Skin Deep

17

The Mermaid Lounge was located on Ocean Drive at the northern end of the strip at Revere Beach. Named after Paul Revere, the three-mile-long sandy crescent was America’s first public beach in 1896. During the first half of the twentieth century it became a world-famous amusement park with a roller coaster, carousels, stage shows, fireworks, even hot-air balloons. The place flourished until the 1970s when the amusements were torn down to make way for hotels and condominiums. Now it was home to “The best exotic entertainment club in Eastern Mass.”

In spite of that claim to fame, the Mermaid Lounge was a squat cinderblock bunker that was painted industrial gray and could have passed for a muffler shop. Steve had passed it on the road in the past but could not recall ever being inside.

He and Neil parked in front. You’d never know it was a strip joint but for the Plexiglas display boards at the entrance—a small photo collage of featured “exotic entertainment performers.” Current headliners were Trixi LaFlame, Cherry Night, and Jinxy.

“How much you wanna bet those aren’t their real names,” Steve said.

Neil was not in a jesting mood and didn’t respond. He was fixated on another poster on the opposite wall—a shot of a naked woman blocking her breasts and glaring catlike at the camera. The caption read, THE FABULOUS XENA—EVERY THURSDAY AND SATURDAY NITE.

“Doesn’t even look like her.”

Steve nodded. It was not the same woman he had shared coffee breaks with. “Hair dye and four pounds of makeup will do that.”

As they went inside, Steve could feel Neil’s tension. The place represented everything he abhorred. “Maybe I should do the talking,” Steve said. “And try not to shoot anybody.”

Neil smirked and followed him in. The place had a divey murky beer biker feel—a place with more tattoos than people. The interior was a dark rectangle with the main stage on the long wall and a smaller stage at the rear, poles rising from each. Twenty people sat at the bar and scattered tables, mostly guys although Steve spotted two women. Two flat screens flickered with sports shows. A sign pointed to private booths on the far side of the room. Because it was early afternoon, no dancers were onstage. Behind the bar was a guy about thirty with a bouncer’s upper torso pressed into a black T-shirt.

A waitress in a tiny pink halter top and black short shorts came up to them. Steve did not recognize her, nor she them. He flashed his badge and asked if the manager was in. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get him.” She hustled off and returned with the bartender.

“Mickey DeLuca. Nice to meet you, Officers.” He pumped their hands. “What’s the problem?”

Again no recognition. “We’d like to ask you about one of your dancers.” Steve handed him a shot of her with her sister.

DeLuca looked at it. “Jeez, I don’t recognize her.” Steve moved him into the light. Then his face brightened. “Yeah, that’s her on the right. Xena Lee.”

“Xena Lee,” Steve repeated as if taking an oath.

“Her stage name. She took it from that old TV show Xena: Warrior Princess.” Then he squinted at the photo again. “Must be an old picture. Her hair’s red now. But, yeah, that’s Xena, real name’s Terry Farina. What’s the problem?”

“I’m sorry to say she’s dead.”

“What?” DeLuca’s head snapped back as if he’d been jabbed with a needle.

“She was found in her apartment Sunday morning, and the case is being treated as a homicide.”

“Homicide. Holy shit! Who’d want to kill her?”

“That’s what we’re trying to learn. Maybe you can tell us a little about her, maybe her friends and fans, guys she might have known and dated.”

DeLuca looked shaken by the news. He led them to a table in the empty rear corner. He said he knew very little about Terry Farina’s personal life, except that she broke up with a guy last year but never mentioned seeing anybody else. She drove herself to and from work and kept to herself. As DeLuca talked he kept glancing at Neil, who said nothing but stared at DeLuca as if he were dog vomit.

“She was a great performer. Really. And she looked fantastic. Fact is, she had more energy than women fifteen years younger. Honest to God, she could go all night.”

“I guess she kept in shape.”

“Yeah, I think she was a yoga instructor or something. The thing was, she’d finish dancing then take questions from the crowd, like some kind of celebrity. She was wicked awesome, really sharp, and a great personality. She was more popular than some of the national acts we get—you know, girls from New York and Atlantic City, former movie stars. She was one of our all-time bests. I can’t believe this.”

“When was the last time she performed?”

“Last Thursday. She took off Saturday night because she was going away.”

“Do you know any customers who might have wanted to do her harm?”

“No, no one.”

“How about any customers who might have harassed her or who went too far—troublemakers, guys your security people had to talk to?”

He shook his head. “If somebody gives us a hard time, we ask them to leave. But we don’t take their names.”

“But you know the names of your regulars, right? Any of those who might have been aggressive with her?”

“No. Nothing like that. I mean, guys might get a little high and make some noise, but it’s always innocent.”

“Anybody who might have had a thing for her? Someone who went out with her?”

“No. Besides, club policy is that the performers aren’t allowed to date customers.”

