Five Minutes

by R. Lanier Clemons

  “Yeah. She’s showin’ me the ropes so I can fill in . . . in case she gets sick or somethin’. You okay with that?”

  The cleaning woman scowled. Riley’s expression warned her to keep quiet.

  Before he could answer, a voice from the back shouted, “Who is it?”

  “Cleaning lady, er, ladies,” he replied, stepping aside to let the two enter. “Since there’s two of you, this shouldn’t take long, right? We’ve got an extra shoot to do.”

  “No problemo,” Riley said brightly.

  The other woman snorted her reply.

  Once he disappeared around the back, the cleaning woman motioned for Riley to follow.

  “Hold on a sec.” Riley reached out and, with thumb and forefinger, rubbed a few of the robes which hung on a long clothes rack in the narrow hallway to the right of the small entranceway. Most were made of cotton, but there were also a fair amount made of a glossy satin material. Some of the robes were long, some short, and all of different colors.

  “We don’t do laundry,” the cleaning woman said.

  A vending machine with an “out of order” sign sat against the wall next to the robes.

  The woman led Riley back in the direction the man had disappeared. She entered a large, windowless room. Five armless chairs sat against one wall. The cleaning woman took out a dust cloth and motioned for Riley to do the same.

  “Dust everything but don’t bother equipment,” she said.

  Riley had no intention of touching the cameras, and she couldn’t reach the overhead lights. She pointed to a wooden table with two metal folding chairs.

  “Do I polish that table?” Riley asked.

  “No. Only wipe off. We gotta scrub floor. Get water from large sink around here.”

  She followed the woman into another large room. This one contained a slightly antiseptic smell, like a doctor’s office. Riley pressed up and down on the soft, malleable floor with her trainers. The squishy floor grossed her out a little. She wondered if the reason the floor was spongy was because if passions took hold and somebody fell, they wouldn’t hurt themselves. She giggled at the thought of bodies bouncing on the floor.

  With water bucket filled, Riley grabbed a large sponge, squirted some liquid cleaning solvent on top, and waited for a clue as to what to do next. The cleaning woman began scrubbing around cabinets, tables, and chairs.

  Riley followed suit.

  Once every available surface was wiped off, the cleaning lady prepared to leave the room.

  “Hold on. What do you do with all those bottles, tubes, and stuff piled up on that cabinet over there?”

  “Nothin’. Don’t touch. I’ll get in trouble.”

  Fine. Maybe I won’t touch, but there’s so many I wonder if they’d miss a few, she thought. Riley peered at the labels. “Eww. No way do I want any of that stuff.” Multiple tubes of lubricants and jellies sat alongside boxes of baby wipes.

  “C’mon,” the cleaner said. “Only make sure floor cleaned off in here. In next room don’t touch the cage. Only dust off.”

  Cage?

  “Make sure leather stuff wiped down real good. Use this.” She handed Riley a large spray bottle of saddle soap.

  “Um. What kinda leather stuff we talkin’ about here? Saddles?” Where the hell would they keep horses, then she figured these people probably rode something else.

  “You’ll see. Follow me.” Around the corner a small door opened onto an even larger room. Various leather collars and whips, plus different lengths of chains hung on hooks covering one entire wall. Above that hung a metal cage suspended from the ceiling and held in place by a system of pulleys. She whistled softly. On the surface of a square table several screwdrivers and pliers were arranged by size.

  “What do I do with that stuff?” Riley asked.

  “Wipe off leather with soap. Then use this stuff.” She handed Riley a bottle of Huberd’s leather conditioner. “Don’t touch chains.”

  “No need to worry about that.”

  “Leather most important. Next important are the two beds in next room. They change linen and take to laundry. You don’t do that. Only wipe down bed frame real good and mop floor extra good. If anything broken, they’ll let you know how to replace. Got it?”

  Riley got it all right. During the little tour she didn’t see signs of anything other than a few guys fiddling with the lights and cameras.

  Except for that room with the cage suspended from the ceiling and the leather and whips and chains. She noticed another door near the back but hadn’t said anything. Time for another look.

  “Okay. How about I go back and clean off that leather stuff hanging from those hooks? Some of it looked grungy to me.”

  “Only do that twice a month. Not time yet. Next week.”

  “Well, I’m here now. So . . .”

  The cleaner had already begun mopping the floor around the bedroom. She waved Riley away in a “do whatever you want” motion.

