Just one more reason that he was the best boyfriend on the planet. "Well, I wanted to explain about—"
There was a knock at the door, and Jeff Payne, the over-ambitious bank manager Ruth had warned me about, entered without waiting for an invitation. With his brown brush cut and perpetual sneer, he looked more like a drill sergeant than a banker. "Sorry to interrupt your tête-a-tête."
I could tell from the smug look on his face that he wasn't sorry at all.
"What can I help you with?" Bradley asked in a polite but strained voice.
Jeff tossed a document on the table. "I need you to sign off on this loan contract."
Bradley turned and put the document on his desk. "I'll take a look at it after lunch."
Jeff's eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to say something. But then he turned and stalked from the room.
I looked at Bradley to see his reaction.
"You were saying?" he asked, picking up his champagne glass.
Following his cue to let the Jeff issue lie, I said, "I was just going to apologize for not calling you yesterday. Honestly, it was one of the worst days of my life."
He stopped in mid-sip. "What could be worse than going to jail on your birthday?"
There was something about the way he said "jail" that made me wish he'd used a euphemism like everyone else. "Oh, I don't know," I replied, irritated. "Seeing a young woman's dead body, having to investigate her death with Glenda..."
He frowned and put his glass on the table. "You're working on another murder case? And with Glenda?"
"Yeah, the victim used to strip at Madame Moiselle's." I almost added that I thought she'd been killed by a real freak, but I stopped myself in time. Bradley worried when I worked homicides, and I didn't want him focusing on my safety when he had problems at work to deal with.
"Strip clubs can be dangerous places," he said, his brow knit with worry. "Do you have any idea why she was murdered?"
"I'm not sure," I hedged. "But listen, I need to get back to work. How about dinner at my place tonight?"
He leaned back and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm flying to New York later today for an impromptu meeting with the board in the morning. What about tomorrow night?"
"Perfect." I forced a smile as I wondered whether the sudden meeting had something to do with the loss of his clients. Or with me.
Bradley's office phone began to ring. He stood up and glanced at the number on the caller ID. "I need to take this. It's one of the board members I'm meeting with."
"That's fine," I said, rising to my feet. "I'll see myself out."
He reached over the desk and picked up the receiver. "Hey, Bob. What's up?"
While Bradley listened to Bob on the other end of the line, I took one last look at my beautiful necklace before tucking it carefully into my purse. Then I drained my champagne, and Bradley pulled me into his chest with his free arm, and his mouth descended onto mine. It was a slow, probing kiss that made me want to lie down and keep kissing—for starters.
When Bob stopped talking, Bradley released me. "No problem at all," he replied into the receiver. "I'll have the report ready."
After a kiss like that, I needed a drink. So, I grabbed the half-empty bottle of champagne from the table and filled a go-cup. This was New Orleans.
Raising my drink as a farewell, I turned and opened the door.
Jeff recoiled in surprise as though he'd been eavesdropping and stepped quickly from the doorway.
But not quickly enough.
I tripped over his foot and went flying into Ruth's chair, spilling my drink on her desk in the process. When I regained my balance, I turned to give him a piece of my mind, but he was gone.
As I mopped up the spilled champagne with some tissues, my tooth began to throb. Although the sudden aching could've been a result of all the chewing I did eating those two lunches, I blamed Jeff for my pain. And now that I'd caught him listening at the door, I was certain that Ruth had been right—he wanted Bradley's job, and he struck me as the type who would do whatever it took to get it. What I needed to know was whether he'd had a hand in costing the bank those accounts to make Bradley look bad.
And I had every intention of finding out.
When I exited Vieux Carré Wine & Spirits in the French Quarter a half hour later, I wasted no time unscrewing the cap from the bottle of Lazzaroni Amaretto I'd purchased. I hadn't had a dessert in weeks, so I couldn't wait to taste the liquid cookie liquor. Normally, I didn't drink on the job. But as long as I was working a case with Glenda, I had a feeling that I was going to stay semi-sloshed. So I tipped my head back and took a swig, and I understood why Amber liked the stuff. It was amaretto ambrosia.
