Seven ways to die

18

“Y’know what? I’m not even sure what the hell we’re lookin' for,” DeMarco said as the three cops stood under one of the larger trees in the area behind the theater.

It was a pleasant spot but cramped, hardly wider than a city street, its trees and buildings blocking the sounds of the city.

“What were you expecting, a marquee?” Ryan said.

In this quiet island midst the bustling streets, someone had hung a child’s swing from a branch of the tree which struck Ryan as odd considering the licentious nature of the club they were seeking. Huddled in Ansa’s Yankees jacket, which was draped over his shoulders, he sat down on the swing and looked around.

“A marquee would be a help,” said Ansa, staring at the backs of apartments, stores, and the theater.

“Yeah,” DeMarco said with a sweep of his hand. “A big red neon arrow, blinkin’ on and off: ‘Get laid here.’”

Several of the buildings had staircases leading down to rear entrances and there was a deck behind the theater with stairs leading down to their level. The back door opened and a tiny, dark-haired girl who appeared to be in her early twenties came out. She was dressed in a white gossamer dress with wings attached to it. She huddled against the wall and lit a cigarette.

“I got an idea,” Ryan said.

“Aw hell, here we go again,” DeMarco shook his head.

“Just bear with me.”

Ryan climbed the stairs to the deck and gave the young woman his fifty-dollar smile.

“Hi,” he said, looking over the costume. “Halloween party?”

She rolled her eyes. “This is a theater. We’re like doing Midsummer Night’s Dream. ”

“Shakespeare, huh. Who are you playing?”

“Just a walk-on.” Her eyes narrowed a hair as she looked past him at his partners. “I’m one of the fairies.”

“No kidding,” he said. “What’re you gonna do, wave your wand and change me into a warthog?”

“Now there’s a clever pick-up line,” she answered, still squinting over his shoulder at DeMarco and Ansa checking doorways. She looked back at Ryan who was still grinning.

“What are you three up to?” she asked cautiously. “Looks y’know like you’re casing the place or something?”

“In a manner of speaking. We’re looking for a club. Private place. We heard it was back here.”

She sighed and took a drag on her cigarette, turning her head when she exhaled.

“You don’t look the type,” she said with a pinch of arsenic in her tone.

“What type would that be?”

“C’mon.” She looked him over. “Anyway, from what I hear you’ll fail the dress code. The Yank’s jacket alone’ll do you in.”

“How come?”

“Mink coat society.” A shiver wove through her body and she dropped the cigarette in a sand-filled pot nearby.

“Gotta leave,” she said. “I’m like freezing.”

Ryan took off the jacket and draped it over her shoulders with the back facing him.

“Here,” he said. “This won’t squash your wings.”

“So what do you need that kind of thing for anyway? Good looking guy like you.”

“Thank you. That is a great pick-up line. Only…” He took out his I.D. wallet and flashed his gold badge. “We’re working.”

“Oh, m’gosh,” she said, her eyes widening. “Oh please don’t bust the place until after rehearsal, okay? Our director’s a real ninny. He’ll like pitch a squirrel.”

“Pitch a squirrel?”

“He y’know totally loses it over anything? You go up on a line? Boom! He’s like a squirrel you just stepped on its tail.”

“I get it.”

“Anyway, you’re way early. Things don’t get started until like ten, ten-thirty?”

“Where is it?”

She nodded toward a staircase leading down to a door at the end of the tiny square.

“What do you know about the place?”

“Just what some of the kids hear. Some of them leave this way and short cut over to Christopher.”

“What do they hear?”

“It’s mainly uptowners and they, uh, y’know…uh, like to, uh…trade partners?”

“Sex club.”

“Well…uh huh, I guess. There’s this bartender named Warren? Should be there now. He comes early to supervise the cleanup crew.”

“You know him?”

“By sight. Some of the kids have talked to him but he won’t like talk about the club.”

“Does it have a name?”

“I think it’s called the Yellow Door.”?

Ryan put his thumb over the peephole in the door and DeMarco knocked on it and they waited.

A minute went by. Two. Three. DeMarco knocked again, this time with a little more authority. They waited again. Then Ansa appeared at the top of the stairs. He was wearing a Phantom of the Opera mask only it was bright red with spangles around the edge.

“This must be da place,” he said.

“You cover the peephole this time,” Ryan said taking out his badge. “I’ll do the knocking.” He stepped back and kicked the door hard with the toe of his boot. Another minute and a muffled voice inside asked, “Who is it?”

“The Dumpster guy, Warren,” Ryan said. “Open up, we got a problem.”