  Riley grabbed the bottles of saddle soap, conditioner and a cloth and hurried next door. She looked both ways and, seeing no one, headed for the door in the back.

  She turned the knob. Locked.

  In the large pocket of her cotton smock her hand closed around the Swiss Army knife—her most prized possession. The best thing she ever stole. She selected the metal file and small screwdriver. Within a few seconds the flimsy lock gave way, and she found herself staring into a darkened room. Her hand found the light switch.

  A weak, overhead bulb illuminated tables, chairs. Wooden bed frames leaned haphazardly against two of the four walls, alongside several mattresses not even she would lie on. Large cardboard boxes of trash bags, condoms, lubricants, and paper towels were stacked on the floor. Along the wall opposite the door wooden pallets, stacked one on top of the other, almost reached the ceiling.

  Except. Riley squinted. The wall didn’t lie flush against the ceiling. A thin sliver of light filled the break. She pushed against the wall and it gave a little under her fingers. “Huh,” she murmured, “wonder what’s back there?”

  Riley probed the entire partition but couldn’t find a way inside. She kicked it with her foot when she couldn’t get behind the false wall and almost kicked it again until she remembered why she was there. Mumbling to herself, Riley wiped the knob on both sides of the door she’d entered and moved on to the next closed door.

  Disappointed to discover what amounted to a regular breakroom complete with table, chairs, and microwave—plus the smell of rancid, burnt popcorn—Riley concluded that detective was even more clueless to what was going on in that place than she originally thought. She turned to leave when raised voices caught her attention.

  Instead of heading toward the main studio, Riley headed in the direction of the noise. She followed a dark, narrow hallway down to an open door on the left.

  “Look. Like I said before we don’t do that kinda thing. I could do serious jail time, so no way. Go somewhere else,” said a male voice.

  A female voice responded. “And what I’m saying is we need more space. All I want is use of the studio. Hell, you don’t even need to be here. A few props, some lights. I’ve got my own photographer.”

  Riley was tempted to peek around the corner but held back.

  “I don’t want you touchin’ my equipment.”

  “I’m not gonna use your precious equipment. We’re not doing video, only stills. I’ve already explained that. You don’t wanna get involved, fine. This is a business deal. Your cut for use of the studio is thirty percent. How about it?”

  A pause stretched for so long Riley wondered if the two used a different exit to move to another room. She inched closer, intent on peeking inside when the man said, “That don’t sound like enough to me. You’re gonna need props so you gotta pay extra for those.” Riley pulled back.

  The tone in the woman’s voice shifted. More confident now, less pleading. “I know that. And you need to pay more for Tamora. I know she’s one of your most popular stars, so we’
re gonna need to renegotiate her contract. Make sure me and her aren’t getting screwed.” The woman laughed.

  “Hey. Whatya doin’?” The cleaner stood behind Riley. “We don’t go in there if there’s people.”

  The voices inside stopped.

  Riley pushed the woman aside and ran down the hall and into the main studio. She didn’t care if the cleaning lady followed or not. She snatched a sponge from the cleaning bucket, dabbed some soap on it, and scrubbed the slatted headboard on the bed positioned in the middle of the floor.

  “I already done that,” the cleaning woman said. Through narrowed eyes she added, “I told you no going inside office. Why you there and not cleaning the back?”

  “I cleaned back there already. Didn’t I tell you I was quick? If not, my bad. You can call me Speedy Gonzalez if you want.”

  “You don’t look like a Gonzalez to me. I almost got in trouble when they see me there. Had to explain what I was doin’. Told them about you helpin’ an’ they wanna meet you. Now.”

  Shit. Riley forced herself to put on what she considered her best subservient look. Someone who didn’t know her would assume she was having a bad case of indigestion. She trudged down the hall, head down, shuffling her feet. She knocked on the door frame.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  The large black woman—Mrs. Watkins, according to the PI’s description—stood next to a dilapidated metal desk, the surface overrun with paper and photos. What few bare surfaces showed through, were covered with brown stains.

  A skinny white man—the same one who let her in—sat in a wooden chair, picking at some scabs on his face.

  In her previous life, Riley was trained to observe people. Their mannerisms and nonverbal ticks often revealed more than their words. Although years had passed since she’d last worn a uniform and seen the other side of a police station, her mind had cleared sufficiently since she’d hooked up with Luther and rid her system of the hillbilly heroin that threatened to destroy her. What she saw before her was a guy who didn’t give a damn about anything except how to keep the money coming in so that the drugs could keep flowing.

