staring out the windshield, and considered how much it would be fair to tell him of his dealings with Ford and what had happened since then. More than I ’ m going to was the amount he arrived at.
“Listen, when we interview people, I do the talking,” Behr said. Paul nodded almost imperceptibly. “Whatever I say, even if it doesn ’ t make sense, whatever you hear — keep a poker face.”
“Poker face.”
“Don ’ t try to help. And when I say it ’ s time to leave it alone — we go.”
“Okay.”
Behr took another look at the club. If anybody inside was upset about Ford ’ s passing, they weren ’ t showing it. There was no black bunting hanging outside in his honor. Just a board announcing drink specials and featured entertainers.
“All right. Go in and sit at the bar. Don ’ t talk to anyone much. I ’ ll come in a few minutes later. We don ’ t know each other unless I say so. Good?”
“Good.”
Paul got out of the car and walked toward the club. Behr watched him. His stride was full of purpose, an attempt at concealing his nerves. Behr had him as anxious the minute he ’ d picked him up. Paul was dressed in carefully selected clothes: khaki pants, trail shoes, button-down shirt under a maroon pullover sweater, and canvas barn jacket. Not too fancy, not too sloppy. He didn ’ t know what he was in for and so had tried to be ready for everything. He hadn ’ t done badly at it, either.
Paul breathed deep as he made his way inside the Golden Lady. He could feel the bass of the music in his crotch even as he paid his cover charge. Entering the main room of the dark club, he felt dizzy and strange. A flash of white and pink flesh tore across his field of vision. He hardly dared to look. Brass and smoke and mirrors and strobes led him to the bar. He sat and raised a finger to a bartender who didn ’ t see it. He left the finger up, then felt like an amateur and lowered it. He didn ’ t go to these types of places. It wasn ’ t that he wasn ’ t allowed, like a lot of the married guys at the office. Carol wasn ’ t that way with him. She ’ d always trusted him. When they were young, she trusted him too much. Nothing he could think to do in relation to other women could cause her to react jealously, in fact. She didn ’ t take him at all seriously then. Later on, when he ’ d managed to move things well beyond friendship, she ’ d started to regard him but still had never worried about his nightlife.
The bartender paid him a visit as Paul negotiated with himself over whether to stare at the young dancer onstage or casually look away.
“What can I get you?” the barman asked.
Paul wasn ’ t sure. He didn ’ t know if he should drink to blend in or abstain to try to stay sharp. “Scotch and soda.” He decided he ’ d just sip it.
“Rail or premium? Whitehall ’ s in the well, Cutty ’ s on the shelf.”
“Cutty.”
Paul ’ s drink arrived and he took a big sip. Bigger than he ’ d meant to. It stung the back of his throat and smacked him in the head. He ’ d watched the bartender pour but doubted it was actually Cutty in the glass. He remembered he hadn ’ t eaten dinner after work. He ’ d gotten home and changed out of his suit quickly. Carol had walked in and started the “What do you want for dinner?” “I don ’ t know, what do you want?” It was dialogue that had become rote for them, passing for real conversation. She ’ d been a bit surprised when she heard he was heading out but hadn ’ t said a word to stop him.
Paul picked up his drink and spun around on his barstool, ready to ogle the strippers like a regular customer. He was in time to see a dancer in her early twenties peel out of a leather brassiere. He felt a stab in his chest at the sight of her near-naked body. He also saw Behr make his way into the club. The man moved with a loose, shambling gait that was at once bad-assed and unassuming. Behr sprawled out at a table right by the stage. He tossed some money at the dancer ’ s feet and stared up at her appreciatively, nodding as if he approved of her every undulation.
A waitress was on a path toward Behr ’ s table when something made her try to veer away. It appeared as if Behr snapped his fingers in her direction, his hand shot out, his arm telescoping with incredible reach, and he got ahold of her wrist. She pulled against his grasp for a moment, then sagged and stepped closer to him.
“You ’ re here about Tad. Well, I ’ m not supposed to talk to anybody about him,” said the waitress from the other night, then cast her eyes about the club.
“Yeah? Who said that?”
“The owners. The manager.”
“Oh, Rudy,” Behr said, confusing her with his familiarity with the name.
“Tad didn ’ t really owe you money,” she said accusingly.
“No.”
“Who are you?”
“Who do you think?”
The music ended and onstage the dancer collected her tips. She smiled toward him as she picked up the money he ’ d left her. He smiled back and then she left the stage.
“You ’ re the police?” the waitress asked.
Behr shrugged, then threw a half salute toward Paul at the bar. Paul half raised his drink in return. He watched the waitress watching the exchange. Paul appeared to be the most ill-concealed undercover of all time.
“Do me a favor and get out of my section,” the waitress said, and hurried away. Behr didn ’ t move. Paul gestured if he should come over and Behr shook his head not to. Before long the dancer who had been onstage appeared beside Behr ’ s table. She now wore a clingy lavender nightgown over revealing underwear. Her hair was sandy blond and she looked younger standing next to him.
“You want a table dance, big man?”
“No, honey.”
“Buy me a drink then?”
Behr pushed out a chair for her with his foot. She sat down. “Sure, but I don ’ t expect the service will be that good.” She didn ’ t know what he meant and looked around for a waitress. None were around, so she waved to the bartender.
“You mind?” she asked as she pulled a pack of Capris out of her tiny handbag.
“Nope. Tell me about Tad Ford.” Concern passed across the dancer ’ s eyes, but it wasn ’ t fear exactly. She didn ’ t move to get up. She ’ d been told the same thing as the waitress about not talking, but at ten years her junior, she felt more secure with her place at the club. She crossed one bronzed thigh over the other and pulled the hem of the nightgown to cover a purple-yellow bruise there. “I know you ’ re not supposed to,” Behr added. He slid her twenty dollars. She snapped it into her handbag with her cigarettes.
“What do you want to know? The guy was a loser who lost.”
“Yeah,” he concurred. “Who did he hang around with? Friends, anybody.”
“I ’ ve only been here like two months. I don ’ t know, papi chulo.”
“You know anything?”
“Not really,” she said, not at all sorry to disappoint him. He waited her out. “You know who would know some shit, though?”
“Who?”
“Brandi.”
“She a dancer?”
“That ’ s right.”
“Real name?”
“Michelle Ginelle.”
“Can you get me back into the dressing room?”
She laughed at him. “Oh, that ’ s the sixty-four-dollar question, as my dad would say. I ’ ve heard that one more than a few times since I ’ ve been here.” He waited her out again. “Anyhow, she ’ s not here.”
“No? Where ’ s she at?”
“She hasn ’ t been around much the last few weeks. But Tad used to drool all over her. Followed her around like a dog, yo.”
“Is that right. Anything ever happen between them?” This really broke her up. Michelle Ginelle, it seemed,
