Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The pulse of the strip joint's music reminisces of an electric heartbeat, pumping to give the dancers a pulse to live by; they do not possess true heartbeats of their own anymore. He can see it in the looks on their faces—blank slates sanded down by the objectivity of men towards their "merchandise". Uncomfortable with coming into a place like this, his eyes scan the room for the manager he needs to speak to.
Spotting a man fitting the bill, he weaves through the crowd of sweating, pale businessmen congregating around the stage. He nods curtly. "You the manager of this place?"
"Yeah. You must be the detective on the phone," the manager struts behind the bar, leaning forward and propping his thin frame on knobby elbows. "Pick your poison."
The detective puts a hand up to decline the offer. "I would, but I'm on the job."
"Right. Pesky rule. What can I do for you, Detective?"
"I'd like to speak with you regarding one of the women who works here." He starts to pull a picture from his coat pocket.
"Oh! Then perhaps this is a different kind of business call..?" The manager breaks into a slight grin.
He narrows his cobalt eyes, warning the manager to keep his "business" to himself. "No. I need to know about this girl." He slides the picture across the countertop for the manager to see.
The manager's eyebrows flicker upward in amusement. "This one? Not much to tell you. Might wanna ask her yourself, Hotshot."
"Richard?"
When the detective looks up, he sees the face of the woman in the photograph. He cannot help but notice how remarkably different she looks—her face lost its glow of beauty, her figure lost most of its bulk, and the soul in her eyes lost its potency. In spite of all this, he still finds beauty there, and his eyes remain enraptured with her.
The manager, not captured in such a spell, regards her with disinterest. "What?"
She steps more closely toward the pair of men, her gaze locked on the detective. "I was going to tell you that Veronica and Ruby are sick. They can't perform tonight." She smirks slyly. "And what are you here for, mister..?"
Clearing his throat nervously, he says, "Detective. Ah, Detective Fallon. I just need to ask you a few questions about an investigation I'm working on…"
Stepping forward coyly, she reaches up to play with the lapel of his coat. "Of course," she purrs. "Anything to help with your investigation." She grabs his hand and pulls him along to the backstage door. "Come with me."
A faint tinge of red blossoms over the detective's cheeks. "I, uh, really shouldn't… Wouldn't it be better if we stayed out here?"
She chuckles. "Nope. It'll be easier to talk where it's quiet. The music's too loud out there."
He opens his mouth to protest, but she gives him no chance to speak and pulls him into the hallway, past all the mirrors taped up with pictures of expired loved ones and dreams. They enter a room decorated gaudily in thick fabrics and suffocating colors, complete with tassels and dimly lit lamps. The woman sits on the bed, seductively crossing her legs and leaning on one arm. "So, Detective… What questions do you have for me?"
He clears his throat and wrings his hands together, hulking by the door. "Security cameras near The Zen Lounge placed you there around the time of the murder of this girl." Pulling a second picture from his pocket, he hands it to her. "Do you know her?"
A saddened look crumples her face. She whispers, "…Yes, I know her. Knew her. She was one of ours. Young, too. Poor thing could have made it out of here, if she had been given the chance. She had real talent…"
"Can you tell me what you know about the night she was murdered?"
"We were at the Zen Lounge, advertising for business. Some of the clientele overlap, you see. Well, she went off to the bathroom, but I was still talking to people out by the bar. I didn't notice for a long time that she hadn't come back… It could have been a man, plenty were leering at her—leering at both of us, really. I waited for her outside, but our shifts were set to start soon and I assumed she'd gone back on her own; she really hated the advertising."
"Why did she go, then?"
"We get paid extra for it. The more money you save and the younger you are, the more likely it is you'll be able to move up into a respectable career. She needed the money."
"So you don't know anything about who may have killed her?"
"No. I don't gossip and make friends with the other girls here; I've got my own pile of shit that doesn't need any add-ons. I know how they dance and what kind of tips they get, and that's all I need."
He nods and moves to leave, but something stops him and he turns back around. "What do they call you here?"
She looks up, surprised at his question. "I go by Billie around here. Is that relevant to your investigation?"
"No." He shakes his head. "I just wanted to know if you were one of those girls too, once. One of the ones who could have made it out one day, if someone had given you the chance."
She averts her eyes. "Perhaps."
"What's your real name?"
"What's yours?" Challengingly, she meets his eyes.
"Mal."
She turns away from the detective, pretending to observe the sickening wallpaper. "Billie stands for my last name: Williams. Natara Williams."
Mal walks over to her, pulling her chin up towards him with his index finger. "Well, Natara Williams, I hope your dreams get you out of here someday."
She stares at the door long after he walks through it and out of the club. "…Me too, Mal. Me, too…"