Gold Coast Blues (13 page)

Cooper worked from a mini-precinct situated among dilapidated two-story homes, at one time comprising a charming middle-class neighborhood. Rottweiler-like dogs barking from numerous broken windows represented the only sign of life. The building itself, a one-level concrete rectangle, had all the charm of a vacated dry cleaner’s. The office was one large room. A plainclothes African American officer sat behind what may have been the Compaq desktop computer I owned in the early 2000s. His golf shirt fit tightly around biceps the size of cantaloupes. Slightly graying around the temples, he looked up at me through round tortoiseshell eyeglasses, then pleasantly smiled. “One moment, please,” he said in a surprisingly soft voice. After pecking out a few more letters and saving his document, he sat up.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“I was hoping I could speak with Detective Cooper.”

The officer pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Well, I’ll have to check his schedule. Does he know why you want to see him?”

“I’m investigating a missing person, someone I’m pretty sure he knows.”

He nodded several times. “Okay, sure. So he’ll know why you’re here—but he doesn’t know you personally?”

“Correct. But he knows people I know.”

“Good. Can I have those names?”

“Detective Cooper is a police officer, right? Here to serve and protect on the public payroll?”

“Oh, no, no, no, of course. It’s just that, like, you know, he’s my boss, you know? And he likes to know who he’s dealing with so it will make things easier if he knows a little bit about why you’re here, that’s all.”

I watched a man who could break me in half with one hand squirm on a steno chair under the brunt of my glare. I almost felt sorry for him. I took a pen off his desk and wrote the name “Eddie Byrne” on a piece of paper.

The man took the paper and disappeared down a staircase off the back wall of the room. A few minutes later he returned.

“Detective Cooper was wondering if you could come back tomorrow morning. After nine o’clock, say?”

“I’ll be there.”

—

The Gala Festival Motel was a one-story U-shaped brown brick structure just off the highway. Two African American high school girls at the counter graciously welcomed me. One was taller and wore braided hair extensions, the other had a bob with a heavy side bang. The taller one told me my room had just been cleaned and that there was a hot tub somewhere out back. They both wore white blouses with a colorful badge depicting a torch in front of an open book.

From the doorway of my room, I surveyed the chasm running down the middle of the bed, then acquainted myself with the smell of chlorine bleach. The towels were stiff and the size of large washcloths. The only thing missing was a neon sign flashing on and off through the window.

It don’t cost nothin’ to talk,
Frownie always said.
When you go to a new place, talk to anybody about anything. That’s how you learn.
I walked back to the lobby and asked the girls what people did for fun in this town. They both giggled. The taller one said, “For you? Only one place we know about.”

I thought I knew what they meant, but asked anyway. “What do you mean
for me
?”

More giggling. “White boys,” the shorter one said. “Besides buying drugs, there’s only one reason white boys come here.”

“It’s called ‘Back End Up,’ ” the taller one said, and they both broke into peals of laughter. I couldn’t help but join in.

“A strip joint?” I said.

“They cater to white boys from the burbs,” the taller one said. “It’s been here forever.”

“What else?”

The laughing stopped. The shorter one walked over to the window, looked outside, and said, “Sir, it’s getting kind of late and it’s really not safe for you to be wandering around this part of Irvington at night.”

“Except for Back End Up.”

“Exactly,” they said at the same time and then took turns filling me in. “It’s all set up for white guys to feel safe. Lots of cops moonlighting as security. Some gangbangers too.”

“Cops and gangbangers working
together
to protect white boys in a strip joint?”

Both girls nodded. “That’s the way it’s always been.”

They watched me mentally digest the information until I said, “I know a guy who said he lives here. A white guy. What neighborhood would that be?”

They looked at each other. The tall one said, “No white guy lives in this town. Not since I’ve been alive.”

“He’s older than you. Maybe his family stuck around?”

Both girls looked mystified. The shorter one said, “I don’t know any white people who live here. Maybe they do. But I’ve never seen them.” The other nodded her head.

I said, “What are those badges you’re wearing?”

“It’s for academic excellence,” they both said.