Reluctantly, I replaced the cap and headed back to Madame Moiselle's. Then I remembered that King, Amber's pimp, preached near the club, and I decided to make a detour. Glenda didn't have to be with me every second of the investigation, especially if she was going to persist in wearing those stripper sleuthing suits. And with any luck I'd find King holding court on his corner, because it was time for the alleged pimp-turned-preacher and I to have a come-to-Jesus talk about Amber.
I hooked a left on Dumaine, and I caught a glimpse of someone darting from view behind me. Certain I was being followed, I stopped and backtracked a few steps, but the only person in my vicinity was a guy in a gator costume.
He must've thought that I was checking him out, because he lowered his snout and leered at me.
The animal. I turned around, and even though I knew that no one in their right mind would tail a person in a gator getup, I quickened my pace. This was Louisiana, after all.
A block from Bourbon, I heard the strains of a church organ, which was as out of place on the infamous party street as a harpsichord. It didn't take long to spot the source. Behind an electric keyboard stood a tall, thin man in a purple velvet suit with green silk lapels and a frilly gold shirt. Apart from his square white sunglasses and thick rope chain with a giant, jeweled crucifix, he either looked like a Mardi Gras pirate or Prince during the Purple Rain tour.
As I approached, he let out a scream worthy of James Brown.
I jumped backwards as his fingers crashed down on the keyboard.
"Temptation! Intoxication! Fornication! Pregnation!" He pointed at his audience of one, i.e., me. "Brothas and sistas, avoid damnation," he implored, sinking to his knees and raising his arms to the heavens. "God is elevation! So seek salvation at The Church of King Nation." He bowed before a fur fedora filled with cash. "Donations kindly accepted."
To use a –tion word, the man was a sight and sound sensation. Actually, "sinsation" was more appropriate, because I wasn't buying his religious bit for a second. "I take it you're King Nation?"
He sprung to his feet and smiled like a Cheshire cat, revealing gold front teeth engraved with the letters K and N. "At yo' spiritual service."
I held out my card, and he clasped my hand between his, both of which were adorned with three-finger rings that read "Lawd" and "Gawd," respectively.
Giving him a half-lidded look, I said, "My name's Franki Amato, and I'm a private investigator."
King dropped my hand like it was a counterfeit bill.
It was my turn to smile—like the cat that ate the canary. "I need to ask you a few questions about Amber Brown."
"God rest her soul," he said in a perfunctory tone. "I heard about that nasty biniss at Madame Moiselle's."
"Yes, well, speaking of nasty business," I began with a devil-may-care stare, "rumor has it that you were prostituting Amber."
He jutted out his lower lip. "I ain't seen her in over a year. And in case you couldn't tell, I quit the pimpin' profession. I'm a man of Gawd now."
I glanced at his outfit. "Judging from that suit you're wearing, I'd say you were still a pimp."
"Be easy." He gave me a sideways look as he tugged on his lapels. "The clothes don't make the man. What you cain't see is that I went through an inner transformation."
This I ha
d to hear. "How so?"
"Six months ago, the good Lawd came ta me in a vision. I was in an alleyway, jus' waitin' on my friends and smokin' some grass when the street lamp went out. So I had me a drank ta calm my nerves, and the light done came back on. Then it happened agin—I had a smoke and a drank, the lamp went on and off—and that's when I knew that Gawd was showin' me the light."
Not to be a doubter, but I would've sworn on a stack of Bibles that drugs and a faulty light bulb had more to do with that vision than God. "Do you mind if I ask what you were drinking?"
"Crown Royal, the beverage fit for a King," he replied as his eyes shifted to my left hand.
I suddenly realized that I was talking to a pimp-preacher while holding a bag of booze. "Did you or anyone you know ever send Amber a bottle of amaretto?" I asked as I stuffed mine into my purse. "Amaretto di Amore?"
He grabbed a cane from beside the keyboard. It looked suspiciously like a pimp stick, thanks to the bejeweled voodoo god topper. "I don't know nothin' about no amaretto. My girls only drank the best—Hpnotiq."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I pulled out my pad and pen. "Would you mind telling me where you were between the hours of four a.m. and two p.m. yesterday?"
