Foss spoke quietly, breaking my reverie. “Are you still with me?” He leaned forward and took my hand. It brought a pleasing warmth to my skin as if he were the sun.
I smiled and nodded. “Foster, I think we are onto something here that is bigger than just a group of escorts.”
His eyes left our clasped hands and found my gaze. I felt his breathing deepen and slow; before I had even prepared there was the purple rush of him and I inhaled deeply against it. I could barely fight the urge to shut my eyes when his energy joined mine. It was precisely where I needed him to be. “How so?” he said, tilting his head slightly, not breaking his gaze.
“All of the people I met were reluctant to give me any information about Danni,” I said.
“I’m not surprised. The waitress I found was terrified of her … him.”
“No, I do not think it was fear. True, Danni isn’t well liked, but they seem to adore your girlfriend, Rosie. I tried bribes. I threatened to bring in the police. None of that worked. It was as if I were trying to get them to testify against Mother Theresa.”
He sat up straight in his seat. “So, you drew a blank too.”
I shook my head. “Non, but I had to change tactics. I had to pretend to be sleeping with Rosie. I told them I was worried for her and wanted to help get her to safety.”
“Did that work?”
“Not at first. In the first club in London, I couldn’t convince anyone that I was gay. However, I had this drawing.” I stopped and pulled out the sketch of Danni I had been carrying in my bag.
Foss took it and whistled, pushing his trilby back from his furrowing brow. I removed his hat and put it on my head, immediately improving it. “This is damned good,” he said. “That’s Danni from her porn star days. Rob Mackleton showed me photos of her back then.” He looked at me, his eyes glimmering with admiration. “Where’d you get it?”
I put the sketch away. “I drew it.”
“You…how the hell did you draw it? We only found out she was a woman the night you disappeared. She sure as hell didn’t look like this in the photo at Rosie’s place.”
“I channeled it.” My voice was soft, almost a whisper. I leaned forward again, squeezing my eyes shut against the impending, nauseating waves of his skepticism. “You were asleep and so I got up and took out my sketch pad. When I channel, I—I just let myself free, focus on my subject, and the face is visible in the paper. All I have to do is outline it.” I stopped talking and waited for his usual barrage of rational indignation.
“Can I see that again?” he asked. I pulled it out and handed it to him. To my surprise, he rifled through a bunch of papers in his briefcase, removing what looked like an old advertisement. It was yellowed and smelled even more sickly than it looked. “Rob gave me this one—Danny Does Denver Too,” he said. “Apparently, it was a less-than-successful follow-up to Danny Does Dallas. Poor sales sort of ended Danni’s porn career.”
“A tragic loss to the thespian arts I’m sure. And this has what to do with making fun of my work?”
He took my hand and placed the jaundiced paper in it. Reluctantly, I looked. The photo of Danny in the advert was almost precisely what I had channeled in my drawing. I looked up into his lovely, chocolate smile. “You believe me?” I asked.
“Believe you? Without a doubt. Have a clue how you do it? No. But I do know that if God or the universe is giving you some special insight that’ll help us wrap up this case, I’m all for it.”
Impulsively, I leaned forward and kissed his mouth. It was soft and delicious, and his tongue danced with rhythms that would have made his forebears proud. I danced with him, for a moment, and then pulled away. He tried for seconds, but I had regained control by then. The man makes me crazy.
“What was that for?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I am French.”
“You should be French more often.” I denied him a smile. “Tell me what you know about Danni and her group,” he said.