I congratulated them. The girls took turns thanking me and gave directions to Back End Up. From a convenience store, I bought a loaf of bread, grape jam, and a jar of peanut butter. I sat on the corner of the bed, eating and thinking. Despite the shabby furniture in a shabby motel, I saw no sign of roaches or ants. I attributed this to the motel’s toxic approach to cleanliness. Cooper, a white cop, operated out of a mostly black town. This I knew. But thanks to a simple conversation, I also knew where white men went to spend money here.

Chapter 22

The glow caught my attention at least five blocks from Back End Up, another large, nondescript cement rectangle but this one with a parking lot lit up like a football stadium. A man holding a radio transceiver to his mouth and wearing a dark windbreaker with the word “SECURITY” across the back waved to me from the middle of the lot. He stood in an open space next to the last car in the row. After I pulled in, he welcomed me to Back End Up and pointed to another man standing twenty yards away, dressed identically, apparently waiting to escort me. As we walked, several other “SECURITY” men strolled the perimeter of the lot. On the corners of adjacent blocks, drug dealers and whores freely conducted curbside negotiations.

When we reached the sidewalk, I saw about a dozen men smoking cigarettes behind a roped-off area in front of the club. My escort stopped, smiled, then gestured toward the door with an open arm. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”

Before entering the club, I decided to hang out awhile with the smokers, all white men, ranging in age from early twenties to about seventy. Each maintained at least a three-foot buffer between himself and someone else. Personal space. Standing closest to me was a guy with black hair taped up on the sides, box cut, and spiked. He wore a tracksuit with the jacket unzipped enough to reveal a gold cross on a heavy chain.
Guido tuxedo,
I think his outfit was called. When he noticed me I smiled and said, “My first time here.”

Guido Tuxedo blew out a plume of smoke and chuckled. “Undercover, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothin’. Yeah, this place is good for tit suckin’ and ass grabbin’ in a back room. More if you got the cash. Lots of Brazilian bitches. Watch out for the old girls. Still in decent shape but teeth all fucked up.” Guido Tuxedo took a long drag, flicked the cigarette into the street, then returned to the club.

I observed the others awhile longer, stoically puffing in their isolated worlds, then took one last look at Kalijero’s picture of Cooper sitting at the table with his goons. When I entered the club, the world turned purple, thanks to a ceiling grid of canisters shining a spectrum of violet hues. The venue was shaped in a semicircle with sloping tiers leading to the performance area. I stood at the top tier where a row of corn plants blocked most of the view.

“Good evening,” a smiling woman said, walking up to me. “There’s a twenty-dollar cover charge and a two-drink minimum.” Although too old to be a stripper, she still looked amazing in a black bustier and matching miniskirt.

“Uh, okay, can I have a quick peek to see if my friends are here yet?”

Something about her body language set off a silent alarm because a young gangbanger in an oversized sleeveless T-shirt appeared from the top of an aisle and began wandering toward us. His shirt appeared to be red, although I couldn’t be sure in the light.

I stepped between two corn plants and scanned the floor. On the stage, several topless women wearing thongs pole-danced beneath a blaze of lavender. Behind the bar, backlighting under a wall of mirrors emitted a purple aura around rows of bottles. Men leaned against the stage while another group of gawkers stood two deep behind them. I spotted a few semicircular booths on the first tier. One of the tables was crowded with men fitting the wiseguy stereotype.

“Sir,” the gangbanger said, tapping me hard on the shoulder. The host stood behind him.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry!” I said. “May I sit over by those booths?”

“Twenty-dollar cover charge, please,” the woman said.

“Yes, absolutely.” I fumbled with my wallet then gave her a twenty. She led me to a two-top on the fourth tier, not great for watching the dancers, but angled advantageously toward the booth, providing periodic views of a dark-haired man I hoped was Cooper. A few minutes later, a waitress appeared and I ordered a virgin strawberry daiquiri. While still assimilating my new environment, Guido Tuxedo appeared from my periphery and walked up to me.

