The memories come flooding back.
“Can I help you?” a woman’s voice calls out.
Drew looks around, trying to determine the direction the voice is coming from, and spots a blond woman in a red pantsuit watching him from the second level.
“The deliveries come in through the back,” she says. “You’re supposed to ring the bell. My partner will be back soon.”
He catches the tension in her voice. She probably didn’t realize the front doors were unlocked.
“I’m not delivering anything,” Drew calls up. “I phoned earlier, hoping to talk to someone who might have worked here back when this place was a strip club.”
“And who are you?” she asks.
“I’m a journalist. I’m working on a story about a friend of mine who used to dance here back in 1998.”
“Stay exactly where you are,” she says, and disappears.
Ten seconds later, he sees her coming down the spiral staircase, one hand on the railing, the other carrying a pair of red high heels. When she reaches the bottom, she slips her shoes on, then heads straight to the bar and flicks a switch. The neon signs throughout the club light up in a burst of glowing color, and the giant screen projector turns on. An artsy slow-motion black-and-white video begins to play, and it’s of strippers doing what they do best … stripping.
The effect is nothing short of astounding. Whoever transformed this place did an exceptional job of making the Cherry operate like a nightclub, while still feeling like a strip club.
“This is incredible.” Drew can’t conceal his amazement. “Am I too old to party here?”
“You’re asking the wrong girl,” the woman in red says.
She remains behind the bar, her posture erect. It’s obvious she’s alone, and he can see he’s making her nervous. You’re a man, his mother used to constantly remind Drew when he was growing up. Be mindful of how you appear to women, and keep your distance unless invited. Think of how your sisters would feel.
Drew stays where he is, near the entrance.
“I remember every girl who worked for me,” the woman says. “What was your friend’s name?”
“Joelle Reyes,” Drew says. “But everybody called her Joey.”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell.” The woman frowns. “Back in ninety-eight, you said? Do you have a picture?”
“I don’t.” Drew realized the other day that he doesn’t have a single photo of Joey. Somewhere in his storage locker at the condo is an ancient digital camera with a long-dead battery, and it’s possible there’s a picture of her on it from back in the day. But he doubts it. Joey hated having her picture taken. “She was half Filipino, about five five, with long black hair?”
The woman smiles. “I had two girls like that back then. One called herself Betty Savage. The other went by Ruby.”
Drew isn’t sure he heard her correctly. “Her stripper name was Ruby?”
The woman frowns again. “Her stage name was Ruby.”
Jesus Christ. Joey had used her mother’s name to dance here? Dr. Phil would have a field day with that one.
“She’s the one who died in the fire, right?” the woman asks.
Drew nods. “I was her roommate. And her best friend.”
“Come closer so I can see you better.”
As he approaches the bar, he can see that she’s not as young as he initially thought. He had guessed maybe early fifties, but up close, she looks to be in her mid-sixties, platinum hair, slim but busty, with freckled skin that’s seen a bit too much sun. He puts a business card on the counter and gives her a moment to read it.
She holds the card at arm’s length, squinting at the small print. Her nails and lips are both painted the same vibrant red as her pantsuit. “Drew Malcolm of … The Things We Do in the Dark podcast. Sounds ominous.”
Drew offers her his hand. “I’m sorry if I scared you, ma’am. The front door was unlocked.”
“Two things.” Her grip is firm to match her voice. “One, we’ve been having issues with the lock not catching, so that’s not your fault. And two, never call me ma’am. It hurts my feelings.”
“Then I apologize for that, too.” Drew smiles. “What do I call you?”
“You can call me what everybody else does.” She returns the smile. “Cherry.”
“Cherry?” Drew is delighted. “As in, Cherry of the Golden Cherry?”
“The one and only,” she says. “And if you’re here to talk about Ruby, we’re going to need a drink. Have a seat. I’ll make you the best old-fashioned you’ve ever had.”