***
I had learned plenty in days of scrounging through nightclubs in search of information, not the least of which was that if I never find the right man, there are plenty of women who would be willing to substitute. I also learned I might not object. However, more pertinent to the case, in between tequila cocktails and slow dances, I found that Rosie was something of a cult leader among her young followers. Only by pulling out the sketch I’d channeled was I able to convince any of them that I’d known Danni and Rosie for years and had recently fallen into a sordid love triangle. After two fruitless nights, I stumbled across a lovely Spanish girl who called herself José. I was in a shabby club on the outskirts of London, called Le Chat, of all things. José was a dark-complexioned girl with thick curls of sepia hair that roiled over her shoulders and down her back like an angry torrent. Having tried almost every other tact I could imagine, I resorted to the despicable female stereotype: tears. I sat in the back of the raucous club, nursing what appeared to be my fifth drink, a Juan Collins made with too much tequila. In truth, I had given the first three to women from whom I tried to bribe information, fruitlessly. However, their empty glasses at my table served to camouflage my ruse.
“What’s wrong, love?” I remember José asking. How she had appeared at my table, I do not know. I suppose I really had drunk too much. I was streaming with tears, mostly caused by my handkerchief, which I had liberally doused with ammonia and the juice from onions.
In answer, I told my sad tale of wanting to run away from the business with Rosie, but having been stopped by my purported girlfriend’s fear of Danni’s violent jealously. I hoped that José would know what business I referred to.
To my delight, she answered, “Oh hon, Rosie would leave Danni in a moment, if she could. That bloke is barking and dangerous.”
“That’s what I mean. I have to save her.”
“Don’t let Rosie’s sweet nature fool you. She’s as tough as they come.”
“Then why won’t she leave?” At that moment, I broke down in a simulated deluge of angry tears.
José consoled me by placing one hand around my shoulders and the other at my crotch. I pretended not to notice. I still am not certain of my motives for that; perhaps my tequila was approaching its sunrise. “Rosie is basically running this sector. Danni’s just the intermediary for the Russian.” I blinked back tears and met her gaze. There was a pause wherein I was afraid she would try to kiss me, but instead, I could see she was looking over my shoulder at a group I’d identified as escorts from Rosie’s restaurant ring. “That lot’ll kill me if they think I’m giving them up,” she whispered. “Maybe we better take this discussion to my place. I live just up the street.”
That, I knew would be a mistake. Foss would never understand. “I—I cannot,” I said, shaking my head with exaggerated angst. “I’d love to, if only as revenge, but I’d be no good to you.” I pretended to gather my belongings, hoping that her lustful appetite would prompt desperate action. By that time, I was desperate myself, but more than that, I could feel she really wanted to help me. I was right.
“With Rosie, this isn’t about money or sex,” she said, pulling me back into my seat. “If it were, she’d have left long ago.”
“Then what is it?”
“Rosie’s trying to save the fucking world.” She gave a harsh laugh that was tinged with bitterness. When I inquired as to what she meant, all she said was, “There are a lot of sad children in the world and a lot of people willing to do what they can to help them.”
That was all the information I could pry out of her, other than the fact that I could probably find the pair hanging out down in Brighton. Before we could go further in the conversation, the surly group who’d been eyeing us approached our table and José disappeared into the crowd. I followed her lead, exiting and hiring a taxi to take me to England’s south coast. I spent that day—the morning before Foss’s arrival—searching the area and making contacts with some of the youths that frequented the Kemp Town village, which was where mo
st of the gay bars were reputed to be. There, scrounging through rubbish bins, I found a pair of fourteen-year-old boys living alone on the street. Both boys had been thrown out of their homes by parents who couldn’t accept they were gay. I was stunned such parents still existed in the twenty-first century UK. However, to their credit and to my dismay, both boys decided they would rather try their luck at growing up alone than living a repressive lie at home. I showed them my sketches of Danni and a photo I’d obtained of Rosie from her mother.
“Yeah, I know her, but I don’t know her friend there,” the first boy, who called himself Abe, said. “She hangs out at the Honey Club sometimes, you know, on the good nights.” He and his companion, Sean, laughed loudly. I took that to mean those were the night the gay crowds showed up.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” I said. I’ll give you each twenty quid a day to keep an eye on the club and the flat at the address I’ll give you. If either of these two shows up and you call me in time to see them, I’ll add another fifty.”
