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 1: A Bad day for Darla
Bright, clear and hot is how I found the day. Half-dressed, disheveled and still drunk is how the day found me. I had landed on the sofa and by the looks of it, I landed hard. I gather the will to stand and sway until the room stops swimming. I squeeze my way down the narrow hallway to the curtain free kitchen where the merciless sun hammers it’s way into every nook and cranny of the tiny room. I stand over the sink, wash my face and stare out across the city to the port. This isn’t the tallest building in town but the penthouse stands head and shoulders above the neighbors and I don’t have to worry about peeping Toms. It’s a sweet deal. I get the penthouse and a small office downstairs and all I have to do is spend a little time in the roof top garden, and do a little troubleshooting for the owner.
Mrs. Frankie Belmont, is a real character, older than sin and sharper than broken glass. Former Showgirl she was a terror a few years ago, I’ve been told she used to burn this town down. A classic hard partier from the post world war two boom. But the cruel hand of death, and that old devil time, conspired to do what no man could ever do and had slowed the old girl down. First by taking her husband, permissive shipping magnate Roland Belmont, and then saddling her with the indignity of old age.
She and her husband bought a lot of real estate, including my building, and for many years she kept the Penthouse for her own secret liaisons. I met Mrs. Belmont when her only kid followed some LSD Guru into southern Mexico. After I brought her kid back to the states Mrs. Belmont decided I could put the penthouse to better use than she could. Basically gives me free rent as a retainer. This is the exact same reason I drive around her old Jaguar B type convertible. Like the old broad the Jaguar was an unstoppable beast in her day, is now showing her age, but can still exert her authority.
I strip down in front of the sink, grab a crusty washcloth and do my best to wash off the top layer of grime and sweat. I have a job today and it won’t require gussying up. I kick my way into my cleanest army-navy “no pocket” bell bottoms, and grab a T-shirt. Like most of my shirts, it’s got a picture on it. This one says “Fubolito Mexico YMCA ’74” and the picture is a jubilant little man kicking a ball. It feels coarse and always smells a little like sour milk, even fresh washed.
I take the stairs down to eleven to meet the elevator. It’s the only building in town without an automatic elevator, hell it might be the last one in Texas. Today it’s my favorite operator, Clyde, a tall, dark man with a sonorous voice and thick white hair. He occasionally spends some time in my penthouse melting ice in scotch in the sunset. Just drinking and musing, because he’s a good man, and he has a good wife and a handful of mostly good kids. He lost a leg in Korea and it could be we’re the only operated elevator in town because Mrs. Belmont wants him to have a job where he can sit.
He sees me and lets out a low whistle.
Hey Miss Vicky, you beating up the bad guys today?
Not today, I’m just going to give one some bad news.
You doing something different with your hair? It seems you got all the reds today.
It’s called a week without washing
Well it sure looks nice on you
He brings me to the ground floor, and I skip out into the pitiless sun. The Jag is where I left it. Before they built the mall, street side parking was hard to come by, but now there are only a handful of cars on the street. I’m irked to see one of those cars is a black and white patrol car sitting directly behind the Jag. Luckily it’s a cop I know, Scott Echols, and he’s already got someone in the back. He flashes me an easy smile as I walk up.
Am I being apprehended?
Eventually, You want to get in the back for a minute?
From the backseat Detective Gallo flashes his excuse for a grin. He’s a funny looking man with tight curly hair sticking out from his broad brim hat. It’s a hat he wears all the time and it’s an open secret that it covers an ever growing bald spot. His sky blue blazer, and broad-collared, paisley print shirt is a cultivated look that every cop thinks looks like “Coke dealer” and every coke dealer sees as “Cop” . He hisses out his questions around pristine white dentures that stick out slightly from his bared lips in a bizarre grimace, forming a sort of perpetual grin.
Talk to me for a second Baby, are you working with Darla Dallas, the dancer?
In fact Darla is my client, but I don’t discuss my clients with cops.
I think I know her
Well you should know we have her downtown.
I’ll make her bail.
No, at the morgue, most of her anyway.
I was on my way to deliver Darla’s man an ultimatum. She hired me because he was beating her. One night, on a bender, she was smart enough to take some compromising Polaroids. Now he was going to leave her alone or his folks back home were going to get pictures of their baby boy putting a needle in his arm. I crawl into the back of the patrol car, it’s spartan interior little more than a bench seat, all the window cranks and door handles removed. It smells like spilled blood, forgotten vomit and abandoned hope. I ask the obvious first question
You know who did it?
I am certain I know who did it, the boyfriend, it’s always the lousy boyfriend. Show me ten murdered women and I’ll show you nine boyfriends, or husbands, with blood on their hands
She did it, suicided herself, jumped off the rainbow
That doesn’t make sense…?
We think she landed on a croc or three. They tore her up pretty bad
So you don’t know for sure how she got there?
Her car was at the top of the bridge. I don’t think she parked it up there and walked down to swim. Hey you look mad Honey, are you mad?
No, this is just my normal face now
Of course I’m mad, my day just went from mediocre to worse. Dead strippers don’t pay their bills and I’m about to do a bunch of pro bono work I can’t afford. But I’m particular about my clients, and have a low tolerance for them being murdered. I had only met Darla the one time in my office. Her $200 deposit is still in my pocket and I’ll earn it. My first, best lead is Detective Toothy.
You boys find a next of kin?
I was going to ask you if you knew. She’ll end up in Magnolia if no one turns up and no one downtown is very excited about finding people to give ’em bad news. You wanna ask around?
I’ll let you know if I find anything out
Groovy lady, until then can you come down and ID her? What’s left of her?
Can’t you?
No it needs to be a family member or close associate
I just met her.
Then you better find me a relative.
I’ll come down this afternoon.
That, Gorgeous, is a deal! Hey Officer Echols, you want to let our prisoner out? For good behavior?
Just like that my first, best lead is asking me to do his legwork. Scott gets out of the front seat to open the door and flashes me a smile as I brush by. Detective Gallo leans out to yell after me.
So Vicky? When you going come get drunk with me on my boat?
I don’t know if they make a sea sick pill that big Detective Gallo
Kevin, call me Kevin, well we could stick to land?
Maybe the problem isn’t the boat?
I turn to walk away quick, but catch a satisfying snort from Scott swallowing a laugh. I hop in the Jag and she leaps to life at the first push of the starter button. Mrs. Belmont has an excellent mechanic. He told me once that this cat was designed to breath the thick air of Southeast Texas, but the Brits had hobbled her with terrible lungs. He replaced the breathers on Mrs. Belmont’s Jag with big throated American Weber carburetors. I can attest that she rarely fails to perform like the road hungry beast she was meant to be. On some moonlit nights along the coastal highway I’ve allowed her to stretch her legs, she easily outpaces cars twenty five years her junior.
I pull away from the curb in formation with the cop car, I go straight, he takes a right. Darla’s been working at one of the strip clubs on the edge of town. The Oceania , between the railroad and Highway 90, Her boyfriend, Jason, works there too. She’s dancing, he’s bar back and back up bouncer. I’ll still go give him a visit, but I won’t bring up the Polaroids. In fact Darla never gave them to me and they could very well be in his possession right now.
If you are going to visit a Beaumont strip club it’s best to go during the day when they’re only about half full. Between the refineries, the port, the trucks and the trains, there is no shortage of men in this town who have to pay to get a pretty girl to talk to them. Darla and Jason work at one of the better joints in town, the type of club where they charge a whole fifty cent cover charge. You know… to keep out the riff raff
Next Time: Fight Night at the Oceania