Page 26 of Rage

“Mona and I are on our way back to the station,” I tell him. “Meet me there in twenty minutes and we’ll make a run down to The Cheetah Lounge.”

An extra beat of silence and then, “Roger that.”

CHAPTER 7

The Cheetah Lounge is located in a derelict industrial area on the south side of New Philadelphia. There’s an auto body shop to the south and what looks like some sort of vacant warehouse on the north side.

“Parking’s in the rear,” Skid says helpfully.

I glance over at him, wondering if he realizes that knowing the best place to park at a topless club is nothing to write home about. “Looks like a full house.”

“Yeah, Fridays are busy.” He clears his throat. “So I’m told.”

“Parking lot” is a loose term for half an acre of dirt that’s been pounded to dust and coated with a scant sprinkling of crushed limestone. I shouldn’t be surprised by the number of vehicles, but I am. There’s no place to park in the lot, so I opt for the grass.

“Judging from the clothes our mystery woman was wearing, do you think it’s safe to assume she works here?” I ask as I reach for the door handle.

We get out and he looks at me over the hood of the Explorer. “I don’t recall seeing her.” His expression becomes pinched; it takes me a second to realize he’s uncomfortable. “But that uh … top she was wearing seems about right.”

In the back of my mind, I remind myself that even if we find her here tonight, she may not be able to help us. Quite possibly Samuel Yutzy simply snapped a photo of one of the dancers and that was the end of it.

“Well, we’re here,” I say as I start toward the club. “May as well ask around. Maybe she’s here or someone might know who she is.”

Skid falls into step beside me. “Chief?”

I glance over at him.

“Look, I just want you to know … I don’t come here … regularly. I mean, it was just a few times with a friend of mine. He was going through a tough time. A divorce. And I’ve never come in uniform.”

“I appreciate that,” I say. “And just so you know … what you do on your off time isn’t my business.”

“I wanted to clear the air.” He offers a cockeyed grin. “Defend my reputation.”

“Put it this way, Skid. If we come away with some good information tonight, your reputation is officially salvaged.”

I take in our surroundings as we cross the lot. Behind us, just off the parking area, an RV is hitched to a Ford dually. The windows glow with light and I wonder why it’s there and who’s inside. Beyond the RV, a dark wall of trees offers a false sense of seclusion. At the edge of the lot, a metal building is surrounded by a six-foot-tall chain-link fence topped with triple strands of barbed wire. The club is housed in a low-slung building with barn-red siding. We round the side and take the sidewalk toward the front entrance. Two windows face the street; the glass has been painted black, presumably for privacy or to block the light or both. An overhang shelters the sidewalk to protect patrons from inclement weather when there’s a line.

String lights blink in a cacophony of purple and red. A lighted letter sign proclaims that PINK PANTY PUNCH IS ONLY $4 ON FRIDAY NITE! The front door swings open and bangs against the wall. A denim-clad man, his arm draped over the shoulders of a pretty brunette, stumbles down the steps. I make eye contact with the man as they pass.

I hear a muttered, “Fuckin’ cops.”

Skid and I exchange a smile of solidarity and go through the door.

The thunderous drum of some chainsaw-rock number I don’t recognize boxes my ears when we enter. I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting. A dive teeming with drunken men and scantily clad women, the smells of spilled beer and drugstore cologne hovering above sweaty bodies. The sight that accosts me is anything but. While the exterior of The Cheetah Lounge conjures a bad-side-of-town vibe, the interior speaks of uptown panache. A performance hall–like stage with a lighted floor, spotlights dangling from above, and shimmering curtains signify the front of the room. There’s a forestage area and a mirrored backdrop. Despite the pomp of the stage, the dancer making use of it is the star of the show. She’s about twenty-five years old and clad in a shimmering thong. Purple light rains down on flawless skin slicked with oil, dark tattoos contrasting against pale flesh, the whole of her wrapped around a gleaming chrome dance pole.

I’m aware of Skid’s head turned in her direction, and I actually feel his brain cells scatter to the wind.

The place is crowded, mostly with men, but there are a few couples. Half a dozen sleek booths line the wall to my right. A smattering of tables and chairs are situated just off the stage. To my left, an antique-looking bar of carved wood and black marble lines the length of the wall. Beveled-glass shelves hold dozens of bottles of liquor, including the top-shelf stuff. The bartender’s back is to us. White shirt. Black slacks. A bow tie. I see him looking at me in the mirror, and he frowns.

Tilting my head toward Skid, I start toward the bar. “Do you know the bartender?”

“No, ma’am.” Skid falls into step beside me, his eyes on the man in question. “Doesn’t look like the friendly type.”

I’m aware of curious eyes taking in our uniforms as we weave through the crowd. A female server wearing a sequin bikini strides toward us, a tray expertly hoisted over her shoulder. She beams a grin and blows both of us a kiss as she passes.

Every barstool is occupied, so I sidle to the end of the bar where the barkeep finger-punches something into a vintage cash register. I guess him to be about forty years old. In-vogue stubble. Expensive haircut. Physically fit. Good at what he does.

“Hi.” I hold up my shield. “Do you have a minute?”