I thought to do another sketch of Danni as he was now, living as a male, but there wasn’t time. The boys enthusiastically took me up on my offer, and I was feeling quite Sherlock Holmesian with my own version of his Baker Street Irregulars, before I realized I had no phone and no way for them to contact me. They took me to a friend they knew who sold me two unlocked cell phones—one for me, and one for my Kemp Town Irregulars, as they now called themselves. After each of us took a shift watching Danni’s flat and the club, we’d still not sighted either Rosie or her partner. I thought to call Foss, but work and eventual exhaustion distracted me. The following morning, before Foss’s arrival, I slept in after spending most of the night patrolling the long boardwalk that borders Brighton’s sea-front. It wasn’t all work. I actually enjoyed the night life and the environs.
I could see making my home here, but Foss had quite the different reaction once he arrived and we took our first steps into the late evening sun. I was finishing off my tale of the prior days’ exploits as we walked along the busy streets, which by then had become a colorful miasma of sound, frenetic energy, and crowds of people clamoring to enjoy the sea, despite the chilly weather.
“This place looks like they took all the dirt and noise from London, shrink-wrapped it, and stuffed it into this overcrowded town. It reminds me of a combination of Atlantic City, Malibu, and an insane asylum.”
“Oui, isn’t it great?”
“You and I have very different views of what’s great.” He paused at the gate of what appeared to be a middle eastern fortress. “Where the hell are we?”
“The Royal Pavilion. The boys are watching the house. We’re following the crowds, seeing if we can spot our subjects. Now, hush.”
“I hate beach towns,” he said, pouting.
“You are just mad because I beat you here.” His grumbling denial told me I had reached the truth. “If you’re nice, I’ll take you to Hove later. It’s quiet enough for even you.”
We ambled along with the crowds, surreptitiously scanning for our two subjects. We walked in and out of a few shops and pretended to peruse menus at varying restaurants while we looked for our subjects. As cover, in case we were being watched, I took his hand as we walked. We haunted the boardwalk, and even went up on the Brighton Wheel, convincing ourselves it was so that we could get a full view of the city. I had no such excuse for dragging him to the arcades on the pier. I just wanted to have a bit of fun. Convinced our subjects were nowhere to be found, I took the turn up a side street that led to their flat. The narrow road climbed a hill that rose from the sea and taxed my hips. After more than a day of such hills, I was in a great deal of discomfort. Foss, as always, was attuned to me, even without looking.
“Is this hill too much for you?” His question was casual, and he didn’t turn to see. I could see his mirrored sunglasses reflected in the window of a passing car. He was still focused on finding Rosie. On impulse, I ran two steps and hopped onto his back, riding him like a bucking bronco. Caught unawares, he stumbled forward, spilling us onto a shrub that bordered the sidewalk. “What is wrong with you?” he asked, laughing.
“Quiet. Horses do not complain,” I said.
He turned his head to me. “You know, given you claim to be the lead partner, some would call this behavior demeaning. I mean, expecting me to carry you up this steep hill like you’re Miss Daisy or somebody.”
To shut him up, I kissed him again. When he was adequately subdued by my lips, I spoke. “Get up, Hoke.”
“Oh no you didn’t.”
“I mean, unless you are not strong enough to carry my weight.”
He huffed a cloud of testosterone at me and stood, lifting me with him as though I had no weight at all. “It seems to me I’ve been carrying you since we formed this partnership anyway.”
“Perhaps you forget my cane is also a weapon?” He ignored me and continued up the hill until we could see the bright, red woolen cap that covered Abe’s flaxen hair. I signaled for him to come, and he hopped onto his skateboard towards us. I introduced him to Foss, who gave stern, fatherly looks that I believe actually caused the boy to like him. I could feel the gaping absence of his parents in Abe’s demeanor that nearly broke my heart.
