Chapter 5: Life is a Cabaret

Chapter Five: Life is a Cabaret At the Paris flat Raja poured himself a glass of The Macallan, his favorite single malt scotch, from a heavy crystal decanter. He sat back on the black leather sofa to consider what they knew about the case, hoping to figure out more before the shopkeeper’s funeral in three days. “I find it strange that there were no witnesses near the antique shop at the time of the murders or Margaret Browning’s disappearance. Broad daylight on a fairly busy street. That makes no sense.”

Vinny plopped down next to him, grabbing his glass. She sniffed it, wrinkled her nose and handed it back to him. “Perhaps something has silenced them,” she said.

“Or someone. Who owns the antique shop?”

Vinny bounced up and walked over to the large glass screen of the new computer setup that Raja had put in for her use. She waved her hand and a picture opened on the screen. “The shop is listed under the name Corinne Reneau. She is the younger sister of Claude Reneau.”

“The shopkeeper who was tortured and shot?”

“Yes. She dances at the Cabaret d’Artois in the eighth district.”

“It seems odd for a dancer to own an antique business. What exactly is this Cabaret d’Artois?”

“It’s a club with shows, bands and topless dancers.”

“Topless? You mean a strip club?”

“Down, boy. Not by the American definition. In Paris the line is blurry between legitimate dance and strip entertainment.”

“Well, if I see boobs I’m thinking strip club.”

“Men and breasts.” Vinny shook her head. “You know, other than feeding babies, they are udderly useless.”

“I beg to differ. Don’t spoil that for me.”

“Dude, I wouldn’t get too excited. No poles, no lap dances. It’s more like a show in Las Vegas.”

“I bet there is prostitution.”

“Most likely. It is still a legal profession in Paris.”

“Sounds like we should investigate further.”

“Why did I know you would say that.”

“Vive la France.”

The drive to the eighth district took them through the red light area of Paris. Although prostitution was legal, there were limits. You didn’t often see the streetwalkers you find in most American cities. Pimping was a crime, as was solicitation. The girls of Paris worked indoors as courtesans for the most part, getting their clients in clubs or hotels. It was a French cross between out of sight, out of mind and don’t ask, don’t tell.

Raja drove past the club and parked around the corner. He had decided to keep Vinny undercover in Paris, partly because of the possibility of police involvement, and partly because of the throbbing in his head that grew as they worked this case. He still hadn’t gotten over nearly losing her to that psychopath Fernando in Los Angeles during their last case.

The Cabaret d’Artois stood on a small street away from the main arteries of the city. A large neon sign jutted out high above the entrance to the three-story brick building. A fire-engine-red canopy was decorated with black silhouettes depicting women in various poses. Although more artful, it reminded Raja of the chrome mudflap girls seen on the back of big-rig trucks in America.

Despite being early afternoon, music pulsed from inside the club.

Vinny went in first. Raja waited one minute and followed along a narrow red-lit walkway that sloped downward to a basement floor.

The floor flattened out at the bottom and opened into a spacious hall with thirty-foot ceilings. Black metal catwalks crisscrossed above them, holding banks of spotlights for the show.

On the ground, a large black and white checkered dance area with a wide curved stage at the far end dominated the hall. Many small circular chrome tables for customers encircled the dance floor.

Second floor balconies looked down from three sides of the hall, providing private seating with a view of the stage and the floor below.

The balconies were divided into twenty-foot sections, each section separated from the next by small round platforms that hung between the balconies. Each had room for a single, spotlighted dancer. Raja noted the wide expanse of blacked-out glass on the second floor above the stage which he figured to be a one-way mirror behind which management could inconspicuously survey the club. The

cabaret reminded Raja of the retro dance club in Miami where Vinny had once dragged him for one of her dance-a-thons. That girl loved to dance.

Right now the place was empty, with only a few girls practicing dance moves on the stage, and a smattering of customers drinking at the tables, attended by one waitress in a skimpy form-fitting black and white French maid outfit. Canned dance music thumped through the sound system.

