“That was a long time ago,” she said. “Great to be young, right, guys?”
Nowadays, even compliments can get you in trouble. We smiled.
She crossed her legs, allowing the robe to ride up to mid-thigh. “What kind of help do you think I can give you?”
Milo said, “If you know this woman, it would be a tremendous help,” and handed her Red Dress’s death shot.
She said, “Suzy Q? She’s…oh, God, she is, isn’t she.”
“She’s the victim of a homicide, ma’am.”
Consuela Baca’s right hand flew to her mouth. She reached for a fresh tissue, patted both eyes. “Poor Suzy. How? Who?”
Milo said, “Unfortunately, we can’t get into how and we don’t know who. That’s why we’re here. Anything you can tell us about her will be appreciated.”
Pale eyes narrowed. “How’d you connect her to me?”
“One of our detectives visited The Booty Shop. We were told she danced there.”
“That was a couple of years ago.” She frowned. “They gave out my personal data?”
Milo smiled and took out his pad. “No, we detected and found out you managed the place. So you knew her as Suzy Q. Last name, please.”
Consuela Baca kept studying the dead girl’s image. “She’s not someone I’d have thought would end up—I mean she never did anything high-risk. Not that I saw. If anything, she was kind of…buttoned-up—restrained, that’s the word.”
I said, “As opposed to other dancers?”
“Dancers,” she said. “They teach you guys PC, huh? They’re not ballerinas, they’re strippers, and yes, a lot of them like to walk the edge. It’s the nature of the business.”
“What’s the edge?”
“The wrong guys, the wrong drugs.”
“Not Suzy,” I said.
“Far as I knew. In terms of her last name, she told me Smith. Susan Smith. I assumed it was phony.”
“Because it was Smith?”
“That and fake names are also part of the biz. Girls do it for safety and security and because they like to create alter egos. When I worked in Vegas I was Brigitta. When I wasn’t Ingrid. Or Helga. My Minnesota Swedish mother wasn’t amused. My dad never said anything but when she started yelling at me, I caught him smiling.”
The memory made her sigh. She took another look at the photo, shook her head, and returned it. “Poor Suzy.”
Milo said, “When did Susan Smith become Suzy Q?”
“It wasn’t a formal thing,” said Baca. “She suggested it and I said okay. It’s kind of a natural extension of Susan, no? Like Hannah becomes Honey Pie, Sarah’s Sexy Sadie? I had one girl, her name was Dara, which was actually fine as a stage name. She thought becoming Drizella was a great idea. I told her that’s one of the ugly sisters in ‘Cinderella,’ bad idea. So she became Dru. Is that better than Dara? But everyone has their own ideas. They do the job, I don’t hassle them.”
“Did you save Suzy’s employment forms? Withholding, Social Security, that kind of thing?”
“Can’t save what I don’t have, guys. The only forms we keep are for the alcohol-license Nazis and the pests from the health department. The girls aren’t employees, they’re independent contractors. That’s pretty much the industry standard.”
“Did Suzy mention other places she’d worked?”
Consuela Baca got out a raspy fragment of laughter before being seized by a coughing fit. Another belated mouth-cover. “Sorry, sorry, don’t want to infect you. No, she didn’t mention because I didn’t ask. It’s not like we demand résumés. They prance in with no appointment, get naked, strut their stuff. They’re up to our standards, we give them tryouts. They show up on time and stay sober, we give them time slots. Even the long-timers don’t last. Suzy was a short-timer. Weeks, not months.”
“How come?”
“Beats me,” said Baca. “One day she just didn’t show up. No big deal, there’s never a shortage of product.”
Milo slipped the photo back in his pocket. “What can you tell us about her?”
“Only my impression,” said Consuela Baca. “Quiet girl, not much of a personality—oh, yeah, she claimed to be a student.”
“Where?”
“She never said. And she could’ve been lying. That’s what the girls do. They lie.”
I said, “Another industry standard.”
“You’ve got that right. We sell fantasy. Once it crosses over to reality—too many zits on an ass, too strung out to move right—it’s goodbye, Cutie, because you’ve crossed over into honesty and honesty kills business. When the girls are up on stage, they’re dream receptacles, not real people. I’m not going to sit here and tell you they’re actresses—though some of them would like to think so. But we do run a show. Pretending for dollars. Good liars find it easier to pretend. I know my talent pool, guys. If we kept petty cash around, it wouldn’t last a nanosecond.”
“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”
“Oh, do I,” said Baca. “It’s like juvenile hall. Someone willing to do the job isn’t going to be a goody-two-shoes church virgin. Not that we haven’t had some of those trying to break loose from Daddy and Mommy.”
I said, “Free spirits.”
“Girls gone wild or trying to.” Tiny smile. “Like I used to be.”
“Suzy didn’t come across like that?”
“Hmm—you know, in her own way, maybe she did. Not a firecracker, a smolderer. That can be just as sexy.”
She sniffled and dabbed, used her eyes to redirect us to her photos.
I said, “Those are pretty artistic.”
“Thank you kindly, sir. The guy who took them was an artist. Did his main work for the studios back in the forties, got ripped off like everyone else who worked for the studios, not a penny in royalties. When he retired he freelanced. A customer who’d seen me on stage hooked him up with me. George—George Grumann—was looking for a quote unquote ‘ice goddess.’ He took one look at me and said, ‘The Valkyrie has arrived.’ It was fun.”
She gave herself another long look. “I think they came out quite well.”
“Terrific.”
She nodded, sneezed, coughed. “Sorry, I’m not used to having people over when I’m feeling shitty. I get that itchy throat, I usually take zinc right away and it kind of works. But it also makes me super nauseated and I just got over a stomach flu so I figured I’d muscle this one out.”
She cleared her throat at high volume: grinding gears. “God, I sound like a wild pig.”
I said, “Hope you feel better soon.”
“That’s sweet. Thank you.”
“What did Susan say she was studying in school?”
“She never got that specific. Not to me, anyway. I don’t encourage chitchat. Show up, look hot, do your thing, keep the alcohol flowing and the cocks hard.”
“Was there another girl she might have confided in?”
“Not that I saw,” said Baca. “She wasn’t Miss Congenial, kind of kept to herself. I heard a couple of the other girls call her a snob. Actually, it was along the lines of ‘what a cold bitch.’?”
“Do you remember who said that?”
“You’re kidding. We’re talking two years ago, maybe more. No one around then is working for me now. Even if they have the attention span, they make bad choices and age fast.”
Sliding a hand down her own sleek thigh, as if soliciting contradiction.
I said, “Did George Grumann ever take pictures of her?”
“Oh, no,” said Baca, smiling. “George has been gone for—I’m not going to tell you how long on the grounds it might incriminate me.” A beat. “He died twenty-two years ago. A year after he took my glams.”
“What else can you tell us about her?”
She shrugged. “Her street presence was drab. She’d show up for work in clothes designed to limpy-poo a cock. First time, I said to myself, this one has the bone structure and the bod but no clue, it’s not going to work out. But when she auditioned, she was tarted up the wazoo. Full-on makeup, smoky eyes, inch-long lashes, collection of not-bad wigs, fuck-me shoes, red micro-dress you could use for a handkerchief. When she got up on stage her dancing was different but actually pretty hot.”
“Different how?”
She loosened her hair, freed a cascade of ice. “What I just told you, smoldering not burning.”