Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery 1)

We arranged to meet there. Walt said he’d take a cab, because he figured on tying one on.

Aces High was in a fashionable, light industrial section of Route 1, across the highway from a cemetery. Somehow, this struck me as funny, though I couldn’t say exactly why. The building was a squat, windowless brick box. The small parking lot was ablaze in yellow sodium lights giving the building a sickly hue.

Walt waited in front. He reminded me of another Walt—Walter Matthau. Or Droopy Dog.

As I got out of my car, I could hear the bass beat of the music, pounding like an amplified pulse from the building.

Walt gave me a wry smile as I approached. “You like adventure, don’t you?”

“It would seem so.” I surveyed the building. “Not much, is it?”

“Your basic shithole, I’d say.” Walt grinned. “Well, anytime you’re ready.”

I nodded. “Let’s do it now, before I change my mind

.”

Walt pulled the door open, and a cloud of smoke billowed out. The bouncer, an escapee from a punk rock circus who manned a stool near the entrance, gave us a brief, uninterested glance as we walked in. The small, overheated room was packed, and the smell of beer, cigarettes, and B.O. permeated the stale air. The heavy metal tune “Girls, Girls, Girls” blasted from an unseen jukebox.

Although the clientele was mostly male, I was relieved to see women, in groups or with men. Some people sat at tables, but most clustered around a rectangular stage with a pole at either end and a short runway jutting out from the middle. There was a woman at each pole, engaged in something that might have passed for dancing if you had enough drinks. They wore G-strings that were big enough to keep the place from getting shut down and garters for their money. One of them seemed to be enjoying a special relationship with her pole. The other shimmied her torso. Paradoxically, while the torso shook, the breasts didn’t. The skin on them was so stretched from her boob job, they reminded me of overfilled balloons. A third woman in a plaid Catholic schoolgirl-cum-slut outfit came on stage and sauntered down the runway to the music.

A small bar was sandwiched between the spectators and one end of the stage. A solo waitress took care of most of the room, although you could also get service from the bartender if you sat at his station.

Walt gestured broadly. “What’s your pleasure, seating-wise?”

“How about the bar?”

“You read my mind, sister. Close to the booze.”

“Actually, I’m hoping to talk to the bartender.”

“Either way, works for me.”

Most of the patrons weren’t there for the booze or conversation, so it wasn’t hard to find a couple of empty stools at the bar. The third stripper had made quick work of losing her schoolgirl outfit and was on her knees, leaning back and thrusting her hips. How athletic. She had better than average fake breasts, but they still stuck out like twin fleshy torpedoes. One guy in the crowd stuck a folded bill out between his fingers, as if hailing a cab, then placed it on the runway. She squirmed her way over to him and picked up the bill, checking the denomination before tucking it into her garter. Then she turned around, suspended her ass about two inches from his face, and launched into a bump-and-grind that would have thrown my back out.

Walt crossed his arms and gazed at the stage, looking amused and bored. “Jesus,” he said. “There’s enough silicone in this room to make an extra heat shield for the space shuttle.”

The bartender looked preoccupied. I hoped he wouldn’t mind a bit of chitchat. He was young and skinny, blond with a scraggly mustache. His complexion was so pale, I half expected his eyes to be pink, but they were blue.

“What would you like?” he asked.

“I’ll have a ginger ale,” I said.

“Christ.” Walt barked the word out so loudly, I think even the dancers heard him. “What kind of a drink is that? I’ll take Scotch and soda on the rocks.” While the bartender got to work, Walt looked down his nose at me. “You’re giving the legal profession a bad name, kid. Ginger ale.”

“We can’t all be world-class drinkers like you, Walt.” I noticed, off in a corner, two women giving men lap dances. Actually, the dancing seemed to extend beyond the lap area. I felt like a bit of a perv, but I couldn’t help staring with fascination. The women were practically crawling on top of the guys, grinding their crotches as they went. The men sat in plain, wooden chairs, their arms hanging by their sides, dull-eyed and slack-jawed. A beefy man sat to the side, watching. When one man brought his hands up to feel the woman, the watcher came over and said a few words. Down went the hands.

The bartender served our drinks. I leaned toward him and yelled, “Crowded, isn’t it?”

He smiled. “An average Friday. You don’t come here often, huh?”

“You mean I don’t look like a regular?”

“That, plus you don’t look like someone scoping the place out for work.”

“I noticed there were women here, but I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Some of them are dancers. A few are probably just curious.”