“She never came by here, Miss Jeanne,” he said. “Sean’s not seen them in the Laines neither.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Here’s your pay and Sean’s. Foster and I will watch by the Honey Club tonight. There’s supposed to be a good crowd.”
“Yup, it’s rainbow time.” He gave me a broken-toothed smile, a crooked British salute, and scooted down the hill on his board as though he was riding the surf to the sea.
Foss shook his head. “We should be helping that kid, not exploiting him. How do you know he won’t use that money for drugs?”
“Because he’s not on drugs.”
“But how do you know?”
In answer, I just looked at him. When he said nothing, I spoke. “You still don’t believe in my abilities?”
A smile leaked from below his cool, American shades. “Oh, I believe you. I was just thinking that if I pretended not to you might kiss me again to convince me.”
I hit him. “You have had all the kisses you will get from me on this trip.”
He bent, and I hopped back onto his broad, muscular back. It was hard like steel and I wanted to melt into it and form a steel-Jeanne alloy. “We’ll see,” he said, and headed back down the hill toward the sea. “You might feel French again at some point. I’ve heard the sea can be very romantic.”
I hit him again, but this time, I didn’t mean it.
***
At eleven o’clock, before the arrival of young sophisticates and after the influx of the working class who needed the early-hour discount, Foss and I were ensconced in the back of the club listening to the crimson pulse of throbbing music. I generally prefer the cool water of jazz, but as this type of scene went, it wasn’t an altogether horrible experience. Although a large part of the crowd was gay, there were other heterosexual couples and so no one seemed to pay any attention to us at all, least of all the wait staff. I was nursing a single beer, having decided that my usual tequila was a dangerous choice. Foss sipped from a snifter of brandy, which made him look all the more sophisticated. He had again surrendered his hat to me, under duress, but still wore his aviator sunglasses, mirroring mine. It wasn’t vanity. We used their shielding to hide the fact that we were scanning the growing crowd. I told myself that I was sitting with my torso perpendicular to and touching his in order to maximize the viewing area and to keep up appearances, but inside I knew the truth. My attraction to him was growing and with it the difficulty of maintaining my focus and resolve.
“If this keeps up, I’m going to have to drag you to the dance floor,” he said, practically yelling in my ear.
“Why, do you think people are getting suspicious?”
“Naw, but this deejay is pretty damn hot. Come down, Mr. Selecta!” he said with a believable
Jamaican accent, his hips moving in his seat. He flashed me a smile that I was about to return when my phone began buzzing. On the other end was Abe.
“Miss Dark, I see them! They’re on their way in the club!”
“Good, excellent!” I said. “You two disappear now and I will catch you tomorrow for your reward.” I heard a raucous hoot from the pair before the connection ended. I stood and pulled my partner to his feet. “Come, it’s time.”
“I didn’t really think you danced,” he said, nodding toward my hip.
“I can dance better than you, probably. I am French. However, this is business.” I pulled him through the thickest part of the club to a place very near the door, in a shadowed spot wherein we could block their exit. No more than seconds after we’d reached our position, with both of us facing the wall so as not to be recognized, Rosie entered wearing a tight, black dress, short jacket, and heels. Behind her, looking the worse for wear, was her partner, Danni.
Foss stole a look over his shoulder. “She—I mean, he doesn’t look so good.” Indeed, that was an understatement. Danni was pallid with hollow-looking eyes, sunken cheeks, and dewy skin that glistened under the bright lights of the club. He walked slowly, as if moving with great effort.
“That suit’s hanging off him like a scarecrow,” Foss whispered.
The couple found a table near the bar with Rosie helping to ease her partner into a seat. Contrary to the reports of Danni’s violent dominance, there was a palpable tenderness in their interactions that touched me. Rosie removed her coat before sitting. Danni did not, even leaving his hat pulled tightly over his ears. We allowed them to order drinks, figuring that would cause them to drop their guard. My goal was to secure them without a disruption that would cause the club management to call the police.
The Little Burgundy: A Jeanne Dark Adventure Page 17