A small group of men sitting in a booth at the rear of the club were involved in a serious conversation. The one doing most of the talking was a burly man in his thirties who had a bold tattoo of a nasty three-pronged blade tipped in blood running up the side of his neck. Two other men in business suits listened intently. The last in the group was a small bald man with round wire-rimmed glasses who was busy making notes in a ledger while the others talked.

Raja drifted over to the bar unnoticed, leaving Vinny to do her magic. And magic it was. Although Vinny was probably attractive enough to headline for Victoria’s Secret, most of the time you would never know it to look at her. She wore little makeup, and usually dressed like a tomboy; her baseball cap was a constant companion.

She much preferred computer screens to camera flashbulbs.

However, when it was needed, she could strut her stuff with the best of them. Today she had come prepared. She took off her jacket, slung it over her shoulder, and brushed back her strawberry-blond hair. She had already knotted her shirt above her waist revealing her toned abdomen. Tight jeans and high heels finished the look. By the time she sashayed halfway across the dance floor most heads were turning, and she had the undivided attention of two men who had been standing in the wings, but now moved toward her.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” said the first one to reach her side. “My name is Luc. You are a dancer, yes?”

Vinny laughed and flirted overtly, and told him that while she had done some dancing, she was only looking for a waitress job.

The second man, Marcelo, arrived and spoke to Luc. Then Marcelo told Vinny to wait while he went to talk to the manager. He walked to the booth in the back. Raja watched how Marcelo waited and did not interrupt until the man with the tattoo had finished

speaking and looked up. He was the boss. He listened as Marcelo explained, then looked toward Vinny and waved her to approach.

Luc walked her to the back table. The tattooed man looked her up and down twice and smiled widely.

“I am Bruno Laurent, the manager of this cabaret. And you?”

“Livinia.”

“Livinia, a beautiful name.” He looked her over again. “So apropos. You need a job, and I need a waitress. When can you start?”

“You are the boss,” said Vinny passively, knowing that men like Bruno liked to think they own and control women.

“Good girl,” said Bruno. “I need you here Friday night, on the floor at nine. That’s when the first show starts and the place gets busy.

You work until four in the morning. Luc will fill you in on the rules and show you where to get a uniform. You will make most of your money from tips, so I’d pick a small uniform size if I were you.” Bruno laughed, but not a laugh that puts someone at ease. Rather, it made the hair stand up on Vinny’s neck.

Luc walked her into a large room that had a long counter with mirrors and chairs on one side, and lockers on the other side. A few randomly placed couches sat in the middle of the space.

Luc explained the waitress operation. “We use a tab system for many of the regulars, and the rest pay as they go. Any time you have a question about a customer’s payment, come and see me.” He showed Vinny where the waitress uniforms were kept and made no attempt to leave, hoping to watch her undress and try one on.

Vinny picked one that was her size. “This one will do,” she said, hanging it back in an empty locker. She turned the key to lock the door and pulled it out.

“Don’t you think you should try it on first?” said Luc, sounding much too eager.

Vinny cocked an eyebrow and said, “Nice try. I’ll be back Friday night.”

Raja was waiting outside when Vinny came out. Making sure they weren’t being watched, they walked around the corner, climbed in the Porsche and drove off.

“Okay, I’m in,” said Vinny. “But I don’t like that place, Raj.”

“I understand, however, we need you on the inside. And we better keep you undercover for a while.”

“You should see the outfit I have to wear. Not much for cover. The things I do for you, Raj.”

“Not for me, but now you have piqued my curiosity.”

Vinny punched him. “Curiosity? I have a different word.”

“Be nice, Vinny. Remember, you are doing it for the client.”

Vinny glared.

“In the meantime, I need to break through the thick-headed blue wall.” That is what Raja called the extremely insular position most police departments took in protecting their own. “Or whatever color it is here among the French police.”

Raja drove to his flat on Quai Voltaire and dropped off Vinny. “Do some of your computer magic and see what you can find out about the policemen who were killed. I’m going up the official chain of command to shake the tree.”

“Better watch out for falling fruit,” said Vinny.

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