Inside, the chain clinked, the deadbolt was drawn and a key turned the door lock. The door opened a couple of inches. Warren, startled speechless, backed up as Ryan shoved it open and they walked into a small anteroom with a yellow door facing them. To their left was a heavy door with a thick glass window and a small slot in it. To their right a narrow hallway curved around into darkness.

“You need a warrant,” Warren said so fast the words ran together. He was a short man, five-six, with reddish-brown hair, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with “It’s my attitude and I like it” printed across the front. “That’s the law,” he added.

“You know what this is?” Ryan asked, holding his badge an inch from Warren’s face.

Warren stared at it for a moment, nodded, and said, “I have to call my boss.”

“You know what this is?” Ryan insisted, shaking the badge.

“It’s a badge.”

“That’s correct. And right now it’s the only warrant we need.”

DeMarco stepped in, playing the good guy.

“Take it easy, sergeant,” and to Warren, “This isn’t a bust, kid. No need to get your shorts in a knot.”

Ansa stepped behind the little man and opened the yellow door as DeMarco and Ryan forced Warren into the room beyond.

It was lush; an art deco cabaret with mirrored walls and ceiling, a well-stocked curved bar on one side and, facing it on the other side of the room, a carpeted lounge with expensive, pastel colored sofas, chairs and futons. A small dance floor separated the bar and lounge. The color scheme was muted yellow. Throughout the room scented candles offered soft light and herbal perfumes which, although pleasant, could not entirely erase the ineluctable odor of Lysol.

There were six doors on the far wall bordering the lounge area, each with a light over it.

The room was spotless and empty.

“See, nobody’s here now but me,” Warren said. “The cleaning people are gone and I’m just getting the bar set up. Nothing’s going on.”

“We know that, Warren,” Ryan said. “Let me tell you, we are not vice, we are not here to break up your party.”

Warren’s voice went up an octave. “There’s no party! Nobody’s here but me.”

“You opened the door,” Ansa said. “You let us in. Give us a few minutes and we’ll be gone and nobody will ever know we were here.”

“Who’s that?” Warren asked, “Why is he wearing a mask?”

Ansa smiled and took off the mask. “It’s Halloween,” he said.

“Calm down, fella,” Ryan said. “You’re gonna have a heart attack over nothing.”

“Nothing? You break in here and…”

“Nobody broke in,” said Ansa. “Like I said, you opened the door for us.”

“What do you want from me? What have I done?”

“Who said you did anything?” DeMarco said. “See, you’re jumping to conclusions and getting upset over nothing.”

“Look, once again, we’re not from vice, okay?” said Ryan. “We know about the club and we really don’t give a shit about that. You give us a hand? We are out of your life forever.”

“There’s no money here. I got maybe thirty dollars.”

“Who said anything about money?” said Ansa, getting irritated. “What’s that supposed to mean. You trying to bribe us?”

“No. No. I thought…”

“That’s your problem, Warren, you think too much,” said DeMarco, looking around the room.

Suddenly, Warren snapped. His demeanor changed. “That’s it!” he yelled. He stomped across the room to the end of the bar, still babbling. “Bust in here like a bunch of elephants stomping all over me. Haven’t got a warrant. Don’t read me my rights. Waving badges in my face.” He snatched up the phone. “I’m calling the boss.”

Ansa hurried across the room and pressed the cutoff button on the phone. Warren stood his ground, his hand on his hip, legs spread apart, the phone clutched in his hand.

The cops looked at each other and back at Warren.

There was a long pause.

“Well, what do you want?” Warren loudly demanded.

“See, Warren, what it is, this hasn’t got anything to do with you or the club or your boss. Uh, we got a witness who’s alibied here last night. We figure you might be able to confirm that.”

“I don’t know anybody by name or by looks. Mostly they wear masks and even if they don’t we aren’t supposed to look anybody in the face. No checks, no credit cards. Everything’s cash.”

“We checked out your record, Warren. We could make trouble for you if we wanted to. We don’t.”

Warren thought about it.

“Even The Banker doesn’t know them by name,” he said. “He doesn’t look at anybody either. Everybody’s anonymous.”

“The Banker?”

“The boss who works the door where you came in.”

“The door with the bulletproof glass,” Ryan said.

“What’s with the doors over there?” DeMarco asked waving toward the far wall.

“Private rooms. Sometimes a couple or maybe a threesome wants to go private. The light over the door goes on when it’s in use. There’s a backdoor opens into the hallway you saw on the right coming in. I’ve got the board over there,” he nodded to a small electronic device with buttons and lights on it. “Lights go on when the room’s in use, off when it’s empty. I can tell from the lights on the board so I can log the room in and out.”

