Prosecco Pink (35 page)

When I'd started dancing a decade earlier, Rachel had been the "It Girl" at Cougar's gentlemen's club where I still worked. She was the headliner blonde, and I was an up-and-coming brunette. Somehow we had bonded over our love of champagne and our bemused outlook on our chosen profession. As the top draw, Rachel became a millionaire before she was twenty-five, but then she upped the ante by marrying one of the richest bachelors in town after making a private appearance at his birthday party. I hadn't seen her since her husband's funeral.

Rachel returned with a martini for herself and a glass of white wine for me. I would have preferred something stronger, but I let it slide.

"So what's going on?" I asked, trying not to seem too impatient.

She sighed. "Well, Raven, I'm broke."

"You don't
look
broke." She was sporting at least five carats on her necklace alone, and her princess-cut engagement ring looked like it was on loan from Harry Winston. Or the Smithsonian. And her golden hair and perfect magenta nails had obviously received the recent attention of professionals.

Rachel took a long gulp of her drink and cleared her throat. "It's embarrassing. After George was killed, I kind of developed a little gambling habit. Thanks to the family trust, his sister got the whole casino. But George left me a couple million in cash, and I figured, what was the harm? It kept me busy. I was bored all the time, and they treated me nice at the casino. But I had a string of bad luck, and before I knew it I wasn't gambling with my own cash. I was signing papers to borrow money, and then after a while there weren't any more papers to sign. It was firm handshakes in back rooms, and promises made in whispers. I guess I got in pretty deep."

"How deep?"

"About eight." She coughed softly. "Eight million."

"Ouch," I muttered.

"They're going to get my jewelry, my house, my car, everything. I know that. I don't really care about that stuff, honestly. But that won't cover the debt. The only thing I have left to give is…myself."

I remained quiet. Rachel was in her late thirties but looked about twenty-five, and if she took care of herself she was still a stunner who sported the best curves money could buy. I had no trouble believing that there were dozens of unscrupulous moneylenders who would allow her—or
force
her—to "work" off her debt. That's probably why they lent her so much money in the first place.

"Anyway," she continued, "I heard you finally started that investigation business you were always talking about, so I thought…

I wanted to roll my eyes, but I stopped myself. My "investigation business" consisted of my probationary private detective's license and a half-dozen clients who'd stumbled across my half-assed Internet website. It wasn't even a hobby, much less a business. The undertaking was the product of a vague hope that I could gracefully retire from the skin business before I got shoved out the back door. I already had a nice little nest egg saved up, but I knew I'd need something to pay the bills and keep me occupied. And although I didn't always admit it to myself, I secretly hoped to find a good man and settle down to start a family. That wasn't going to happen while I was doing thirty lap dances a week.

"You thought…?" I prodded.

She looked down at her manicured fingers. "I want to sue Cody Masterson."

I tried to keep a poker face, but I'm pretty sure I failed. Three years earlier, Cody Masterson had been tried for the murder of Rachel's husband George. The jury let him off.

"For the murder?" I asked.

She nodded. She kept her eyes on her nails, which glistened under the soft candlelight.

I thought about it for a minute before responding. I had majored in criminal justice at UNLV, and that probably made me the most knowledgeable person Rachel could trust. But murders and lawsuits were a little out of my league. Okay, they were
way
out of my league.

"You'd win millions if you could prove wrongful death," I said gamely, "but he beat the charge in his criminal case."

Rachel nodded. "My lawyer said we need something more to take to a jury, or this isn't going to work. That's where you come in." She finally looked up.

"Makes sense," I said. "But why haven't you already sued him? It's been three years."

"I didn't need to. I didn't want to relive all that, and I didn't get into debt until recently. I've tried to move on, but I don't see another way. I'm not going to become a sex slave."

I asked the obvious question. "Why me?"

She hesitated. "Well, my lawyer recommended a few other people, but it seems nobody wants to touch this."

Ouch
, I thought.

"Plus, I trust you," she said.

I ignored her attempt to sugarcoat it. It was clear I was the fourth-string choice. "What's the time frame?"