His eyes narrowed to the size of coin slots. "At my church."
"You were there at four a.m.?" I asked, giving him a get-real glare.
He raised his chin. "I got there early ta write my Sabbath sermon."
Somehow I doubted that. "And where is this church, exactly?"
"You're standing in it," he replied, tapping the toe of his gold platform shoe on the sidewalk. "The streets are my pulpit."
I wrote "no church, no alibi" in my notes. "Okay then, do you have any idea who might've killed Amber?"
"It was the devil's doin'," he exclaimed with a flourish of his cane.
"Yeah, I got that part," I said drily. "I was thinking more along the lines of one of her ex-clients. Any chance you could provide me with a list?"
"No need." He crossed his arms on his crucifix. "They was all named John."
I set myself up for that one. "Do you know what Amber did for a living after she left your, uh, employ?"
He pulled a gold toothpick from the pocket of his jacket and slipped it into his mouth. "She tol' me she was tired of workin' fo' the money, so she was goin' clean."
"That doesn't make sense," I protested, resting the pen on my cheek. "Did she say anything else?"
"Tha's all I know. Now if you don't mind," he began, gesturing toward a lone wino sitting with his back against a nearby trashcan, "I need ta tend to my parishioners."
"Well, thanks for your time," I said, practically choking on the words. As shady as this King character was, I had to keep the lines of communication open.
He bowed and pointed to the fedora. "Donations kindly accepted."
My lips curled. I reached into my wallet for a five and tossed the bill into the hat. "You'll get more when I get more, capisci?"
"I dig," he replied and then raised his cane and whacked the wino, who was making a play for the fedora funds.
So much for Christian charity.
As I walked back to the office, I pondered King's comment about Amber "goin' clean." Of course, King was anything but trustworthy, but his story did line up with Carnie's recollection of Amber saying that she had wanted to quit the sex trade. So, if it was true that she hadn't worked for King or anyone else during the past year, then I needed to figure out how she could have come by money honestly without earning it. And the only way I could think of was that someone was giving it to her.
But who? And why?
"Come and get it, Miss Franki," Glenda yelled as she threw open the dressing room door. "Miss Eve brought us a bucket of her buttermilk fried chicken."
My ears pricked up at the mention of the decadent Southern dish, and I rushed into the dimly lit white room. Long, black countertops and mirrors with vanity lighting lined the walls, and strippers in various stages of undress stood around a table attacking the meat like sharks at a feeding frenzy. As I gazed at the gory scene, the fourteen ounces of cow in my belly started kicking. "Thanks," I said, clutching my gut. "But I just ate. Twice."
"Well, while you were at the bank, I took the liberty of calling the girls who worked with Amber." She handed me a cardboard pantyhose insert with some writing on it. "I couldn't get ahold of one of them, but I started this list for the other two. It's got their contact information, alibis, and measurements."
Although I was impressed with Glenda's initiative, I was confused about that last item. "Why'd you give me their measurements?"
"To help you size them up!" she cried and then slapped her knee as she doubled over with laughter.
I stood there stone-faced until she got out her guffaws. When she finally recovered, I asked, "So, is Eugene back from the police station?"
"Not yet," she replied, wiping a tear from her eye. "But the two girls I called came in early for their shifts to talk to you."
I glanced at the list. Interviewee number one, Bit-O-Honey, was in the hospital on the night of the murder, and interviewee number two, Saddle, was working at a club in Las Vegas. "Do all the dancers use stage names?"
"If they don't, they should." Glenda flipped her hair. "We need to protect our identities, and the bottom line is that we can make more money with a name that appeals to clients. Personally," she began, putting a hand over her heart, "I went for alliteration and romance with 'Lorraine Lamour.' But young girls today go for things like candy, liquor, and exotic locations."
"Then how do you explain 'Saddle?'" As soon as I asked the question, the answer came to me. "Never mind. I got it," I said, raising my hand in a stopping motion. "It refers to riding—but not horses."
Glenda put a hand on her hip. "It refers to the saddles she makes for a ranch supply store. Honestly, Miss Franki, you need to get your mind out of the gutter."