“And I suppose that has a price tag on the door,” DeMarco said.

“Three bills.”

“They just think of everything, don’t they?” Ansa said. “Whoever they are.”

“I don’t know who they are. I was hired through a reentry agency. The only person I know is the Banker. Don’t know his name, just he’s the Banker. ”

DeMarco took the manila envelope out of his pocket and put it on the bar.

“What’s that?” Warren asked.

DeMarco slipped Handley’s photograph out of the envelope and slid it in front of Warren.

“We know he’s a member.”

“I can’t do that. Man, I’ll lose my job for sure.”

“I guarantee you, Warren, you will not lose your job.

Just look at the picture. I mean, c’mon, when all the whoopee starts, the masks come off, everybody’s doing everybody else. Hell, you’re not blind. Just look at the picture.”

Warren shook his head vigorously. “You don’t understand. I make three times what the most upscale bars in town would pay me. Not counting tips. When the games start I pop a coupla of valium, put the IPod earphones on, and read a book.”

“Your job is not on the line here,” Ryan repeated. “Please just look at the picture.”

“We just want to make sure he was here last night, when he arrived and when he left.”

Warren gazed down at Handley’s photograph.

He knows, Ryan said to himself. I can see that little flicker in his eyes, the little twitch in his jaw.

“Let me guess,” Ryan said. “He came in right at twelve.”

Warren kept staring at the picture and finally he slowly nodded.

“How’d you make him?” DeMarco asked.

Warren rubbed a finger. “His ring,” he whispered. “Princeton. He always had it on.”

“Very good,” said Ryan. “And what time did he come in?”

Warren walked to the other end of the bar and came back with a notebook. He opened it, leafed through the pages and stopped.

“Things were already heating up. He came in and looked at me and I held up three fingers and he went to the room. I logged him in at 11:49.”

“So he already paid the Banker the three cs?”

“The Banker called me earlier, told me number 103, that’s his number, 103, arranged for a visitor to meet him in room three.”

“What’s in these rooms?” Ansa asked.

“Some are just like bedrooms with a TV. Soft lights, silk sheets. Some members get heated up out here and then like a little privacy. The other three are varied. One has a large waterbed…”

“And?”

“One of them has chains, leather, whips, y’know.”

“S amp; M crap,” Ryan said.

Warren nodded.

“How about room three?” DeMarco asked.

“Just a plain bedroom.”

“So our guy didn’t go for the S amp; M room, right?”

Warren nodded. “Right, when he came in the visitor was already there.”

“How do you know?”

“The rear light went on at…11:36.”

“So the Banker saw her?”

“No. He asked the Banker when he paid in if the visitor was here and the Banker called me to see if his visitor was in the room yet. She must have got by him. It’s dark, other people were checking in. And I said yeah.”

“But it was a woman?”

Warren nodded.

“How can you be sure?”

“I thought you were just interested in him?”

Ansa said, “She could back up his alibi. That way you, the club, nobody else gets involved.”

“You said nobody would get involved. That’s what you said.”

“And you won’t,” Ryan said. “When did you see her?”

“It was like five minutes after he went in. Around 12:05. The strobe lights were on, people were getting into it. I saw the front light go off and she came out. But I was down at the other end of the bar.”

“And he was still in there?”

Warren nodded. “He left by the back at 12:20.”

“What did she look like, Warren?”

“Oh, I…you know, it was a jungle. Dark, strobe lights flashing, I just got a glimpse of her. There were two women going at it on the sofa and a guy doing one of the women and she stopped for a second or two to watch and then she looked up and saw me looking and I looked back down at my book real fast and then she was gone.”

“What do you remember about her, Warren?” Ryan asked. “Anything at all?”

“Red dress. Very classy. Spaghetti straps. A designer dress but I can’t tell you for sure. All the women in the place dress like a million bucks. That’s part of it.”

“How tall was she?”

“Five-five, five-six. Depends on the shoes. I couldn’t see her feet but she was probably wearing spike Pradas with that outfit.”

“How about her face? Hair?” Ryan pressed him.

“I have no idea.”

“Just a hint, Warren.”

“She was wearing a head mask. One of those kind that drapes down to the shoulders, covered her head and neck.”

“What kind of mask?”

Warren thought for a minute and said, “Bela Lugosi.”

“Bela who?”

“Lugosi. Pointy, bloody teeth. Weird eyes. Dracula.”