Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,57
about the germs that probably coated the handle, having been grasped by a group of men who would buy ten dollar, watered-down beers for the chance to watch a naked teenager dance. Occupational hazard, I told myself, trying not to think what these guys do with their hands.
Inside was a beautiful marble foyer with a long mahogany bar and waiters in tuxedoes. Kidding, of course. It was actually just what you’d expect. A stage running down the middle of the place with a bar at one end and a curtain at the other. Small groups of tables surrounded the runway, with some chairs right up against it for those fifty yard line kind of spots. For the guys who like to get right in on the action.
There was a girl dancing on the stage. She had on a fishnet body stocking, or what was left of it, anyway. Her breasts poked out of two holes and sat unnaturally high. Judging by the three or four guys who sat watching her, they probably didn’t care if they were looking at a plastic surgeon’s handiwork. I moved to the end of room where the bar was and ordered a beer in a bottle. Six bucks. Ah, that good ol’ naked girl surcharge.
When you get right down to it, there are only so many ways to try to get information from a place like this. You can stake it out over the course of a few days or even a couple weeks, and try to learn something that way. Or you can have an idea of who your target is ahead of time and watch for him or her. Or you can walk in blindly and start asking questions. You can guess which path made sense to me. I didn’t have time for a two-week stakeout. And even though I knew who I was after, I didn’t think Grasso would be so stupid as to just hang out somewhere in the open.
The dancer was really working her stuff on the stage to the incongruous tune of Olivia Newton-John’s ‘Let’s Get Physical.’ As I watched the fishnetted youngster on stage bend over and grab her ankles, I figured the Australian singer didn’t exactly have this kind of imagery in mind when she composed the feisty little ditty.
I hadn’t touched my beer and understood immediately that I wouldn’t be putting my mouth on anything in this bar, unlike the four hundred pound guy waving a dollar bill at the dancer hovering over him.
Before I’d left the police station, I’d made a copy of Grasso’s mug shot. I’d had to do it without Ellen noticing, but old habits die hard and it’d been easy to go around behind her back.
The bartender was a goofy-looking guy. He reminded me of guys I’d gone to high school with that were easy going and fun, but you knew would never really do much with their lives. I waved him over and showed him the computer printout of Laurence Grasso’s mug shot.
“I’m trying to track down a buddy of mine. Larry Grasso. Do you know him?”
Without looking at the picture, he said, “You a cop?”
I shook my head. “Flunked out of the Academy,” I said.
He barely glanced at the picture and I knew what the answer would be. “Never seen him,” he said.
“Is there anyone else here I can show the picture to?”
“Why you lookin’ for him?”
“I’m a P.I.,” I said. “His sister hired me to find him. Their mother died and they need to settle the estate. It’s not much, but they can’t do it until Larry’s contacted.”
The bartender shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Clearly, I was on my own.
I pushed my beer back and walked around the bar to a door marked with the single word “Office.” The bartender watched me and started to say something, but I knocked on the door quickly and when I heard a voice say ‘fuck off!’ I went right in.
There was a woman behind the desk with big blonde hair. I couldn’t see her face because it was buried in the crotch of a thin black girl sitting spread eagled on top of the desk.
“Oops,” I said.
The black girl scrambled off the desk. The blonde wiped her mouth off on her forearm and stood up. She was a big gal.
I pulled out the picture of Grasso and said, “I’m looking for Larry Grasso. Do you recognize him?”
“Get out,” the woman said, and her eyes flickered over my shoulder. I sensed movement