'I mean, looks like,' Nick said. 'Looks like a slow night. I wouldn't really know.'
Skepticism touched Grissom's smile.
A shaved-bald, short-goateed bouncer met them at the door; he wore a bursting black muscle T-shirt and black jeans. 'We're closing,' he growled. Maybe six-four, the guy had no discernible neck, cold dark eyes, and a rottweiler snarl.
Nick said, 'We're . . .'
Nick keep trying. 'We're from the Las Vegas . . .'
The bouncer's eyes bulged, his upper lip formed half a sneer. 'Are you deaf, dipshit?'
Grissom stepped between the two men, showed the bouncer his badge. 'Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau.'
The bouncer didn't move. 'So?'
'We'd just like to speak with the owner.'
'About what?'
Giving the big man a friendly smile, Grissom said, 'Well, that would be between us and him.'
The bouncer's eyebrows lifted; he remained unimpressed. 'Well, then, you girls must have a warrant.'
Nick's patience snapped. 'Just to talk, we don't need a warrant!'
The bouncer glared and took one ominous step forward.
'Forgive my co-worker's youthful enthusiasm,' Grissom said, moving between them again, getting in close to the guy, keeping his voice low.
The soft-sell caught the bodyguard off-balance-Grissom had the guy's attention.
With an angelic smile, Grissom said, 'You'd like us to get a warrant? Fine, I'll make a call and we'll do just that. I can have it here in ten minutes. . . . Of course, in the meantime no one leaves the premises, and when it gets here we'll come in and find every gram, every ounce, every grain of any illegal drug here. Of course we'll do background checks on all the girls working here, to make sure they're of legal age. After that comes the fire marshal and the building inspector.' He flipped his phone open. 'I'm ready if you are.'
Suddenly smiling, the bouncer patted the air in front of him. 'Whoa, whoa. The owner? I think he's back in the office. Just a minute. You can wait at the bar.' He pointed inside. 'Anything you want, on the house.'
They strolled into the smoky room, where southern rock music blared, neon beer signs burning through the haze, the walls rough, gray barnwood that never met primer let alone paint. A dozen men were present. The bouncer was disappearing toward the back.
'Nice work,' Nick said.
Not surprisingly, the bar smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, urine and testosterone-not the most attractive joint in town, but low maintenance. Green-and-white plastic tables and chairs-lawn furniture-were scattered around the room. They faced a stage that ran most of the length of the far wall, chairs lining it for the front-row patrons; the only show-biz accouterments were cheap colored lights and two fireman's poles, one at either end of the stage.
A skinny blonde was sliding down one of the poles, half a dozen customers watching. Wadded-up dollars were scattered about the hardwood floor of the stage like so much green refuse.
To the left edge of the stage a doorway said DANCERS ONLY -this was where the bouncer had gone, and was clearly the pathway to the dressing room and the owner's office. Nick and Grissom stood at the right end of a U-shaped oak bar. Behind it, a tired-looking blonde woman of at least forty, wearing only a skimpy bikini, gave Nick the eye as she washed glasses in one sink and rinsed them in the next one.
'We just had last call, fellas,' she said over the blare of southern rock, the flirtation heavy in her voice. 'But if you want somethin', who knows? I been known to make exceptions.'
She might be too old to strip, but she remained attractive enough to hustle.
'We're fine,' Grissom said.
Frowning now, but still eyeing Nick, the woman resumed washing glasses, pumping them up and down on the brushes. The action was not lost on Nick and he turned away before allowing himself a little chuckle. Grissom either didn't notice, or was pretending as much.
The bouncer came out of the DANCERS ONLY door, holding it open for a thin young man who looked like a high school kid in his low-slung jeans and UNLV T-shirt; neither one, Nick knew, was a 'dancer' he would pay to see perform. The young guy had curly blond hair, a scruffy goatee and a gun metal gray barbell stud through his left eyebrow.
'Wanna talk to me?' he asked, in a voice not far removed from puberty.
Nick couldn't help himself. 'You're the owner?'
'I'm the manager.' The kid looked from Grissom to Nick. 'You boys got a problem with that?'
Both criminalists shook their heads.
The kid gestured. 'You mind if we step outside? I don't want to bother the customers-few we got left, tonight.'
They moved into the parking lot, where a desert breeze stirred weeds surrounding the driveway. The flush of red neon bathed them as their conversation ensued, during which an occasional customer or two would exit to their cars.
Forehead tensed, Grissom asked, 'How old are you?'
Neon buzzed, shorting out, like a bug zapper.
'Twenty-three,' the kid said. 'I'm workin' on my MBA at UNLV. This place is paying for it. My uncle owns it. Hey, I'm a business major-works out swell for both us.'
'What's your name?'
'John Pressley.'
'Like Elvis?' Grissom asked.
'Like Elvis but with two
Nick had his notepad out, and was jotting that down, as he asked, 'How long has your uncle owned this business?'
'Not very-couple years. It was an investment property.'
'I see. Can you tell us anything about the previous owner?'
Pressley gave him a dubious look. 'Why?'
'We're trying to find a woman who danced here fifteen years ago. Way before your time.'
Pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket, Pressley lit up; he looked at Nick, then at Grissom, as if taking their measure.
'Marge,' he finally said. 'Great old broad. She owned this dump forever.'
That piece of information was a nice break, Nick thought, and asked, 'What was her last name, do you remember?'
'Sure. Kostichek. Marge Kostichek.' He spelled it for Nick, who wrote the name down.
'Address?'
The kid puffed on the cigarette. 'I got no idea-you're gonna have to work harder than that, guys.'
Grissom smiled the angelic smile again. 'How hard, Mr. Pressley?'
'Oh, she's still around. You could probably find her in the phone book. Let your fingers do the walkin'.'
'Thanks,' Nick said.
The kid raised his studded eyebrow. 'You gonna hassle us anymore?'
Grissom stepped forward. 'Is Marge Kostichek the straight skinny, or are you blowing smoke?'
Keeping his eyes on Grissom, Pressley snorted a laugh and said, 'She's so real I can't believe you never heard of her. She's a legend in this business, man.'
'She pans out,' Grissom said, 'no hassles.'
'Yeah . . . for how long?'
'Till next time,' Grissom said, pleasantly, and led the way as they walked toward the Tahoe.
Outside, Grissom said, 'Let's go back to the office. We'll find an address for Marge Kostichek, and you can round up Conroy or Brass to go with you.'
'Yeah,' Nick said. 'Uh, Grissom.'