“Officer Dude,” he said, “next time
overpay
the host and you’ll get a better seat.” Then he rapped his knuckles a few times on the table and joined the crowd at the wiseguy table. After he sat, several of the men leaned toward him, laughed, then turned to look my way. A moment later, half the table leaned in one direction and the other half leaned in the opposite direction, giving their boss and myself a good look at each other. He parted his hair in the middle and slicked it back like Spike, accentuating a prominent nose. I looked at the picture. It might be Detective Cooper, I thought and cursed Kalijero for his technological apathy.

The waitress reappeared with my $12 daiquiri in a twenty-ounce beer glass. I sipped and watched the wiseguys slap backs, pour drinks from a private stash, and basically act deliriously happy to be in each other’s company. The celebratory buzz had an arrogant swagger about it—as if they owned the place.

The man I now decided was Detective Cooper from the photo waved to someone across the room. Minutes later, a dancer in a leopard print bikini strolled to within a couple of feet of the table. First, she posed seductively—hands on hips—giving the men a good, long gape, before starting a series of postures that blurred the line between superb athleticism and pornographic yoga.

Cooper barked a command. The men shoved their chairs back, which allowed the dancer to sit on the edge of the table before swinging her legs around and up in one fluid motion. Lying on her back, she gave the boss a direct view of her crotch. She raised her hips, undulated for several moments, then effortlessly maneuvered into various positions on her torso while the men stuffed cash under her G-string. Besides the eroticism, I couldn’t help but appreciate the core strength required to perform with such physical prowess. Eventually, she ended up on her stomach and slid toward Cooper, who met her in a sensuous kiss and a prolonged groping session that would have earned an ordinary patron a speedy exit from the club.

After the tender moment ended, the dancer slid down and waved goodbye. High fives ensued around the table along with more drinks and a general appearance of having accomplished something grand.

A gangbanger stood about five feet from Cooper’s crew, scanning the stage and bar area. Our eyes briefly met. Had he been there the whole time? A bandana hung from his back pocket. I looked around the room and spotted several more gangbangers keeping an eye on things. The hostess escorted two guys wearing untucked polo shirts over corduroy slacks. She sat them near the stage. Eddie would’ve looked daggers into those boys, suburbanites slumming in the “ ’hood.” By age ten, Eddie had more street smarts than those boys would ever have.

“Another daiquiri?”

The waitress stood smiling, my required second drink already sitting on her tray. On her way back to the bar she passed a beautiful dancer in a black bikini walking toward me: tall, brunette, a body worthy of most men’s fantasies. Her eyes left no doubt as to who was the object of her gaze. She pulled a chair over and sat next to me.

“Oh, no thank you,” I said as politely as possible.

“My name is Candy.”

“Candy, thank you but I’m not interested in a lap dance.”

Candy pushed the hair off my forehead and said, “But it’s already paid for. You don’t want to waste their money, do you?”

The wiseguy table was one big toothy grin. Guido Tuxedo waved at me. “Enjoy!” he yelled.

“See?” Candy said.

She removed her bikini top, draped a leg over my thighs, then gracefully straddled me. This may have been a test. Undercover cops are not allowed to initiate sexual contact. I rubbed my hands over her breasts. Candy responded by pushing them against my face and shimmying for a good ten seconds before letting me up for air.

“Have you worked here a long time?” I said, sounding like a complete idiot.

She looked a bit taken aback. “Are you a
new
cop?”

I put my hands back on her breasts and rubbed her nipples. “Does that answer your question?”

She laughed. “Honey, every cop in this city has had their grubby hands on my tits.”

She pressed her crotch against mine, gyrated as if
her
pleasure was as obvious as mine. Despite my original intention in coming to Back End Up, a culmination of events approached at a speed not experienced since my teenage years, and to my dismay, while fully clothed. Candy had the solution—which also gave me an idea.

“There are rooms,” Candy said. “Fifty dollars.”

“If I said I was a new cop, would I get a first-time discount?”

Candy didn’t appreciate my comment. “I’m just trying to make a living.”

“How about fifty bucks just to tell me the boss’s name at the wiseguy table.”

Candy continued gyrating. “I got lots of bosses.”