Vicky de Groot P.I. & The Case of the Dead Stripper’s Gambit
Preface by the author: Everything I’m going to tell you is true, some of the names have been changed , and some of the events combined. These are the stories from my five years as a private investigator in Beaumont, Texas (1978 – 1983) and every single stitch of it is true.
Chapter Two: Fight Night at the Oceania
The drive over isn’t long but the hum of the Jag has me thinking about this girl I don’t know and the horrible ways she may have died. I’m sure jumping off the bridge wasn’t one of them. I hope she put up a fight. Orphaned onto the streets of Amsterdam at fourteen I learned to be quick to let my fists fly. One has to learn to feel the moment when things are going wrong, and start your fight there. Darla probably missed her moment.
Orphaned not one hundred percent true. My mother and father met as part of the Dutch resistance to the Nazi invasion of Holland. They met, and fell in love, derailing trains and machine gunning the survivors in the warn torn final months of World War Two. After they turned back the scourge of fascism they married, and both found work at a brewery. As young couples do, their thoughts turned to having a child. I was the result of their earnesty, arriving in the spring of 1949.
My father was not a gentle man but he took to fatherhood as if he was born to the task. My mother, not so much. I don’t remember the details but she left the family when I was very small. My Father did the best he could. He failed to teach me many of the things people teach little girls. He did teach me how to fight, and he taught me how to fight dirty. His philosophy was any fight could end up in a fatality and so every fight is a fight for your life. In his book no target is sacrosanct, no eyeball or scrotum is safe. It’s a very scary book.
About ten years after my Mom left, my Father was killed at the brewery. Nothing dramatic, just a terrible industrial accident. He was working inside a large conduit when is was steam flushed from the other side. He was cooked, he didn’t die right away, he lingered long enough to suffer, but he was gone by the time they dragged him out of the line. Nobody knew what to do with me and I was set to go to the orphanage. The Brewery set up a generous fund for my support and miraculously a long forgotten Aunt materialized. Within days I was brought to her door, just a few miles from my own neighborhood. In her house was some ugly art, some mangy cats, and my long lost mother. I left the house running, leaving all my bags, except the purse slung around my body. I ran one direction, and then another, but no one was looking for me. I never went back. That’s the last time I have seen my Mother, my Aunt or the support fund. Years later, when I got my ticket to America, I told myself I would stop by for one last time. It started to rain as I walked from the bus stop and was falling in earnest by the time I was standing in front of the house. I realized that the last thing in the world I wanted to do was knock on that door. I walked back to the train station. Two days later I was on a plane to the USA.
The Oceania is actually a little better than most of the other clubs. They have a nice neon sign, at night, from a distance, it looks like a shapely stripper, shimmering seductively in salacious luminescence. Up close you see the stripper is four feet of gas filled glass tubes angrily hissing and popping, so pretty darn life like after all. It’s still daylight when I pull in, so she lacks her nighttime luster. Just sort of gray and placid. The parking is in the back, hidden parking is a boon in the strip club business. Walking into the club is like walking into the middle of the night. It takes me a second for my eyes to adjust. The door guy just waves me past the curtain. Inside there is a little more light, most if it pointed at the topless girl on the tiny stage. There aren’t many patrons but they all turn to look at me. Weirdly a lot of men in strip clubs are most interested in the women there who are wearing clothes. The hostesses and bar staff are never safe.
I find a low sofa near the front and sit down. I order a vodka and cranberry, it comes with an olive, which is weird. I slouch back into the Naugahyde sofa, and nurse the drink while watching Rebecca take the stage. She’s a fine looking woman who has a problem keeping her clothes on her well tanned body. She’s attractive enough but I’ve seen plenty of naked people. The most remarkable thing is her average sized breasts are exactly the same shape. Uncanny, and uncommon, symmetry.
By the end of the drink my eyes are pretty well adjusted. The inky black corners have revealed themselves to be mundane cinder block walls and ceiling of plain acoustical panels. I sit well back but I can see some other customers, men, in my periphery. More than that, I can feel them, all those anxious hearts. The smell of nervous perspiration hangs in the room like the lingering smell of gunfire after a shooting. The girl comes back to get my drink order. She’s just barely wearing tiny shorts and a Tee shirt tied up at her cleavage.
“You ready for another Vodka and cranberry, Miss?”
“Yep, it’s time. Say, what’s your name?”
“Trixie.”
“Trixie, is Darla coming in today?”
Trixie stiffens up at the name, desperation flies across her face.
“No lady, Darla isn’t here today.”
“Will she be in later? I don’t mind waiting.”
“No, I don’t think she works here anymore.”
“Oh that’s a shame, You know I have some cash for her, do you know how I can get a hold of her?”
