but she said she’d be at the club the next night. I promised to stop in, although it bugged me that my cousin insisted on staying on at the joint.

Petra zipped up her ski jacket, her face brighter now that she’d unburdened herself and gotten a promise of help. Even her hair, matted down by her ear warmer, seemed to be springing up.

“Vic—don’t tell Uncle Sal, okay? He’s already on me about the club being so degenerate and all, and—”

“Sweet Pea, I’m not so sure he’s wrong. If I see coke or ecstasy or some damned thing passing between Olympia and Mr. Stranger-Danger, you are quitting on the spot, you hear?”

“Sure, Vic, I promise.” She held up three fingers in the Girl Scout salute and danced out the door.

I finished my number crunching for Ajax Insurance. The claims manager seemed to have the intelligence of an eggplant. He should have been able to generate the report himself, but a hundred fifty an hour—I wouldn’t complain.

5

What on Earth Is Going On?

I
returned to the club the following night. The Body Artist was appearing, and the joint was alive, practically shaking with twenty- and thirtysomethings. Rodney was there, and so were Chad and his friends. I didn’t see Nadia.

I took a table near the back, but Olympia swept over as I was pulling out a chair at one of the rear tables. Tonight she was wearing a black sweater with a deep cleavage over black velvet pants; her touch of white was a corsage of feathers that brushed the swell of her breasts.

“That table’s reserved, Warshawski. I don’t have a free seat in the house. You’ll have to stand.”

“Not a problem, Olympia.”

I got up and moved to the railing that created a kind of foyer between the audience space and the club entrance. I wasn’t going to give her an excuse to throw me out by losing my temper.

“And there’s a twenty-dollar cover on the night the Body Artist appears. All drinks are six dollars, more for name brands.”

I stuck a hand inside my sweater and pretended to be fumbling with my bra. “Want the money now?”

She frowned. “A private eye is bad for business, Warshawski. If you interrupt the show or harass the Artist, I’ll see that you’re thrown out.”

“I’ll tell you what’s bad for business, Ms. Koilada: you dealing drugs, or laundering money, or whatever you and Rodney are up to. I want you to know that my cousin Petra’s safety is very important to me.”

She flicked her eyes across the room again. “Petra is safe here. No one will hurt her. She’s popular with my customers and with the staff. She has the kind of good-natured high spirits that make a server popular. Some of our customers may get overenthusiastic in their reaction to her, but she seems levelheaded. I’d be surprised to know she was blowing up something trivial into something major.”

“Me, too. That’s why I took her reaction seriously. Olympia, even if I’m not a good-natured, high-spirited kind of gal, you could do worse than trust me with your problems. If this guy Rodney is posing a threat—”

“Maybe being a detective makes you think you can pry into people’s affairs, whether they want it or not, but my club is my business, not yours.”

“Who is Rodney?” I asked. “Is he a cop?”

“Are you deaf? I told you to mind your own business.”

She turned on her heel. The club needed too much supervising on a packed night like tonight for her to waste more time arguing with me.

I didn’t see her stop to talk to Rodney, but she must have because he got up from his table and came over to me.

“Girlie, you put one foot wrong here, and I’ll personally stuff your body in a snowbank.”

“‘Girlie’? You sound like a bad movie script, Rodney.”

His lips curved into something like a sneer. “Maybe, but you could look like part of a bad movie yourself if you try to mess with me. Got it?”

I leaned against the railing and yawned. “Go put on a sheet and dance around a cross if you want to scare people. That how you got Olympia so rattled?”

He pulled his hand back as if he were going to hit me but thought better of it in the nick of time.

“No one messes with me, girlie. Not you, and not that smart-mouthed cousin of yours, either.”

“People who mess with me or my cousin tend to spend a lot of years in Stateville, Rodney, when they aren’t picking themselves out of gutters—or snowbanks. Ask around, anyone will tell you the same. Now, go back to your chair. The band is packing up, the Artist will be onstage soon, and the rest of the audience will be peevish if you block their view.”

His face scrunched together in ugly lines like a thwarted toddler’s. He flipped his coat open so I could see the outsize gun in his shoulder holster, but I pretended to be looking at the stage.

He finally hissed, “Just watch yourself, girlie,” and swaggered back to his seat a few seconds before the houselights went down.

I made a face in the dark. Maybe I hadn’t changed so much from those days of trailing around South Chicago with Boom-Boom, looking for fights.

The lights came back up, and the routine followed its usual course, with the Artist appearing magically on her stool. The audience reacted in their usual way, gasping with amazement at the intricacy of the work on the plasma screens, shifting nervously with sexual excitement at the more graphic imagery.

Rodney, at his central table, was staring moodily at his sixth bottle of beer. He didn’t seem to be in the mood to paint tonight. Nadia had appeared without my noticing, perhaps when the lights were down, or maybe when Rodney was threatening me. She was at a table near the front, twirling her hair around her fingers. She didn’t wait, as she had the first time I’d seen her, for the rest of the room to paint. I studied Chad while Nadia painted, but he seemed to have himself under control. Maybe he was getting used to her. Or maybe his friends had persuaded him to stay calm. He seemed to be more intent on Nadia’s drawings than on Nadia herself—he was watching the screens onstage where the webcams were broadcasting her work.

Again, she was creating her intricate design. I’d remembered them as pink hats, but they were pink-and-gray scrolls. When she finished covering the Artist’s back with them, she began drawing a woman’s face, a beautiful young woman with dark curly hair, and then she took a palette knife and slashed it.

I looked over at Chad. He was sweating, and his tattooed arms were shaking. His buddies were holding him, but he didn’t make any effort to get out of his chair.

As soon as Nadia had finished, she went back to her table and gathered her coat and backpack from the floor. She skirted the back of the stage and disappeared. Chad suddenly broke away from his friends and followed her.

Most of the club, including the waitstaff, was focused on the Artist, who was stretching and preening to make Nadia’s work as visible as possible. Those who saw Chad might have assumed he was heading for the men’s room, since the toilets were along a narrow corridor that also led backstage. I pushed my way through the crowd at the back as fast as I could.

A young man in a worn Army windbreaker hurried after me. He’d been with Chad at their table. His face, pitted and craggy despite his youth, was unmistakable. We got backstage just in time to see the alley door shut behind Chad.

“Man! Don’t be doing something stupid now.”

The guy seemed to be talking to himself more than me, but we sprinted together to the door.

So many cars filled the area that we couldn’t see Chad or Nadia at first, but we heard Chad shouting, “Why are you doing this? Who sent you here?” as we slipped and stumbled along the icy gravel of the parking lot toward his voice.

Chad, under one of the streetlamps, was standing over Nadia. He wasn’t touching her, but he was leaning down so his face was close to hers. He’d left his coat in the bar, and the lamp picked up the tattoos along his bare forearms. He was holding a black object, something that looked like an outsize oven mitt, under her face. Even in her bulky parka, Nadia looked frail next to him.