When I pulled into the parking lot of Mike’s Gentlemen’s Club.
Iknewshe was inside.
I harbored not even the slightest of doubts.
I did see one white car in the parking lot, a Nissan, but I also saw the girl who got out of it in tight jeans and a black halter top, and I knew she wasn’t with the people in white. I hadn’t noticed any of the people in white when I arrived in Fallon, but they began to trickle in. I felt them, too.
On that first night, when Stella was called to the stage as Grace, I fought every urge to get up and go to her. I forced myself to stay in my seat and watch—she was absolutely mesmerizing. At that point, I hadn’t learned why she was here, but I suspected it was because clubs like this offered a cash income and allowed her to live off the radar. That was only partially true. That was before I saw her dance forhim.
Yesterday I learned his name was Leo Signorelli, and only a few hours ago, after calling Dunk, I learned just who he was.
Leo Signorelli owned Mike’s Gentlemen’s Club.
He also owned six area brothels. Although legal in Nevada, the conditions were poor. Many of the girls were brought here illegally from around the world and forced to work for him for little to no money in exchange for payment on the debt incurred by Signorelli in bringing them here.
Leo Signorelli was responsible for the death of at least four of those girls. He enjoyed strangling them during sex. The youngest being only fourteen. Dunk said his behavior was well-known among those who skirted the law, but he paid enough to various local officials to remain off their radar.
My first night here, Leo Signorelli took a seat at the side of the stage moments before Stella appeared, and he had been as enthralled with her as the rest of the men in the club. Last night, he brought her a single red rose and placed it on the corner of the stage as she began to dance. Stella only glanced at him, but that had been enough—this man, like me, like all the others here, could not look away. Tonight, he brought another rose, also red, and placed it on the stage. Tonight, Stella not only glanced at him, but smiled.
Oh, how my soul ached at the sight of that smile.
Leo Signorelli looked a lot like me. Same hair, same build. But she smiled at him, not me, and I wanted to jump up from my table and go to her, yet, I didn’t.
I could only watch.
I could only watch as she danced, as she danced for him.
On stage, Stella reached for the brass pole and twirled around effortlessly. Although she wore the dress shirt, it was unbuttoned so low the sides of her breasts were visible, and somehow that was so much more alluring than the dozens of girls in the club wearing little or nothing at all. Others thought so too, because men began to crowd the stage with cash in hand.
Most of the girls wore garters and men would slip money into those garters, their hands lingering a little too long on that girl’s leg as they did. Stella did not wear a garter. She didn’t approach the sides of the stage at all. She remained out of reach. The men in the audience were forced to throw their cash on the floor at her feet. This didn’t seem to stop them, though. Bills piled up before Alanis Morissette finished the first verse.
Stella only stared at him, at Leo Signorelli, as if no one else in the club existed.
I so wanted her to look at me that way, if only for a second.
At one point, she leaned against the pole and simply slid to the ground, her slender legs curling beneath her, her dark eyes on him, a single finger pressed against her red lips. The look she gave him had been enough to send him leaning back in his seat, his hard cheeks flush. I hadn’t realized how quiet the club got until the song ended. Without the music, there was utter silence as all eyes watched her.
When Stella left the stage, she walked past Leo Signorelli, and he reached out to her, his hand going for the creamy white of her exposed thigh. Her gloved fingers stopped him before he could make contact, and Stella nodded to a sign on the wall with a playful giggle:
TOUCH THE GIRLS
AND THE BOUNCERS
WILL TOUCH YOU
Signorelli laughed at this. After all, he owned the club. But he raised both palms in defeat, anyway. As he did, I saw the note Stella had slipped to him, held tight between his thumb and forefinger. When she disappeared down the hallway beside the stage, he quickly read it and followed, two of his large bodyguards behind him.
When Detective Joy Fogel arrived, I had been surprised to see her. Having arrived much earlier myself, I was also a number of shots up on her. While I enjoyed her company, as brief as her company may have been—and I particularly enjoyed having someone to drink with—I wasn’t drunk. I probably wouldn’t even qualify as buzzed. Okay, maybe a little, but not bad, not to the point of impairment. Much like a long-distance runner outpacing a novice, a practiced drinker can easily outdrink someone who is not. Jameson was my whiskey of choice and had been for years. While I would get drunk if I drank it too quickly, I’d have to drink it far faster than I did tonight.
When Stella, followed closely by Leo Signorelli, owner of nefarious businesses and killer of the innocent, disappeared down that hallway, I stood at my table and finished the detective’s cranberry and vodka. I was fairly certain she wouldn’t be back for it, and I’d be leaving soon. No drink left behind.
I counted out four twenties, more than enough to cover my bill, and set them on the table. The waitress scooped them up before I was halfway to the front door.
I couldn’t follow them down the hallway, not with the women’s dressing room down there. I’d be stopped and probably beaten senseless within seconds.
I’d wait outside.
And hope she didn’t intend to kill him in the building.
