She grinned briefly. “And then his buddies leave these humungous tips because they feel embarrassed. So, of course, in a way we all welcome them on the nights they show up.”
She started tearing pieces from her coffee cup. “The problem is, this guy has been hitting on me, and when I put him down, Olympia behaved really oddly.”
“What guy?” I demanded. “Chad?”
“No. Chad only cares about Nadia. I mean, she’s the person who winds him up, or maybe it’s the Artist—it’s hard to be sure. This older guy, he’s kind of crude, and he can’t keep his hands to himself. So first I kidded him, you know, going, ‘Whoa, buster, seems like your fingers kind of forgot curfew. Better tell ’em to stay home where they belong.’ Well, that was like slapping a whale with a goldfish—totally useless. So next time I kicked him good on the shin, and he talked to Olympia, and she came to me and said I couldn’t go around kicking customers. So I explained what happened, and she said, Are you sure? And I said, I know what a hand feels like when it’s inside my pants, and she said, If I overlooked it, there’d be something extra in my pay envelope. But—”
“Quit.” I said flatly. “If Olympia is running drugs—and a bar is a perfect Laundromat for drug money—you don’t want to be there when the cops shut her down. And if she’s pimping for some sleazoid, you need to run for the exit.”
“I will if I have to. But, Vic, it’s almost four hundred a week in tips I’m getting there, pretty much tax-free. And my day job, I don’t know how much longer they’ll keep me on. Would you—I know it’s a lot to ask—but could you—”
“What, shoot him?” I asked when she broke off.
That made her laugh.
“If you could do it and not get caught, I’d be your slave for life! No, but could you check him out, do you think, see who he is, see if there’s something you could do to make him stop?”
“Do you have his name?” I asked.
“Olympia calls him Rodney. I’m not sure what his last name is—Stranger-Danger, maybe.” She scrolled through her cell phone and held it out to me. “This is what he looks like.”
She’d taken his picture from above, when she was passing his table. It wasn’t a good likeness, but it didn’t surprise me to see it was the guy I’d pegged as an off-duty cop. Petra wasn’t working tonight, but she said she’d be at the club the next night. I promised to stop in, although it bugged me that my cousin insisted on staying on at the joint.
Petra zipped up her ski jacket, her face brighter now that she’d unburdened herself and gotten a promise of help. Even her hair, matted down by her ear warmer, seemed to be springing up.
“Vic—don’t tell Uncle Sal, okay? He’s already on me about the club being so degenerate and all, and—”
“Sweet Pea, I’m not so sure he’s wrong. If I see coke or ecstasy or some damned thing passing between Olympia and Mr. Stranger-Danger, you are quitting on the spot, you hear?”
“Sure, Vic, I promise.” She held up three fingers in the Girl Scout salute and danced out the door.
I finished my number crunching for Ajax Insurance. The claims manager seemed to have the intelligence of an eggplant. He should have been able to generate the report himself, but a hundred fifty an hour—I wouldn’t complain.
5
What on Earth Is Going On?
I returned to the club the following night. The Body Artist was appearing, and the joint was alive, practically shaking with twenty-and thirtysomethings. Rodney was there, and so were Chad and his friends. I didn’t see Nadia.
I took a table near the back, but Olympia swept over as I was pulling out a chair at one of the rear tables. Tonight she was wearing a black sweater with a deep cleavage over black velvet pants; her touch of white was a corsage of feathers that brushed the swell of her breasts.
“That table’s reserved, Warshawski. I don’t have a free seat in the house. You’ll have to stand.”
“Not a problem, Olympia.”
I got up and moved to the railing that created a kind of foyer between the audience space and the club entrance. I wasn’t going to give her an excuse to throw me out by losing my temper.
“And there’s a twenty-dollar cover on the night the Body Artist appears. All drinks are six dollars, more for name brands.”
I stuck a hand inside my sweater and pretended to be fumbling with my bra. “Want the money now?”
She frowned. “A private eye is bad for business, Warshawski. If you interrupt the show or harass the Artist, I’ll see that you’re thrown out.”