Trixie lets her eyes dart back to the bar. I pull out Darla’s retainer and slide the top twenty across the little table.
“I don’t mind spending some of it to find her.”
She slips the twenty into her apron.
“Another drink then?”
“Yes, and put it on my tab. That sawbuck is for you, I have another one for your tip if you can think of someone. And Trixie…”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“No more olives.”
She disappeared into the club for only a few moments before she came back with my Hi-ball, no olive.
“Anything else?”
“Just check back, I’ll be sitting right here.”
“Don’t worry Lady, I’ll earn my tip.”
She disappeared again and Cheyenne is taking the stage. Cheyenne is willowy and tall, maybe taller than me. She is wearing Chaps, a G-string and a tatter of a vest that just can’t keep her little breasts under control. The vest gives up all hope almost right away and she is tossing it off to the tune of “Half-Breed” when a voice speaks into my ear.
“You were asking about Darla?”
I turn and it’s Rebecca still frightfully under dressed but now wearing a red robe that falls from any shoulder it meets. She’s beautiful but you can see the edges are frayed. She pours into the booth next to me and scoots in close. Trixie appears with a bottle of champagne , two flutes and a couple more high balls. She puts everything down without ever making eye contact with me before asking Rebecca.
“Is this Ok?”
“Yes, thank you Trixie.”
“If you need anything, Tony is right here.”
“Bring me another drink Trixie.”
Rebecca throws back a high ball like there’s a little fire in the back of her throat. She wipes her mouth with her fingers, her eyes watery and fearful. Before I can say anything she blurts out the question I want to ask her.
“What do you know about Darla?”
“Nothing really, I just need to find her.”
“You don’t know where she is?”
“I thought she was here.”
“She didn’t come in today, or yesterday, I think something has happened to her.”
“Something?”
“Something terrible.”
“You think her boyfriend knows where she is?”
“No, he’s worried sick.”
“Maybe he’s pretending.”
“Are you saying he did it? That junkie Pussy couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Didn’t he beat her?”
“Not likely, she would kick his ass, she’s tiny, but she could handle five of him.”
“He’s the bouncer?”
“Ha! Back up bouncer, all the back up bouncers are drug runners. Taking care of the girls and the clientele. Not a one of them could fight their way out of a paper sack.”
By this time Rebecca had disappeared my drink like it was a crazy aunt. She was working on the champagne when Trixie brought some more cocktails. This girl is trying to drink the table dry. She gulps down one of the new drinks before she starts spilling the goods.
“You need to find out, there was another girl, she’s gone too. She was some kind of teenage runaway, Darla was looking out for her. The bastards running this place got rid of her somehow, Darla started sniffing around and now she’s gone too!”
“Why do you think the owners are involved?”
“Don’t you know? They’re the mob, the goddamn Dixie Mafia. They did something to that little girl, and they did something to Darla for finding out and if they hear us talking they’ll do something about us too.”
“Drunk Rebecca is raising her voice pretty loud for someone who doesn’t want to be heard. I see people heading our way. The meeting is about over, I get in my last question.”
“The missing teen, what’s her name?”
“Who knows? She said it was Joan Smith.”
There are three large men standing around us now. One of them moves his mouth and utters a series of grunts that sound like he’s trying to make words.
“Time to shut up Becca, Mr. Jimmy needs you in the back.”
“Screw you, Tony!”
Tony reaches down and wrenches Rebecca into the air by one arm, like you might a small child , she lets out a yelp in pain and the music gets louder to cover the bother. I’m up pretty quick but the guy behind me is quicker, catching me as I stand and pulling me back into the sofa. I smack into the frame with a sound like a woodblock. Tony drags Rebecca away. The DJ cranks the music until my teeth rattle.
“Free drinks at the bar boys!”
The fellow who pulled me back is pinning my shoulders, the other fellow comes around to grab at my feet, he leans in and I bring my shin into his face, he staggers back and I snap out a kick to his chin. Each kick sets me lower into the sofa and I slip out of the grasp of the fellow behind me as he pitches forward. I grab the champagne bottle on the way back up, and connect a line drive into his noggin. It feels good, the bottle doesn’t break. Just a satisfying clunk.
Rebecca is long gone into the bowels of this place , I make my way to the door I came in. I encounter one more bouncer. I throw my hands up and then follow with a front snap kick a millisecond later. I get a nice shot right into the land of men’s nightmares. He pitches over crying, they always pitch over. I guess he was one of the back up bouncers.
I hit the door and sprint to the car. I hear feet behind me as I leap over the trunk and clamber in behind the wheel. I let the engine get a half turn before I pop out the clutch and leap forward. I hear yelps as my pursuers find themselves pelted by the a rooster tail of gravel in my wake. I can’t help but grin, it’s the little things in life that bring the most joy.