Shot Girl

by Karen E. Olson

  The damn shoes made it hard to stoop under the tape, but somehow I managed it, making my way back over to Tom.

  "I have to call the paper and give them something," I said. "Was he shot? Was it a drive-by?"

  Tom took my elbow and led me up the three steps and into the club. The air-conditioning slapped me across the face, almost burning me with its intensity. Immediately I felt my nipples harden and hoped he wouldn’t notice.

  Too late.

  "You said you’d seen him inside?" Tom asked after a second.

  I nodded, eager to distract him. "Yeah."

  "He was the manager." He paused. "Anything you want to tell me, Annie?"

  I bit my lip.

  "You know his name, don’t you?" he prodded when I hesitated too long.

  "Yeah. I do."

  "Coincidence?"

  I shook my head slowly.

  His name was Ralph Seymour.

  My ex-husband.

  Chapter 2

  Tom thought I was lying. I could see it in the way he stood with his legs apart, his hands on his hips, his head cocked like I was some sort of criminal. Like I should know how Ralph got gunned down in front of the Rouge Lounge.

  "Fifteen years?" he asked me for the third time when I told him how long it had been since I’d seen Ralph. "You’re sure?"

  "He didn’t even show up for the court date," I said, my voice loud to match his. "My divorce was really a solo act, not unlike our marriage."

  Tom frowned. I knew he wouldn’t understand. No one had, especially Ralph. Which had been the problem. And I didn’t want to stand here, fifteen years later, and explain the complexities of how I knew after only a year, and at the young age of twenty-three, why I just couldn’t stay married to the man.

  "The bartender says she saw you talking to him just minutes before he went outside." Tom’s voice was cold.

  I sighed. "I saw him when I came in." He’d been groping the bartender while she shook someone else’s martini.

  Tom waited for more.

  "Okay, okay, he saw me when I tried to duck into the ladies’ room and figure out what the hell to do." I paused. "Jesus, Tom, it had been a long time. I really wasn’t sure how to react. It threw me a little."

  "But you stood outside staring at his body and didn’t bother to tell me who he was."

  "So sue me." I studied his face for a second. "He probably talked to a lot of other people besides me. Why aren’t you talking to them?"

  "Because this is more interesting." A small smile played at the corners of his lips, and I wondered if he had started pursuing that psychology degree he’d considered at one time. "So, what was your conversation about?"

  I shrugged. "He said hi, I said hi, he said fancy meeting you here, I said go figure, he said how’s it going, I said what are you doing in town?"

  A few seconds passed before Tom asked, "What did he say to that?"

  I shook my head. "Nothing. The bartender called him over. He said excuse me, we’ll catch up later, and walked away. That was it."

  "So you don’t know why he went outside?"

  "No. I was too busy in there"—I cocked my head toward the red beads, à la the 1960s, that separated us from the room where Jack Hammer had been grinding his hips just an hour before—"for the party."

  The small smile turned into a grin. "Ah, yes, the party."

  My eyes scanned the dark bar, the bloodred art deco round tables and chairs scattered about, empty glasses and beer bottles abandoned everywhere as the customers, ranging from scantily clad young women to women older than me who should’ve known better, were being interrogated by various uniformed officers. A half dozen reproductions of Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe hung side by side across one wall, splashing a startling bit of green and blue and yellow and black. I don’t go to clubs—I left those days long behind—but this was a pretty cool place. And it could go either way now: No one would come back because of the shooting, or everyone would come because of the shooting.

  It was a crapshoot.

  Speak of the devil, if it wasn’t Jack Hammer coming toward us. I had to admit the man was buff in all the right places, but he had that sleazy leer and slicked-back hair that made him a great candidate for the sequel to Donny Does Dallas rather than the cover of GQ.

  "Hey, babe," he drawled at me as the uniform cop dropped him off at our side.

  I wondered if Tom would arrest me for slugging him.

  "This guy says maybe he saw something," the uniform told Tom, stealing a sidelong glance at me and my cleavage, not that there was too much of it, but there was a helluva lot more on display than normal. I couldn’t wait to get home and change.