Yeah, because no one has inappropriate thoughts in a strip club. "That reminds me, what was Amber's stage name?"
She grimaced. "According to the girls, she never used one. They said she didn't care if anyone knew who she was."
I wondered whether Amber's openness had anything to do with the fact that she had no family.
Glenda turned to a chubby brunette who was sitting at the counter and gnawing on a thigh in nothing but a thong. "Bit-O-Honey, come talk to Miss Franki about Amber while I go get Saddle."
She choked down a chunk of chicken. "Yes, ma'am."
As Glenda left the room, I sat in the chair next to Bit-O-Honey and wished that she would put on a robe. "What was Amber like to work with?"
She stared at me, wide-eyed. "Um, she was a super dancer."
I gave her a reassuring smile. "No, I was talking about her personality."
"Oh." She wrinkled her mouth to one side and glanced up and down like a student wracking her brain for the right answer. "Um, she was super creative?"
I pursed my lips. This was going to be harder than I'd thought.
The door swung open, and Glenda returned with a long, lean black-haired beauty wearing a tan suede bikini and chaps complete with a whip. Judging from the cowgirl costume, this was Saddle.
"Was Amber superstitious at all?" I continued.
"She didn't have time for that nonsense," Saddle replied as she sat down and kicked her high-heeled cowboy boots onto the counter, revealing a crescent-shaped tattoo on her calf. "She was fearless."
"That's right," Bit-O-Honey agreed, shaking a chicken leg, among other things, for emphasis. "For her 'crazy as a polecat' routine, she wore a sexy straitjacket while she worked the pole."
"Wow," I said, trying to visualize that scene. "She must've had powerful legs."
"And labia too," Bit-O-Honey added with a round-eyed nod. "Even though she did put Mighty Grip powder on them."
I froze as an unusual image came to mind that I was sure couldn't be right. "Is that like extra-strength baby powder or something?"
Saddle shook her
silky locks. "It helps you stick to the pole."
I knew I shouldn't insist, but I couldn't help myself. "Then why did she put it…down there?"
"She had to collect the clients' dollar bills somehow, sugar," Glenda intoned as she brushed her bottom with bronzer. "After all, her hands were strapped to her body."
My jaw fell open, and it took a long time to get it to close. "Uh, speaking of routines, did Amber ever use Lili St. Cyr's bathtub during a performance?"
"No one would dare because that tub is sacred to us strippers," Bit-O-Honey huffed, pressing a hand to her bare breast.
At this point I was willing to forgo the robe and take a pair of pasties. "Did she have any issues with clients?"
"She didn't like The Fly," Saddle drawled, "but it wasn't like they had a falling out or anything."
I paused. "Did you say 'The Fly'?"
"He's one of our VIP Room regulars," Bit-O-Honey gushed. "And he brings in a jelly jar full of flies and pays us to kill 'em with a fly swatter." She swung at an imaginary fly with her chicken leg as a demonstration.
This time my jaw dropped so low that it almost touched my neck. "Whatever happened to paying a stripper to dance?"
"Clients want all kinds of things in the VIP Room," Glenda explained as she checked out her bronzed behind in the mirror. "Dancing isn't usually one of them."
I shifted in my seat. Before this investigation was over, I had a feeling that I was going to learn a lot of things that I'd never wanted to know about the stripping industry. "Okay, so what about the other dancers? Did Amber have any problems or fights with them?"
The girls exchanged a look.
Saddle's lips thinned. "She had a Hatfield-McCoy-type feud with Curaçao."
For some reason I thought of the woman I'd seen exiting the club the morning after my arrest. "She's not a platinum blonde, is she?"
Bit-O-Honey gasped. "How'd you know?"
"Just a lucky guess," I muttered. "But where is Curaçao now? Did she quit or something?"
"She still works here," Saddle replied. Then she glanced at Bit-O-Honey. "At least, we think she does."
"She's the girl I wasn't able to get ahold of," Glenda said, brushing some bronzer on her cheeks (the ones on her face). "And, from what I hear, no one's seen hide nor hair of her since her Saturday night shift."
Franki Amato Mysteries Box Set Page 60
