Chapter Two
Dennis climbed out of the cab at the entrance to the zoo. He walked over to a bench and sat down as he settled his baseball cap more firmly on his head. The wind had picked up in the past hour. Colorful leaves swirled with gay abandonment as children shrieked, trying to catch them, their mothers shrieking right along with them as they chased after the laughing children. Dogs on leashes tugged their owners along. It was the end of the day; it was beginning to darken earlier these days.
Toby had said he would find him. Maybe he was supposed to find a path and run. Toby’s instructions were less than specific. Now that he was here, he was rapidly becoming annoyed at what was going on. He started off at a slow jog. He glanced down at his watch as he wondered what time the zoo closed. Five? Six? Probably five, he thought.
As he jogged along, Dennis grew more and more aware of the strange zoo sounds. It made him feel creepy. “C’mon, c’mon, Toby. Let’s get this show on the road,” he mumbled under his breath.
He almost jumped out of his skin when he heard a voice behind him say, “Sit down on the next bench you see.”
Dennis did exactly as he was told. He waited. He reared back when Toby Mason approached him. At least he thought it was Toby Mason. “Toby?”
“Yeah, Dennis, it’s me. Who’d you think it was?”
Dennis eyed the six-foot hunk of sinewy muscle who was doing leg stretches. He even sounded different, all deep timbred and modulated. “What . . . you look . . . What’s up with you? What happened? How did you . . .”
“My new job. Working out three hours a day. Voice lessons, dance lessons. Listen, this really isn’t a good place to talk.”
“Well, damn it, Toby, you picked this place. What? We’re going someplace else now? No! Sit your butt down and talk to me, or I’m leaving.”
“My bad. I didn’t think this through. I’m sorry. The zoo is going to close, so this is what we’re going to do. There’s a sports bar right off Dupont Circle where I go on Mondays and Tuesdays. Today is Tuesday, so no one will think anything out of the ordinary if I show up. I’ll be in the back. Food is decent. My treat. Don’t go all hard-ass on me now, okay? This is serious and right up your investigative alley. Give me a five-minute head start and head that way.”
“It would help if you’d tell me the name of the sports bar.”
“It’s called Mac’s Shack,” Toby called over his shoulder.
Dennis kept his eyes on the digital numbers on his watch. He was on the run the moment his five minutes were up, his mind boggling at his old friend’s appearance. Working out. Dance lessons. Voice lessons. What the hell was Toby into?
Outside the zoo, he lucked out when he spotted a cruising cab. He hailed it, hopped in, gave up his destination, then sat back and closed his eyes. The fine hairs on the back of his neck were still tickling his neck. Try as he might, he could not come up with any scenario that spelled trouble for his old friend. He simply could not wrap his mind around the Toby Mason he’d just seen and talked to. How and why had he morphed into the person he was now, who might or might not be in trouble?
Now he had a headache. Dennis massaged his temples. His only consolation was that soon he would know what was going on with his old friend. He bit down on his lower lip. Toby needed his help. That was the bottom line.
Dennis pocketed the taxi receipt and sprinted against the wind to the entrance to Mac’s Shack. It was just like all seafood eateries that called themselves sports bars. The place featured a long, horseshoe-shaped bar that was polished to a high sheen. It was full, with three bartenders hustling to accommodate all the first-on-the-scene patrons. The four walls held televisions of every size and shape, the sound muted. He looked around to see where the back of the bar was. He spotted Toby in the last booth. Dennis picked up his pace and slid into the booth.
“Talk, damn it, or I am out of here.”
“Dennis, I don’t really know where to start. I’m sorry about all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, but I’ve never been in a position like the one I find myself in now.”
“Try starting at the beginning, when we last saw each other. You were getting ready to move into an apartment, because you’d been living out of your car. You borrowed money from your brother because the woman you were engaged to kicked you to the curb, took all your money, and you had quit your job in New York. Start from there,” Dennis said through clenched teeth.
He looked up to see a waitress set two Bud Lights on the table, along with a huge platter of fried shrimp and chips.
“I’ll eat and drink. You, Toby, talk!”
Toby sighed and leaned closer into the rough plank table. “That job I told you about, the one that was going to pay me a hundred thou? Well, I lied. I was too embarrassed to tell you that I had gotten a job at the Earth Market. I bagged groceries. I stocked shelves. When they were shorthanded, I did cashier duty. You might say I was a jack-of-all-trades. It was a job, and it paid my bills. About four days into my new job, I was helping a lady with her groceries out to her car. No big deal. Then every day for, like, the next two weeks, this same lady would come in every day and ask for me to take out her groceries.
“Finally, she got around to asking me if I was dedicated to my job, or would I be open to another offer that, she said, would pay me fifty times what I was making? Right off the bat, I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no, either. I told her to make me an offer. We agreed to meet at a coffee shop when I got off work. I showed up, and she introduced herself as Pilar Sanders. She said that she and her husband, whose name is Gabriel, own the Supper Clubs. You know what they are, right?”
“Actually, I don’t think I do. What are they?” Dennis popped a delicious shrimp into his mouth and chewed.
“They own eleven of them. A few in Arlington, one in Alexandria, and the rest in the District. They go by number. Supper Club One, then two and so on. The chefs are all five star. I know your paper did articles on them. Maybe that was before your time. Not sure. Anyway, after the dinner, there is entertainment. That’s where I come in. I’m a dancer. You know, like the famous Chippendales.”
Dennis felt his eyes start to pop. “No shit! You do that . . . you know . . . ?”