  I hoped it wouldn’t be much longer now. I could manage a quick stop at my brownstone and maybe even just call in the story to the night news editor. I thought about my cell phone in the car.

  Tom saw me looking at my watch. "You’re not going anywhere," he hissed, his hand clutching my elbow as he turned to Jack Hammer.

  "So what did you see?" he asked him, like I wasn’t even there. I was tempted to try to walk away, but I wanted to know what Jack Hammer had to say, too.

  Jack Hammer looked from Tom to me and back to Tom. "I was finished with my set"—oh, Christ, was that what he called it?—"and I was outside for a smoke." Connecticut had banned smoking in bars and restaurants a few years ago, which helped my cause when I decided to quit. "Someone opened the door; I saw Ralphie talking to her." He tossed his greasy mane toward me. "Someone handed him a martini and he stepped outside, a few feet from me. He asked me for a cigarette; I gave him one. But I was finished with mine and had to get back for the next set, so I went back in. Next thing I knew, I heard the shots, came back out, and saw Ralphie on the ground."

  I was trying to wrap my head around the fact that Jack Hammer was calling him Ralphie. Jesus, he would’ve hated that.

  Oh, yeah, it had been a long time. Maybe he was cool with it now.

  "Hey, Tom?"

  I looked to my right to see Frank Piscitelli, New Haven’s answer to CSI’s Gil Grissom, beckoning Tom to come over. Frank was short and squat, what my dad—who is also Italian—would call "a real Guido" from East Haven, who hardly conjured the image of a scientist. Frank spent a lot of time in a small, brightly lit room at the New Haven Police Department, so unlike CSI portrayals, it was comical. I was never one for understanding forensics or fingerprinting, but I admit a curiosity about the refrigerators that house the bloody clothing. Or at least that’s what Frank told me is in there. It probably contains that day’s lunch. Or both. Frank could have a grisly sense of humor.

  "Don’t go anywhere," Tom warned me again as he walked away.

  Jack Hammer, however, did not leave my side. Great. The way I was dressed, he probably thought he could get lucky. But then he surprised me.

  "You’re Annie, aren’t you?"

  "Yeah, that’s right," I said, frowning. "How the hell do you know that?"

  He shrugged. "Ralphie pointed you out earlier." He paused. "He talked a lot about you."

  I stood up a little straighter, folding my arms across my chest. "He did?"

  "Said you’d been the best thing that ever happened to him."

  Yeah, he would say that. And he did say that as I left him and his pathetic lies in New York, where they belonged.

  "When did he start working here?" I asked.

  Genuine surprise crossed his face as he frowned. "A month ago. You know that."

  Before I could respond, Tom came back.

  He pointed at Jack Hammer. "Come with me."

  I hoped I could finally leave, but Tom was shaking his head at me. "You have to stay right here. I’m not done with you yet."

  That’s what he thought.

  I glared at him. "At least can I go to my car and get my phone? I’ve got a pair of flip-flops in there, too." I indicated my blistered feet. "I have to take these things off."

  A mix of emotions crossed Tom’s face, until finally resignation settled in. "Give me the k
eys. I’ll have someone get the shoes for you." He paused. "But no phone, and I’m not telling you shit."

  Even in prison they give you a fucking phone call. I thought about Cindy Purcell outside with her camera crew and wondered if her main squeeze—and my nemesis—Dick Whitfield, was lurking out there, as well. I could only hope that he had the good sense to show up. But he was probably sitting in the newsroom trying to get someone on the phone instead. It was about time for the lottery drawing, and the news editor needed the night reporter to get the numbers off the TV because the copy editors were too busy on eBay and checking their e-mail to get the numbers off the Internet. I regretted not taking up Vinny’s offer of his phone earlier.

  I hesitated a couple of seconds before I pulled my keys out of my small bag and gave them to Tom. It was too late now. If I changed my mind, he’d wonder why.

  "The flip-flops are just on the floor on the passenger side," I said. "Right inside the door."

