Read Slipping Into Darkness Online
Authors: Maxine Thompson
Slipping Into Darkness (7 page)
Chapter Twelve
I hated to part on bad terms with Romero. We seldom fought or even disagreed. We gave each other our space and our freedom to work our individual cases and it seemed to work for us. But now he was talking about marriage. He was serious, but I had doubts. Would a marriage end our happy relationship?
It was after midnight as I drove through the underbelly of Hollywood where Mayhem's strip club called the Kitty Kat Koliseum was located. I decided I need to snoop around and see if anyone knew anything. I really didn't exactly know what I was looking for. I parked my car a block away and strode past the hookers of all races strolling the Hollywood strip to enter into the more legal form of prostitution. Walking the streets or having sex with a lap dance partnerâwhat was the difference?
I could hear the beat of the music from the outside. Even the ground was vibrating because the noise was so loud. I was surprised to see a line at this time of morning, but there was one. Once I got inside, I scanned the room. The club was not what I expected. It was decorated like a Roman coliseum with different levels of sofas in a circle. A stage was nestled in the center.
I put the trip to Brazil in the back of my mind. If I could find Mayhem, then I wouldn't even have to go out the country, was what I was reasoning. But, they still wanted the money and planned to kill him without it. Also, his wifey was the one who had access to the money. She was in Brazil and I was going to have to go there to find her. So backing out was not going to be an option.
Just considering the complexity of my case, for a fleeting moment, I thought about ordering a drink, but then I decided to get a 7 Up.
I didn't know the bartender, the bouncer, or the lead dancer, but I decided I needed to talk to them. They would be a good place to start as sources of information. They may have had information or not, but it was worth a shot. I started with the bartender. I just had to make him feel important.
Even if I found out where Mayhem was, how could I get him released without the money? I just wanted to find out if there was anything I could do before I caught a plane to Brazil. I hadn't flown since 9/11. I still had nightmares about those two planes going into the two Trade Center buildings. To say I had a fear of flying would be an understatement.
I adjusted my eyes to the blue strobe nightlights, and for a moment, I used my hands as binoculars. Tonight the club was packed with thugs, gangsters, Crips, and wannabes. I thought I even saw a Compton rapper. I observed several local rapper groups, Revelations, Hitch, and Apocalypse, and the groupies were out six deep to a man.
The room was overflowing with women who could be poster children for steatopygia or the “big butt club.” Broke or not, from the looks of things, most of these dancers had gone out and bought big booty transplants. Now you can't tell me everybody had back like this before. Second to the butt transplants were breast implants, but they didn't seem as prominent in this strip club. The trend had changed and now big bottoms were in style.
The place reeked of cigarette smoke, chronic, alcohol, cheap perfume, fish, and unwashed behind. Obviously, strip joints were still an ongoing diversion for menâin spite of the recession. Money was still available for sex and fantasies.
I weaved my way through the crowd of lounging men at tables, making “it rain,” as they tossed dollar bills on the stage. Women wearing thongs and bikini tops, giving lap dances, doing booty pops, and clapping their cheeks swarmed around the club or sat with clients.
My purpose was to talk to the bartender, so I made a beeline for the bar. Bartenders were like street corner psychiatrists. They knew everybody's business. Who ran the club in Mayhem's absence was what I wanted to know. Everything seemed like business as usual, and it was what appeared to be a lucrative business.
As I approached the bar, my hands began to tremble. Being in this bar setting was by no means an easy feat for me. Like many newly recovering alcoholics, it was almost a knee-jerk reaction for me to want to take a drink. In spite of all the trouble that alcohol caused me in the past, for a fleeting moment, I entertained the idea of a drink. Yes, I just wanted one drink.
My palate watered like Pavlov's dog just being near the bar, and I could already taste a cool beer guzzling down my throat. Let me be honest about something. I loved how alcohol smelled, and how it tasted. I also liked how I felt when I took that first drink. Unfortunately, that one drink was never enough for me, and it had derailed my career as a police.
I hadn't been to my AA meetings in over twenty-four hours and I was already getting tempted. I had to stop walking toward the bar and catch a hold of myself. Just for a mental refresher's course, just in case, in a lapse of sanity, I had to be brutal with myself.
Just in case I wanted to entertain any illusions I could handle a drink again, I had to mentally shake myself up. Even if I wanted to delude myself into thinking I could afford to slip and take just an itsy-bitsy thimble of alcohol, I needed to kick myself in my own butt. I treaded my mind back down memory lane.
What I saw was an ugly picture. The blackouts, the hangovers, the vomiting, the hotboxes, the detox, the shame, and the degradation. I reminded myself of these past two years of struggle to remain sober, one day at a time, and, once again, I knew I could not afford to give in to that momentary pleasure. I could never get lulled into a false sense of security and think I was cured. There was no cure for alcoholism.
I didn't want to lose two years of hard-won sobriety so I repeated my mantra.
I cannot take a drink. I cannot take a drink. I will remain sober, one day at a time.
I cannot take a drink. I cannot take a drink. I will remain sober, one day at a time.
As I got closer, I noticed the bartender wore a name tag on his pink shirt. He was a ripped, muscular dude but was very effeminate acting. He also had great interpersonal skills and was warm with all the customers. “Hey, honey,” he called out to men and women alike.
“Hey, Tyrone. What'chu know good?”
“It's all good.”
I said a quick prayer, and the moment for lusting after a drink passed. I sighed in relief. I decided to just focus on the matter on hand. Who had taken Mayhem? Did his business associates have anything to do with his disappearance?
Resolutely, I ordered a 7 Up. “Hello, Tyrone. My name is Z. I'm David'sâI mean, Mayhem'sâsister. Have you seen him?” I smiled, and shook his hand.