Toby laughed in spite of himself. “You mean jiggle around so women can stick money in my G-string. Yep, that’s what I do. And if you think it’s easy, think again. I had to go to school. I had to go to a gym. I had to take voice lessons. Hell, I was reworked from top to bottom. You are looking at the new me.”
All Dennis could do was nod. Of all the things that could possibly account for this new Toby, this was never in any way near his list. No way. His head kept bobbing up and down for Toby to continue.
“The perks were over the moon. Each Supper Club comes with a string of dancers. Six, to be exact. We all live in the same house. For free. We have a housekeeper and a cook. They’re free, too. We work only four days a week. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. We’re allowed to do private parties on Wednesdays if we get a call. You know, bachelorette parties. It’s a thousand dollars a night. I get sixty percent, and the Supper Club gets forty. For three hours’ work. I do one or two a month. Actually, we can do the private parties on Mondays and Tuesdays, too, if we want. I don’t, because those are my days off.”
“So you’re making money,” Dennis said. Where is this all going?
“The answer is yes. From the day I started, I’ve banked close to four hundred thousand dollars.”
“What?” Dennis yelped.
Toby smiled, but it was more of a grimace. “And I pay taxes, so don’t go getting bent out of shape over that. I am, at this moment in time, waiting for a check for my calendar shoot. I was Mr. April. I got one hundred fifty thousand dollars for that. But it’s the Christmas calendar where you really make the money. We already did the shoot for that but won’t get paid until after the first of the year. That’s an easy three hundred thousand dollars. Easy-peasy. But I won’t be here to collect.”
Dennis licked his fingers and reached for another shrimp. His eyes narrowed. “Where are you going?”
“As far away as I can get. That’s why I got in touch with you, Dennis. I need you to help me make a successful getaway so that I don’t spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”
Dennis raked his hands through his hair, then threw them up in the air. “I’m not getting this. Did you do something wrong? You said you weren’t in trouble . . . yet. What does that mean, yet? Be explicit, Toby.”
“Pilar and Gabe take the show on the road twice a year. July and December. In July we go to Miami and in December to Los Angeles. We have contests. Each Supper Club has its own PR person, who grooms us for the coveted top-dog position. Big, big bonus to the winner. Women turn out in droves. They pay to vote for their favorite dancer, twenty-five bucks a pop. You can vote for your favorite dancer as many times as you want as long as you pony up your twenty-five bucks. If you’re in the top three, you can take home a quarter of a million dollars. Before taxes. The number one gets a half million.”
Dennis gasped for air and reached for his Bud Light. He wondered if he looked as shocked as he felt.
Toby grinned. “The months we’re on the road, we do private parties, in addition to the shows and contests. One big part of it—to show the legitimacy and that we aren’t all about bumps and grinds—is the costume show we put on for kids. ‘Fairy Tales.’ We donate all the money to various charities. We get a lot of exposure and play to a full house each and every night. It’s classic Pilar and Gabe. When we hit the town, we are met by the mayor and every town dignitary there is. We get the keys to the city, crap like that. The Sanderses soak that up like a sponge.
“While in town, we travel by bus. The last week we travel to outlying towns and cities and perform. When we leave, the lead dancer and winner is presented with a gift. The winner is photographed out the wazoo. His name is splashed everywhere. You couldn’t buy that kind of publicity. Think boot box in size, silver paper, big red ribbon. A gift that is turned over to Gabe and Pilar. That gift is never seen again. This happens at each and every stop. Different-sized boxes, different gift wrap.
“It’s drugs, Dennis. The Sanderses are moving drugs. They’ve been doing it for years would be my guess. I just can’t prove it. That’s where you come in, with your investigative skills.”
“Holy shit!” was all Dennis could think of to say. “Are you just guessing here, Toby, or do you know for certain?”
“A little bit of both, actually. The winner retires once we get back to home base. At least that’s what the Sanderses say. No one has ever seen a winner again. No one, to my knowledge, ever questions it, either. Don’t rock the boat. The money is too good. That’s why Pilar is constantly on the prowl for new recruits. You know me, Dennis. I am not a joiner. I don’t have friends to confide in. You are the exception. I’ve always been a loner, but I do listen. I hear things. Any lamebrain could put it together and come up with what I did. LA is the perfect place for the Mexican drugs. Miami is the same. They’ve been doing this for years, Dennis. And getting away with it.”
Dennis struggled to take a deep breath. “I think I’m getting it. Why don’t you just . . . you know, quit?”
“No one quits. No one. Those contests I just told you about—they’re rigged. What got my knickers in a knot is I heard it whispered that I’m up for the number one spot this December. I have to be honest with you, Dennis. I am not cool under pressure. I’m jittery as all hell. Pilar has spoken to me twice about my timing onstage. She said I was throwing the others off. It’s true. She wanted to know what was bothering me. I tried to laugh it off and said, ‘Women problems,’ but she keeps close tabs on all of us guys, and she knows there are no women in my life. I’m almost ashamed to admit that, but right now, I’m all for full disclosure.
“I don’t have all that much time. It’s already coming up to the end of October. That leaves November, and then we go on the road December first. Someone is following me. It’s not something I can see. More like I feel eyes on me. That’s why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff today. I was being careful when I stopped by your paper. I did it only on my days off. I also have a burner phone, in case they have a way to check my calls. I don’t leave anything in my room at the house. I carry everything in my rucksack.
“Then I got nervous and rented a safe-deposit box. I’ve been spending a lot of time at different libraries and use only their computers, being careful to erase all traces of where I have been online. So, can you help me or not?”