"I need the money yesterday. They left me a note at my house, and the guys who came to take my car were sizing me up pretty good, like they were all going to take turns with me. It gave me the chills."

Rachel held my gaze. She was putting on a brave face, but it was obvious she was at the end of her rope.

I wanted to make sure she had thought this through. "Can I ask an obvious question? Why not just declare bankruptcy? Or call the cops?"

She smiled half-heartedly. "These people are good. When I started losing bigger and bigger, they helped make the pain go away. A little coke, a little more heroin. It helped, actually. But then they got me doing it on tape. And not just using. I kind of helped on the distribution end, you know, selling to some of my high society friends. Now they say I'm looking at federal time. These people are going to be paid, one way or another."

I grimaced. "The reason extortion is illegal is because it actually works."

She downed a healthy gulp from her glass. "Look, I know how this all sounds. I don't blame you if you're not interested. But at least talk to this guy first." She fished in her Chanel purse and handed me the business card of someone named Jeffrey Katz, Esq., a partner at Gilread, Schwartz & Tannenbaum.

I did a double take. "Jeff Katz?" I asked. "Forty-fiveish, looks kind of like a fat Billy Crystal?"

Her eyebrows rose. "Friend of yours?"

"Let's just say he's a friend of the family," I said, grinning.

Rachel chuckled knowingly. Her lawyer was a guy who loved naked ladies and gave good tips.

"Well, he's my lawyer, although I haven't paid him yet." She smiled sheepishly. "So, will you help a girl out?"

"Of course," I said, powerless to heed the alarm bells going off in my head. "I'll talk to your lawyer first thing tomorrow." I chugged my wine. If I'd been wearing a watch, I would have glanced at it.

"I hope you don't mind," I said, "but there's a convention in town, and I really need the money."

Rachel perked up at this reminder of her past life then shot me a quizzical look. "Let's see. July is normally slow—just Teamsters and real estate brokers, right?"

I smiled. "Actually, the orthodontists changed their party to July."

She squealed. "Why didn't you say so? Get out of here, and get back on that stage!"

"I'll call you." I kissed Rachel on the head as I got up to leave. If there was something odd about ditching an old friend so I could dance naked in front of a room full of glorified dentists, it escaped me.

CHAPTER TWO

I woke up late the next day in a strange mood. I made coffee and treated myself to a midday breakfast of bacon and peanut butter M&M's on my balcony overlooking the Strip. The orthodontists had been very kind to me, as expected, but in the light of day Rachel's troubles had me more than a little worried. Up until now the few jobs I'd taken had involved insurance cheats and men married to suspicious wives. I was pretty wet behind the ears, and even Rachel had admitted I wasn't exactly her first choice in private detectives. And Cody Masterson, the guy she wanted to sue, was part of a big time casino family. It made sense that no other detectives wanted to touch this case. Detectives work
for
casinos, not against them. So why was I even thinking about it? Because Rachel had asked me to and I was a sucker for a girl in trouble.

It was still odd to think of myself as a detective. After a decade of taking my clothes off, I had begun to identify myself more and more as an exotic dancer. I had made big-girl decisions like buying a condo and building an IRA on the assumption that my income from stripping would continue to fund my lifestyle. In short, I was no longer a girl who stripped. I was a stripper. And that was scary.

It was never supposed to be like that. Back in college, I applied to work at Cougar's on a lark with a girlfriend of mine. Once I got over my initial shyness, I started making real money. It was paying for college I rationalized, so what was the harm? Wads of twenty-dollar bills are kind of hard to walk away from. And then my niece, Elena, got sick. Her dad had left the scene long ago, and her mom didn't have insurance. Leukemia is expensive, it turns out. At first my sister didn't want my money—she had an inkling of where it came from—but after awhile there was no other option. So for three years I funded about half the cost of Elena's treatments, working with the hospital to get through it. Elena never had any clue, and never will.

Rationalization is the second-strongest human impulse. Once Elena got better, I told myself that it was time to earn back all the money I had spent on her medical care. And then the economy and the stock market crashed. Where was I supposed to find a respectable job now? The years ticked by, and nothing changed. There was always a ready excuse to keep stripping.

