Alain put his hand under the bottom of his t-shirt and picked up the pad. Holding it sideways to the light, he could see the indentions of what she’d written there. A little pencil scratching would show him what the notes said.
“Whatcha doin’ there, bro?” a voice came from behind him.
Alain dropped the pad, turned around, and put his hands up – surrender style.
“Nothing,” he said, “just trying to find my friend.”
“I know who you are, pardner,” said the man in the doorway, “and you can put yer hands down.”
Alain recognized the man, even though he was just a silhouette. The cowboy hat was unmistakable. It was that guy from the funeral, the one who worked at Jepson, sweeping floors or something like that. The guy Samantha had said she was going to talk to about Tayler. Troy.
He walked through the door and his face became more distinct. Good lookin’ guy, Alain thought.
“So, she ain’t here, eh? Troy asked. “She ain’t answered the phone for me all day.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Alain said, “and I haven’t heard from her since she went to talk to you.”
Troy glanced around the room. “How’d you get in?”
“Door was open,” Alain said and shrugged. “I literally just walked in before you got here.”
“And the glass and pad were just layin’ there?”
“Yeah.”
“Thought so,” Troy said. “I was on the phone with her when someone knocked on her door. It was somebody she knew, ‘cause she let ‘em in. That’s why there ain’t no sign of struggle.”
“Shit,” Alain said. “Just like with Tayler.”
“Maybe,” Troy said, pointing at the ceiling, “but at least she ain’t hangin’ from the rafters.”
Alain looked up. “There aren’t any rafters.”
“Just an expression, kid.”
“Oh, right.”
“She might’ve just run out with somebody to get some Chinese or somethin’,” Troy said, “so we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions just yet.”
“I don’t know.” Alain shook his head. “How many people do you know these days go more than a day with their cell phone off?”
Troy raised his hand.
“Okay,” Alain said, “let me rephrase... how many people under the age of fift—”
“I get the picture, kid,” Troy interrupted him.
“She must’ve gotten too close to the truth about Tayler,” Alain said, slumping down on the couch, “ and I bet she figured out who was responsible and they came and got her.”
Troy was quiet for a second. “What do you know about LeFleur?” he finally asked.
“Our art history professor?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, not much, other than what I know from class.”
“Seem like an up-and-up dude?”
“I mean, yeah, I guess.”
Troy considered this for a minute.
“Samantha thought he was the one who killed Tayler,” he said, “ and had me work out a date with the guy to see what I could find out.”
Alain’s eyes went wide.
“I would’ve never figured you to be ga—”
“And I ain’t,” Troy interrupted again, “but I had to get into his house and poke around.”
Alain snickered.
“My turn to rephrase.” Troy rolled his eyes. “I had to get into his house and look around… see if I could find anything to link him to Tayler.”
“Well?”
“Found a print,” Troy said, “a print of Tayler’s painting, just like the one hung in place of the original down at Jepson.”
“Shit,” Alain whispered, “so, Mr. LeFleur did it?”
“Circumstantial, kid,” Troy said, “but it could be. I gotta find out more about this guy. Figure out where he goes and who he hangs out with. He’s good for means and opportunity… just can’t quite figure motive.”
“Well,” Alain said, “I think he goes out on Thursday nights to Club One.”
“Club One?”
“Yeah,” he said, “gay club. Drag shows and such.”
“Right.”
“Pretty fun place,” Alain said then stopped short. “I mean, that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never been. Okay, there was that one time that RayRay wanted to go…”
“Don’t worry, kid,” Troy held up his hand. “I really don’t care what yer into.”
“But, I’m not—”
“Stuff it, kid,” Troy said, stopping him. “I’ll check it out.”
“So, should we call the police?” Alain asked.
“Yeah,” Troy said as he walked to the door, “you call ‘em. Tell ‘em you were comin’ over to study or somethin’ and that she ain’t answerin’ calls.”
“Gotcha.”
Troy walked through the door into the hall. Alain thought for a second then jogged to catch him.
“Hey, Troy,” he called down the hall to him.
“Yeah?”
“Um,” Alain said and took a deep breath, “you might want to check into Becky too.”
“Becky?” he asked.
“The other girl that hangs out with us,” Alain continued. “I just got a ride with her and told her Sami was missing.”
“And?”
“I dunno.” Alain rubbed his neck. “She just didn’t seem very worried, or act like she cared at all. And she said some things that made me… I dunno… maybe it’s nothing.”
Troy nodded his head and tipped his hat. “Alright, kid,” he said, “I’ll check it out.”
Alain walked back into Samantha’s apartment and clicked open his phone to call the police. When the Savannah P.D. picked up, he stuttered as he realized Sami’s pad was gone. Troy must’ve taken it, and Alain had been so flustered he hadn’t seen him do it.
Oh, shit, he thought, what if Troy was the one stalking… and possibly murdering… all of his friends.
“Savannah P.D.,” the voice on the line said, “what’s your situation?”
“I’m reporting a missing person,” Alain said, “and I might know something about the man who kidnapped her.”
“Go ahead.”