  The keys dangled from Tom’s hand as he led Jack Hammer away and out of sight. The minute they turned the corner, I figured it was a good time to see if I could get any information out of anyone else, most likely Frank.

  "Detective said you had to stay here." The young cop hovered over me, his shoulders so wide I could use them as an umbrella.

  "I just need some air," I tried. He stepped into my path, shaking his head slowly, the frown indicating I obviously did not know how to play well with others. No shit. I glanced around the bar but didn’t see anyone who could rescue me. I felt so useless. I hate that.

  I pulled a chair up to the nearest table and sat, my shoulders hunched over until I realized anyone standing behind me would be able to see my breasts. I straightened, my back now as stiff as a twig.

  Renee and her sisters and friends had been rounded up and were seated at various tables, waiting their turns to be questioned. Renee caught my eye, and since the detective in charge hadn’t ordered that she had to stay in one place, she came over to my table and dropped down in the chair across from me. She was better than nothing.

  "Wouldn’t you know this would happen to me?" She sighed and toyed with her cuticle. "Did Tom say when we could get out of here?"

  I fought the urge to remind her that "this" didn’t happen to her; rather, it happened to Ralph, who, as far as I knew, was still dead on the sidewalk outside.

  "So, you knew the guy?" she asked after a few seconds of silence, realizing I wasn’t going to be chatty.

  I nodded but was unwilling to offer up any fodder for gossip. I knew telling Renee anything about Ralph would somehow make it over to the Herald faster than I could say "Jack Hammer."

  "Someone said you were married to him," Renee said, pouting, like it was some sort of race and I’d already beaten her to the altar.

  "Long time ago," I mumbled, aware now that one of the blisters on my foot had started oozing some sort of sticky goo. I wanted to take off these shoes in the worst way, but I didn’t want to put my feet on this floor that had God knew what on it.

  "Looked like you were still pretty friendly with him."

  I leaned over to adjust one of the shoe’s straps. "What do you mean?"

  "I saw you talking to him over by the door, just before he went outside. I saw him kiss you."

  Chapter 3

  Okay, so I may have forgotten to mention that little detail to Tom. But I was trying to forget it myself. Ralph had caught me off guard. What he was doing barely registered until I felt his tongue probing my lips, because it happened so fast.

  "Did you also see me knee him in the balls?" I asked, trying to keep my voice low but unable to keep the anger out.

  Renee chuckled. "No. But that would’ve been funny."

  I tried to remember why I’d agreed to attend this little party. It wasn’t like Renee and I were great friends or anything. She was ten years younger than me, had come to the paper two years ago from graduate school, following her boyfriend-now-fiancé to New Haven, where he was learning how to be a doctor at Yale. She was the cheerleader, the sorority sister I never wanted to be. I had to admit that she could write, and since her desk was next to mine, we’d managed to have a sort of work relationship that her sisters must have felt was more than it was, because they invited me to this shindig. I had not been invited to the wedding.

  I should’ve questioned that earlier. Why invite someone to the bachelorette party if she’s not invited to the wedding?

  I didn’t have to come tonight. Priscilla had talked me into it.

  Priscilla Quinn was my best friend from college and was now at the Daily News in New York. She was much more hip than I was, and she convinced me that going to see a male strip show would be a hoot. She was sorry she couldn’t come with me—she’d had other plans—but she’d come out the weekend before and brought some clothes with her, knowing I didn’t have anything to wear to something like this.

  She had no idea she was dressing me for a murder.

  Renee held a small bag not unlike mine, and I wondered if she had a cell phone in it. Before I could ask, however, her eyes drifted past me, distracted.

  "Hey, there’s that guy," Renee said, indicating Jack Hammer, who was coming toward us.

  Not again.

  Renee did one of those hair-toss things, flipping back her highlighted brown locks and fiddling with her blouse. What was wrong with her? She was getting married, for Chrissakes, and here she was, coming on to Mr. Sleazy.

  Jack Hammer wasn’t paying attention to her. He scooched down on the floor next to me, leaning in so close I caught a faint whiff of vanilla and maybe cinnamon. Weird.

  "Need to talk to you," he said.

