Lies We Bury(24)

“Mama, I’m gonna make jewelry when I grow up. And different kinds of bracelets for you and Sweet Lily and Twin. Necklaces, too, like your Before necklace.”

“I’d like that very much, baby.”

“When I grow up, can we have another bed? Maybe a Murphy? I don’t think we can all fit together when I’m fully growed.” I stop and think. “When we’re all fully growed.”

Mama only breathes heavy. In and out. In and out. In out.

“Mama Rosemary?”

She makes a throat noise. “Yes, baby. Very soon, we’ll each have a Murphy bed of our own.”





Twelve

Trash litters the quiet street. Industrial big rigs are parked next to sedans with tinted windows. The neon silhouette of a woman’s writhing body sways side to side as the image shifts along two tracks of light bulbs, enticing customers at noon on a Tuesday.

The vertical bar of the front door is sticky when I grasp it and pull. My shadow stretches across the dim interior of the strip club, and a mirror behind a bar reflects bottles of cheap liquor lining a shelf, a string of vanity lights enhancing the visual. No one occupies the barstools, but two dancers in sequined costumes lean against the far end near a small, round stage. Must be break time. A wiry-looking man in a T-shirt and jeans is talking to them about “new marketing strategies.” The trio lifts their heads toward me, toward the daylight infiltrating the space, and I step inside, letting the entry fall again to blackness.

A stout bartender squints as I approach. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee. With Baileys,” I add when he raises a pierced, bushy eyebrow. Behind him, beer taps line up in a row. The handle closest to me is labeled Charles Manson. Another: John Wayne Gacy. There are a few I don’t recognize, like Dayton Leroy Rogers, but I’ll bet he didn’t save kittens from tall trees.

The bartender snorts. Light reflects off his bald head. He turns toward the mirror and fills a mug with thick, dark liquid from a sputtering machine. He slides the full mug over to me with a grimace. Despite the Baileys, I empty four containers of half-and-half into my cup and succeed in lightening the color to a dull mud shade. Yum.

The dancers in the corner laugh, pounding their fists on the bar’s red leather border. They appear to be young, maybe in their early twenties.

“What’s with strip clubs in Portland?” I lean forward, then recoil when something wet touches my arm. “They seem as common as brunch spots.”

The bartender smirks. “Not from here, huh?”

“Three hours south.”

“You like beer?”

“Yeah.”

“Strip clubs are like beer in Portland. They’re as much a part of local history as craft brew, and Oregon has been protecting them since the 1800s.” He plants two hands flat on the bar top as though giving a sermon. “Free expression or something. We actually have more than anywhere in the country. They’re more embedded in Portland’s culture than a lot of outsiders realize.”

I slug back some of my tar and feel the Baileys beginning to do its job. A hazy feeling settles over me. “Is the strip club community pretty close-knit, then? Did you know Eloise Harris?”

Instantly, he straightens, then looks over my shoulder. He licks his lips. “Are you a cop?”

“Definitely not.” I clasp my hands around the mug. “Just moved here and trying to get a feel for the local dance scene. I saw that she died recently. I’m a dancer, too.”

Dark-blue eyes sweep down my neck and flat chest, then flick back to my makeup-less face. “You don’t look like a dancer.”

I take a sip, offer a self-deprecating smile. “The scene is less glamorous where I’m from.”

He gives a slow nod. “Yeah, Eloise was a sweetheart. We worked together over at El Cody’s. Real shame how she died. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”

“Yeah, crazy,” I mumble. “Has there been any news on who killed her?”

“Not that I know of. She volunteered at an animal shelter on Tuesdays—had a big heart, that one. We haven’t spoken in a while, but I can’t imagine anyone would want to hurt her.”

“Any aggressive boyfriends or—”

“Oh. I mean, I don’t know.” He scratches the back of his head. “I haven’t seen her in a bit. Although one time, we were ending the late shift together, and a big, angry white dude came in, wearing fur everything—I remember that, because, right?—and demanded that she pay him for her last bump.”

“She did cocaine?”

His eyes widen, and he glances to the dancers to see whether anyone heard. “Uh, you sure you’re not a cop?”

“Would I be—”

“Nah, forget it. I shouldn’t be talking poorly of the dead, you know? I don’t know why I said anything; it’s all hearsay anyway. None of my business. Did you want something besides Irish coffee?” He grabs a dish towel and starts wiping the spotless counter.

If Eloise Harris was into drugs and she owed that man in the fur, maybe she racked up a much larger bill in the time since my bartender last saw her. Was her murderer punishing her for not paying?

I scan the tap handles behind him and note the anxious way he watches the door. Waiting for blue uniforms to come charging in, no doubt. “Who’s Dayton Leroy Rogers?”