But it was time to move on. Months earlier, I had been scared straight. While doing my power shopping through Target, I had run into a woman I used to dance with. She was barely recognizable. About forty-five, Janine wore the haggard look of someone who had spent half her life in smoky bars. A zombified shell of a woman. During our brief and awkward chat, she seemed to be trying to convince me, and herself, that her life was a productive and enjoyable one. It was anything but. Her family shunned her, and she had been through a string of failed relationships with increasingly skuzzy men. Janine was my wake-up call, the slap upside the head telling me it was time to change. And
fast
.

The first step in helping Rachel was to talk to Jeff Katz, the lawyer. It was not a reunion I was looking forward to. I'd danced for him once or twice a week for three years before he decided to ask me out about a year ago. I hadn't been on a decent date in ages, so I foolishly said yes, in violation of club policy and common sense. After dessert I kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear that I wasn't going to sleep with him. He reacted like a wounded puppy, and since then I've felt awkward around him. It wasn't that I felt bad about not sleeping with him, but I did feel a pang of guilt about ordering dessert. After that "date" our relationship gradually returned to its refreshingly simple ways. I would take his forty dollars, lead him into a back room, and then I'd take my clothes off and squirm around on his lap for a few minutes. I much preferred it that way, and I think he did too.

I put off calling the number on Jeff's business card for most of the day. By four o'clock, I had rationalized not calling him at all. It was Monday, and Jeff usually came into the club on Mondays. I'd probably see him at work. On my turf.

It was still about 90 degrees at eight that evening, so I gave myself some extra time to walk the six blocks from my apartment to Cougar's, which was a block off the Strip near the Bally's casino. I got myself together and headed out on stage to dance with Amanda, one of the few redheaded dancers who worked at Cougar's. It was early and still half-empty, so I had no trouble spotting Jeff sitting next to one of the catwalks off the main stage.

Like most men, Jeff wasn't particularly attractive, but he wasn't exactly ugly, either. He had the comfortably puffy body of a celebrity chef and facial hair that wasn't officially a beard but wasn't just unshaven stubble either. His black hair was thinning a little on top, and he tended to overdress for the occasion.

After our set I walked out to the floor to find Jeff. I was wearing a black thong and a tiny pink bikini top with Velcro fasteners, and Jeff smiled broadly at me when he spotted me walking in his direction.

"Hey, did you see who just left?" he asked.

I gave him my best smile. "No I didn't, honey."

"JaMarcus Collingsworth. He was an all pro last year for the Browns."

"Sorry I missed him," I said, truthfully. NFL guys tended to throw money around to impress people. That always puzzled me, because their salaries were public information. We all know how many millions they make, so why the need to flash it around?

"He's a pass rusher. Very small for the defensive line, but he had like twelve sacks last year. He was on my fantasy team." He beamed proudly at his display of useless information.

"Hmm," I muttered. I realized I had actually danced for JaMarcus the night before, but I hadn't believed his story that he was a defensive lineman in the NFL. I just kept taking his twenties.

"JaMarcus
is
very small," I said. "Surprisingly so."

Jeff raised an eyebrow at my double entendre.

"In my job you learn intimate things about men that you don't necessarily want to know." No wonder JaMarcus had been trying to distract me with all those twenties last night. I could tell through his pants that the poor man was hung like a toy poodle.

"You danced for him?"

I nodded. "He was in here last night, too."

"At least he's got good taste in women," Jeff said approvingly.

I smiled coquettishly and began twirling my black hair with my index finger. That was my polite attempt to stifle all this small talk and get things rolling. I grasped Jeff's arms, hauled him up from his chair with both hands, and led him into the back room.

We had the room almost to ourselves. The back room was more dimly lit than the stage area and had a number of nooks and corners furnished with leather couches and overstuffed chairs. My friend Carlos, one of the bouncers, was leaning against the wall doing his best to look menacing. He nodded stiffly at me, and his eyes flickered over my body momentarily before resuming their glazed-over stare. It was nice to have security back there, but sometimes Carlos could be a little rough with customers he thought were getting too friendly with me. Not exactly a great climate for tips.