“Right. How about someone who might have stalked her?” Neil asked.

DeLuca shook his head. “Nothing like that, at least not that I know of.”

Steve nodded. Either DeLuca was playing dumb or he was dumb.

“Look, Mickey, we’re trying to learn the names of anyone who may have had a sexual thing for her, okay? And this is a sex club where she danced. So, I want you to help us here, because the likelihood is that her killer frequented your establishment.”

“I understand, but nobody’s coming to mind.”

Steve looked at the big wide-eyed stare and wondered if anything came to Mickey DeLuca’s mind. He glanced at his notes. “We’ve got some evidence that she was out of town for a week or so in April. Know where she went or anything about that?”

“Oh, yeah. I think she said she was visiting relatives in Canada or something. Lemme check the books.” When he returned, he said, “Yeah, she was off for over three weeks, mid-April to the first week in May. Wasn’t great for business, because she had her regulars. But she came back, and the guys were like bees to honey up here. What a loss.”

“You mentioned Terry’s regulars. I’m wondering if we can have a list of those.”

DeLuca made a woeful expression. “The thing is, we don’t keep records of them.”

“You mean the women have regular customers and you don’t have their names? This is a club, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s mostly on a first-name basis, and there’s no telling they use their real names or just nicknames or something.”

“How about people who pay by credit card?”

“Yeah, we have those. But that’s private information, right?”

Steve glanced at one of the business cards he got from a dispenser at the front desk. The card read, VISIT OUR WEB SITE. “How about people who subscribe to your newsletters?”

“Well, we have the Swingers Hotline, but that’s private information, too.”

“I respect that, but we can subpoena that and your credit card customers, so we’re asking you to save us all some time, okay, Mickey? Just a list of names, and it won’t go anywhere else.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry, Officer, but I really can’t do that. I mean, no offense, but it’s not something I’m authorized to do.”

“Okay, then maybe you can tell me where we can find Mr. Vernone.”

“Who?”

Steve checked his PDA device. “Nuncio Vernone. He’s the owner, right?”

“Oh, Nonny. Yeah, but he’s out of town.”

“Well, maybe you can call him.”

“I’m not sure where he is.”

Talking to DeLuca was like addressing a slow child. “Okay, then maybe you can tell us your date of birth, if you remember it.”

“Why you wanna know that?”

“Just wondering.”

DeLuca looked from Steve to Neil then he told him.

“And you spell your name D-E-L-U-C-A and the first name is Michael, right?”

Mickey hesitated. “Yeah.”

Steve punched some keys. “How long have you been the manager here?”

“Three months, why?”

“And before that you were bartender at Wolfs in Cranston, Rhode Island.”

“How do you know that?”

Steve raised his handheld. “Law Enforcement Agencies Processing Systems, National Crime Information Center Network. Very handy. Does Mr. Vernone know that you have twelve prior charges plus two arrests for possession of a controlled substance? Did he know that when he hired you? No? Then how about the evening of December 17 of last year when you were charged with violation of the Rhode Island liquor laws by serving alcohol to a minor, which resulted in Wolfs being put on probation for a month? Does he know about that?”

“I don’t know. Yeah, he does. Maybe not. I don’t know.”

“Uh-huh. Does Mr. Vernone own a cell phone?”

“Yeah.”

“May I please have the number?”

“We’re not supposed to give that out.”

“Mickey, we are investigating a serious crime and there are laws against withholding vital information in the pursuit of a criminal case, and homicide, let me remind you, is at the top of serious. Unless you want to come down to headquarters and call your boss from there and tell him that we’re investigating the murder of one of his employees and that his manager is not cooperating, and then it gets in the paper that—”

“Okay, okay. I’ll call him.”

“We also want a list of all your employees.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Fish in a barrel,” Steve said as DeLuca scurried. He could see that Neil was fidgety and wanted to leave. Every so often he’d eye the waitresses or glance at the wall photos of the naked dancers. “You okay?”

“Fucking place makes me want to go home and take a shower is all.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

DeLuca returned. “I guess it’s your lucky day, guys. Mr. Vernone was very cooperative.” He handed Steve three sheets of paper with a list of subscribers.

“MerBabes Revue. Catchy.”

DeLuca smiled proudly. “Yeah.”

“We’ll be back to talk to other staffers. In the meantime, if you think of anything else that might help, please give a call.” He handed Mickey his card.

“Yeah, sure.” Then Mickey pulled out of his wallet his own business cards and snapped one to each of them. “If you guys like exotic dancing, you come back and ask for me, okay? You come as my guests. We got the best buffalo wings anywhere. And lady friends are welcomed.”

They left and stepped into the bright light of the open beach. Steve looked at the marquee photo of Terry. “What a waste,” he said.

“Yeah,” Neil said, and headed for the car.