  I looked at Renee, who looked surprised. Not in a good way. Okay, second strike against me. First I’m married before she is, and now Jack Hammer wants a moment of my time. Alone. Lucky me. I shrugged as she pushed her chair away and marched back over to her sisters, shaking her head as they all looked over their shoulders at me like I’d just agreed to fuck Jack Hammer on the floor in front of everyone. Not that they hadn’t wanted to do that just an hour ago themselves.

  I liked it better when I thought all Chippendales were chairs.

  I turned to Jack Hammer. "What do you want?"

  He put a finger to my lips, and I jerked my head back reflexively. Who the hell knew where those fingers had been? "I got it for you," he whispered, slipping something into my hand.

  I looked at the business card. My business card. "What about it?" I asked.

  "I got it from Ralphie. Just before he went outside. I know you told the cop that you didn’t really talk to him, so I figured maybe you had a reason to keep this quiet."

  I turned the card over in my hand.

  On the back was my phone number. My home phone number. And my cell number. In my handwriting.

  "You got this from Ralph?" I asked.

  "He told me to put it in the office, in his Rolodex." Jack Hammer bit back a smile. He was still balancing himself next to me—probably all that "dancing" gave him unusually strong muscles. "I won’t say anything," he promised.

  I tucked the card into my bag and thanked Jack Hammer. Instead of going away, like I’d hoped, he moved to the chair where Renee had been sitting. Jesus. Why did everyone think I wanted company?

  "Ralphie was right about you," Jack said.

  I didn’t even want to know. But Jack was hell-bent on telling me.

  "You’re pretty hot, even if you are pushing forty."

  I glared at him. "Don’t look for any dollar bills in your G-string from me, asshole."

  He laughed. Really laughed. Loud enough so heads turned. And I had to admit it—somehow it made him less smarmy.

  "Why do you do this?" I asked after a few seconds.

  "Do what?"

  "Get up onstage and pretend to fuck all those women?"

  "It’s safe sex."

  "I guess that’s one way to look at it. But it’s pretty gross."

  "I’ve got a nice condo on the water, and I drive a Pors
che."

  Touché.

  "So why are you here tonight, then, if you disapprove?" Jack Hammer’s eyes were a deep brown, sort of like cows’ eyes, with big lashes, and he seemed really interested. Right. He got paid to seem really interested.

  "Bachelorette shit. I don’t know. Got talked into it."

  "You don’t seem the type to get talked into anything."

  I glanced around. Where the hell was Tom? Last thing I needed was to bond with a male stripper. But that’s exactly what was going on.

  "Is this a regular gig for you? I mean, here at the Rouge Lounge? Did you know Ralph well?" I asked, ignoring his comment.

  He shrugged. "We’ve been here a few times and at other places around the state. I know Ralphie from before."

  "Before what?"

  His eyes narrowed. "You know."

  I shook my head. "No, I don’t know."

  He studied my face for a few seconds, then must have decided I was telling the truth, because he leaned back and crossed his arms in front of his chest before saying, "I met him in lockup."

  I knew about Ralph’s arrest. Priscilla kept up with him and told me. She didn’t tell me much else, and only when I asked, which was rarely. Ralph got nailed with two roommates because suddenly their electric bill went through the roof. Cars came and went at all hours of the day and night at the house they’d rented somewhere in Westchester County in New York. A neighbor had complained.

  Cops found the basement full of marijuana plants, some almost five feet tall because of the fluorescent grow lights. The cops brought all three of them in, and because Ralph was the only one who didn’t have a record, they kept his charge to a misdemeanor and he had to serve only six months of community service. His roommates weren’t so lucky.

  If he’d been into anything else since then—it was about ten years ago—I didn’t know about it.

  "What were you arrested for?" I asked Jack Hammer.

  "Prostitution."

  He said it matter-of-factly, like he was telling me he’d bought a carton of milk at the store. I nodded. "And you and Ralph bonded?" Maybe Ralph and Jack had some sort of thing going, some sort of Brokeback Jail-house. But Jack was one step ahead of me.