26
Make It Rain
Troy looked around… it was after one in the morning and Club One was still as boisterous as any scene he’d been to in Louisiana or Las Vegas. There was a long, narrow stage in the center that reminded him of The Peppermint Hippo back in Vegas, and currently there was a large... well, big-boned… um… performer dressed in a pale blue satin pair of chaps with a huge stripe of sequins down the side. A matching bustier with twice as many sequins and white fringe dangled from the bottom. This was wrapped in a silver jacket with blinking white lights on the sleeves over more fringe. And all of this was capped with long, flowing blonde hair – likely a wig – seventies style, graduated lensed, Elton-esque sunglasses and… oh, dang… a straw cowboy hat. The singer immediately fixated on Troy’s similar hat and locked eyes with him.
Why in God’s name did I wear my hat in here? he wondered.
“Well, hello there, sugar,” the performer – who’s stage name was Lady Bareback – said to a mortified Troy. “Why don’t you come up and see me?”
The crowd turned to see who Lady Bareback had motioned to and the catcalls and whistles began immediately.
Troy raised his hand to try to wave her off. But she wasn’t going to have any of that.
“Baby, don’t worry,” she said, “I can tell from here that you’re as straight as Robin Hood’s arrow, but we don’t discriminate here at Club One, do we honeys?”
The crowd cheered and urged him closer to the stage. Dangit, Troy thought, I was trying to avoid attention and this is what I get?
He was urged… pushed forward… and felt himself stumbling toward the stage. He decided it might be best to play along and get this over with as fast as possible.
“Ladies,” she said over his head to the crowd around him, “let’s help him out. I know you’re go
nna want to see this eye-candy up here on stage.”
The bulk of the screams came from the women in the crowd, but Troy thought he heard some of the men joining in as well. He felt a shiver run up his spine, but was pretty sure it was all harmless… just a quick jump up on the stage, run around a little, get back down, disappear into the crowd.
Yeah… that’s not at all how it played out.
Troy was lifted on stage by two brutish men wearing tight black pants and black bowties over bare muscled chests. He felt sure that one of the guys grabbed his butt on purpose. Without thinking, he jerked his head back and glared at the guy. Muscle boy was grinning and held his hands up, feigning innocence.
Lady Bareback grabbed Troy’s hand and led him to the center of the stage. The crowd roared upon seeing Troy: linen shorts, white shirt, unbuttoned halfway, long black hair, neatly trimmed black beard, ice blue eyes, all topped with an Outback tea stained straw cowboy hat. Troy felt sure he looked like a member of the Village People. He wondered how many in the crowd thought he was a regular part of Ms. Bareback’s act.
“Don’t worry, sugar,” she said, tugging on Troy’s hand and nodding toward the muscled bouncer, “Rudy is all bark and no bite. Besides, what’s a little goose among the gander, am I right, ladies?”
They whooped and hollered as she spun Troy around like a top. He took a deep breath and smiled.
“What’s your name, baby?” she asked and thrust the mic in his face.
“Troy, ma’am,” he said, leaning into the microphone.
She smirked and arched an eyebrow. “Ma’am? Honey, my mama was ma’am. I’m just Lady Bareback, but uh, you can call me…” – she paused, took a toy pistol out of a holster on her hip, and popped a cap into the air – “anytime!”
As she said this, the D.J. cranked the song Call Me by Blondie, and Troy was taken back to his days spinning tunes at the Hippo. This was all part of a bit that they must run every weekend. The song played a few bars and then turned down.
“Now, baby,” she said to Troy, “we have a tradition here at Club One.” She looked out at the crowd. “Don’t we, honeys?”
She motioned for them to cheer and they obliged… loudly. The entire club was now focused on the display.
“If you get on stage dressed like that,” – she looked at Troy, lowered her glasses, gave him an up-and-down stare – “you can’t get down without taking it off. Am I right, honeys?”
Troy didn’t think they could get any louder… but they did. The screamed and shrieked as if the Beatles, or more currently, Justin Bieber, had walked on stage. Troy felt the blood run out of his face.
“Yeah, that ain’t happenin’,” he said into Lady Bareback’s ear. “I’ll be goin’ now.”
“Baby,” she said over the din, “just play along, if you take off your shirt, they’ll go crazy. I’ll protect you, sugar.”
“Now, girls,” Lady Bareback said and turned to the crowd, squeezing Troy’s hand, “how much do we think this gentleman’s shirt is worth?”
Faster than Troy thought possible, hundreds of one-dollar bills flew through the air and onto the stage. It was impossible to count them all, but Troy imagined it might be five-hundred dollars. Lady Bareback arched another eyebrow.
“Well, sugar,” she winked at him, “you think that’s enough to get that shirt off your back?”
Troy took a deep breath… and then another. Dangit, why not? He swiftly unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt and Lady Bareback grabbed his hand.
“Whoa there, cowboy,” she said, wagging her index finger at him, “take it nice and slow, sugar.”
Troy could swear he felt the whole crowd swooning. She leaned in close to his ear.
“Give ‘em a show, baby,” she said, “and you’ll make more tonight than you will in a month at your real job.”