He started looking uncomfortable. “No, but you might ask the manager. He's been looking for him.”
“Where is he?”
“There he go over there.” He pointed with his eyes slanted in a flat line. My eyes followed over to the VIP area. The area was raised high above the rest of the club, and was cordoned off with a golden braided rope. The person in question was a tall brother with cornrows who wore shades that had reflective mirrors in them. He was dressed in an expensive white Armani suit, which glistened under the nightlights.
“What's his name?”
“G-Man.”
“Could you let him know that I'd like to talk to him?” I paused. “It's important.” I stopped Tyrone as he reached for his cell. “Before you call him, can you tell me who the bouncer is?”
“Name's Bone. He's over by the door.”
Other than on a few cases when I was a cop, I'd never frequented a strip joint. I guess it's a man thing. I really don't like how the women are being objectified as sex toys, but I try not to judge. Many people were doing what they had to do in this economy. I reflected on a recent newscast where women who used to be professionals in corporate America had turned to stripping to help take care of their families. I guess it wasn't any different than housewives in Beverly Hills using the pole in their bedrooms to spice up their sex lives and hold on to their Hollywood executive husbands.
The whole world was frozen in upside down mold. Houses were under water with upside down mortgages and people were drowning with upside down lives.
Tyrone called G-Man and I watched him pick up his cell and answer. I stood waiting, since I assumed he would have to handle the business he had at hand. There were several more customers with him.
I watched G-Man nod, saying it was okay for me to go over to him. “You can see him now.” He acted like he was some big-time CEO.
From where I was sitting on the barstool, the first thing I sized up and didn't like was how G-Man was acting like he was “the man” now. He was sitting in the VIP area, toking on an unlit cigar, and flossing his loud flashy platinum rings and chains. He had two girls sitting on both knees. He was a portly man with an enormous prognathous jaw, but he was carrying on like the late Biggie Smalls. Like his money and power made him the finest thing out there among the pretty young girls.
I decided to find out all I could from him.
The strippers on his lap looked like JB, jail bait, underage, and this really turned me off with him, but I had to think about my brother. He slapped the girls on their behinds, and they got up, sashaying off.
“I'm Z, David'sâI mean, Big Homie aka Mayhem's sister.”
“Yeah, he told me about you. Use to be 5-0. Sure you not with them anymore?”
“No, I'm not with LAPD anymore. I'd like to ask you a few questions. When was the last time you saw Big Homie?”
I watched his eye flinch, just ever so slightly, in the corner, and I knew he was lying before he spoke, but I just registered this information in the back of my head.
Suspicious behavior.
“I saw him three days ago. Yeah, that's right. He hasn't been by here in about three days.”
Suspicious behavior.
“I saw him three days ago. Yeah, that's right. He hasn't been by here in about three days.”
“Is that normal?”
“Generally, he comes through on the weekend, checking on things. Picking up money. Overseeing payroll. I have some business to talk to him about.”
“Have you heard from him?” I paused. I really didn't expect him to tell the truth.
“No. Why?”
I thought about it. If G-Man was involved, if he'd sold Mayhem out, there was no sense in asking for his support. I would deal with him later. I didn't answer. I flashed the picture on my cell phone. “Have you seen someone with a tattoo like this?”
“There're a lot like that. They're part of a gang sign. Sort of like the medical sign. A snake wrapped around a pole.”
“Do you know any of the patrons who might have one?”
“Bonzo has one like that.”
“Who is Bonzo?
“He hangs around here and one of your brother's massage parlors, Soft Touch. He comes through here a lot.”
“Is he here tonight?”
“I saw him earlier, but it's crowded now, so I don't see him.”
“What does he look like?”
“Mexican.” He stretched his hand out flat, perpendicular to his chest. “He's about yay high. Wears a ponytail. Kind of medium height.”
“How about the lead dancer? Can I talk to her?”
“Oh, our bottom bitch?”
I looked at him, throwing him some shade, and smirked. He got my drift that I didn't care for him disrespecting women. I guess he saw my distaste for the word and he corrected himself. “Yes, that's Chutney. That's her performing now, but you can talk to her when she gets through.”
The current dance was performed by a svelte woman on stage dressed in a gold and white sheer Cleopatra outfit. She wore a shoulder-length wig with bangs, accompanied by dark eye kohl. She did a slow strip tease down to a pearl belted chain and G-string. She gracefully danced her way around the stage, did a deep split and waltzed back up, until she pirouetted over to the pole. She spun around the pole, never missing a beat, and turned upside down.
T.I.'s “I'm Flexing” was playing in the background. There was something different about this stripper. She moved sensuously and suggestively like a professional modern dancer. Probably just another girl who came to Hollywood with stardom in her eyes and wound up on the pole.
“Can I talk to Chutney?”
He nodded. When Chutney pranced over with grace in her tall stilettos, he introduced us.
“You're very talented,” I commented as she eased down into the chair next to me.
Chutney was fanning her face to cool off. “I've danced in a few videos.” She flashed a fake modest, yet demure, smile. Her high cheekbones shone with pride.
G-Man introduced me, and stepped away. “This Big Homie's sister.”
Chutney's eyes lit up, just a tad bit too much. “Oh, my goodness! You're his baby sister, Z.” She reached out and gave me a hug. “He always brags on you. Say you's a bad bitch. I read the paper where you took down two dirty narcs by yourself. ”
I ignored her remark. I didn't like how women had embraced the word bitch, and I didn't like how, when you stood up for yourself as a woman, you were called this name. “When did you see him last?”
“It's been a minute. I think he came through here last weekend.”
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