She leaned back and winked at him. Turning toward the D.J. booth, she tipped her hat. Immediately, the Tom Jones version of You Can Leave Your Hat On erupted from the speakers. Troy couldn’t help but grin. He had played this song so many times, he knew all the words and all the important beats. After another deep breath, he made the removal of his shirt match every one of those beats, and by the time he had it all unbuttoned, he guessed there might be another five-hundred dollars on the stage.
“Damn, baby,” Lady Bareback said while fanning herself, “you’re a natural.”
With the last line of the song, Troy flipped off his shirt and twirled it over his head. The crowd went wild, and for a good five minutes they cheered and threw more money onto the stage.
Lady Bareback let them make it rain until she felt them cool off. She looked at Troy and licked her lips.
“Now, honeys,” she said, then pointed at Troy’s shorts, “how much for those?”
“Ain’t happenin’, baby,” Troy said. “I’m commando today.”
Lady Bareback took the mic away from her mouth and laughed. Where only he could hear it, she mouthed: “Sugar, you might be able to retire tonight if you get them shorts off. You don’t have to be naked, be creative. Use your hat.”
Exactly one hour and approximately two thousand dollars later, Troy Clint Bodean found himself on stage at the Club One nightclub wearing his flip-flops and his hat… and that was all. He had his hat covering his manhood, and he could feel himself blushing all over his body. But once the shorts had hit the floor, the money began to rain on the stage in huge, fluttering clouds of green. Even Lady Bareback stepped to the side to give Troy the stage solo.
Troy had managed to do a few extra runs up and down the stage without revealing anything a bathing suit would show and the money had poured in. After the song finished, Lady Bareback waved him off stage as the bouncers collected the cash for him.
“Wait for me backstage,” she whispered into his ear, and he couldn’t help but wonder/worry what she wanted with him.
27
Time Is Fleeting
Troy wandered through the dressing rooms, and crowds of transvestite performers grinned at him and slapped his shoulders as he passed by… one even getting in a gentle slap on his left butt cheek. When he came to the door with her name on it, he practically fell inside and made quick work of slipping back into his clothes.
A few minutes later she came into the dressing room, her hat off and shockingly, her wig. Turned out that Lady Bareback was in fact Charles Fry from Fargo, North Dakota… and more shockingly, the owner of Club One.
“Sugar,” he laughed, “I don’t really care why you came tonight, but you just made the club more money in an hour than we made all week.”
Holding out a Ziploc bag stuffed full of cash, he shook his head and patted his chest like his heart was thumping. “I’ve never seen anything like that, honey,” he said and inhaled deeply, “since my days back in Miami.”
“That so?” Troy said, and shrugged. “I guess it was beginner’s luck.”
“Mmhmm.” The performer began to remove the sparkly cowboy… er… cowgirl getup. “Don’t be surprised if you receive a few winks and nudges when you walk down the street in the next week or two.”
Troy changed the subject. “So, you own Club One?”
“Sure do,” he said, “since about ten years ago. It was just a gay club back then. I worked hard to bring my South Beach sensibilities and a killer drag show to the stage, and the rest is history.”
Troy rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, now… speaking of killers…”
“Ooh,” Charles Fry said, and pursed his lips into a Cher-esque smile and shook his shoulders, “that sounds interesting.”
“Yeah, well, that’s kinda why I’m here tonight,” Troy said. “I think you might be in a particularly effective position to track someone I think might be involved in the… the death of Tayler… that kid over at the college.”
Charles’s darkened. “Ugly business, that. Do they know it was a murder now?”
Troy was taken aback. “Oh, uh, well…” he stuttered, “they haven’t actually come to that con
clusion just yet. But I’m hopin’ to point them in a direction that might clear it up.”
“That poor boy was murdered,” Charles said, “ain’t no two ways about it. He used to come in with his buddies. I don’t think he was gay, but he certainly had friends who were. Happy kid, everything going for him. No chance he killed himself.”
Troy wondered how much he could trust this man with what he knew about Mortimer. “Well, I’m wondering if you might know someone,” he started with caution. “A professor. From the college.”
“Which one, sugar?” Charles asked through puffed cheeks. “Quite a few are regulars here.”
Troy wondered if Mortimer might happen to be a friend of Lady Bareback’s. He decided to lay it all out. For the next few minutes, he told the whole story about how and why he thought Mortimer LeFleur could be Tayler Evan’s killer.
“Hmmmm,” the performer said, “I do know who he is. He’s a regular. Always comes in for the dueling pianos on Wednesday nights and sometimes the amateur nights on Tuesday and Thursday. I think that’s about it.”
“So, I hate to ask this, but,” – Troy drew a breath across his teeth – “do you have security video in the club?”
“Honey,” he laughed, “if I didn’t have a security feed in here, the po-po would shut me down faster than a two-dollar hooker with a fifty-dollar bill. You got a date in mind?”
Troy smiled, he liked this guy… er, girl… whatever! “The painting was stolen on Friday the eighteenth,” he said, “I have that much on the museum’s video feed.”
Charles Fry had completely transformed while they talked. Instead of a buxom blond cowgirl, he now looked like a man you might see in a hardware store selling plumbing supplies. He slapped his knees and stood up.
Dark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 4) Page 12