  The black lady was something else altogether. Gotta stay alert around that one.

  “Who are you?” Watkins demanded.

  “I’m helping the regular cleaning lady. In case she gets sick or goes on vacation or something.”

  “That’s not what I asked. What’s your name? Where do you come from?”

  Riley snorted. “I come from the streets, lady. Before that, my mama’s womb. Even folks like me need money to live. Can’t always depend on handouts, especially when most people try like hell to pretend I don’t exist.”

  “Don’t sound to me like we can trust you to show up when needed, then.” The man glanced over at Watkins to see if she agreed.

  Watkins ignored him. Laser focused on Riley, she leaned in and studied the woman so closely that had she not been a good cop in the past, Riley would’ve betrayed her nervousness. As it was, she matched Watkins’ stare.

  “Homeless, huh?” Watkins walked a tight circle around Riley. “You sure do look like it. Only problem is, you seem a helluva lot more interested in what’s going on in here than doing your job. You wanna explain that?”

  “Look, lady, keep your drawers on. I heard voices, okay. I only wanted to ask if you knew how much I’m gonna get paid since, uh, nobody told me that part.”

  “So why’d you run off?”

  “Got scared when I got yelled at. Didn’t wanna get her in no trouble, either.”

  The guy who’d been following the exchange with half-closed eyes, addressed Watkins. “We done here? She seems okay to me and since you seem to forget, lemme me remind you. I run this place. She wanna clean it, I got no problem.”

  Watkins indicated the door. “Go on and finish what you gotta do.”

  Riley was almost tempted to make a snarky remark until she saw the sneer on Watkins’ face. Her head pounded out a mantra—keep it cool, keep it cool. Don’t blow it.

  Heading back the way she came, she nearly missed a corridor only big enough for one person to slip through. A quick turn of the head proved no one was looking. She slipped through.

  Black walls and floor gave her the impression of being in a tunnel. One bare lightbulb hung in the middle and only illuminated a few feet on either side. The darkness didn’t bother her. Fact was the less light the better. Comfort came at night.

  Much to Luther’s chagrin, Riley preferred to wander around after the rest of the community was tucked in for the evening. There were fewer mind creatures at night. Fewer creepy-crawlies traveling up and down her arms. Fewer people who stared when she screamed.

  And now, for the first time in a long time, she had a purpose. Riley chuckled. If she was Jonelle she’d have kicked her own ass to the curb for all the attitude. Now she understood why Luther let that detective lady into their lair.

  Riley stopped on the far side of the light. A dead end.

  Or not. A flaw on the right side of the wall high up in the corner caught her attention. She placed her hand against the surface and followed a narrow seam up, over, and down. Another false wall.

  Riley smiled and grasped the Swiss Army knife. Many times when money got low she thought about pawning it and had even walked into several establishments—and immediately backed out again. That decision had saved her life on several occasions.

  She pulled out the small blade, inserted it in the crack, and pulled. Nothing happened. There must be some way inside, otherwise why not seal the whole thing? Several tries using the large blade, bottle opener, and scissors yielded the same result.

  Sweat poured down Riley’s face as she inserted the nail file. A voice called out. She yanked the tool from the wall and the seam gave way, allowing enough space for her to insert the tips of her fingers and pull. A space as wide as her shoulders opened.

  The voice grew louder.

  Riley slipped into darkness.

  CHAPTER 38

  Thirty minutes after Riley and the cleaning woman entered the studio, Jonelle received a call from Adrienne. Damn.

  “Don’t be mad. I didn’t know about the surveillance. Burt’s gonna help me straighten everything out. We’re gonna make sure you don’t get in trouble at work. Promise.”

  “And hello to you, too,” Adrienne said.

  Jonelle relaxed a little. Her friend’s voice held its usual sarcasm. If Adrienne were truly pissed, she would’ve said a lot more than hello.

  “I promise never, ever, to get you involved in anything like this again.”

  A slight pause. “I don’t remember you twisting my arm. If I said I wasn’t nervous about a phone call from a cop not named Burt, I’d be lying. You could’ve given me a heads-up, though.”

  Jonelle flinched. So much was happening so fast. “You’re right. I totally forgot when the kids called and said someone thought they’d seen Lark and—”

  “They found her?”

  “Not yet. I’ll fill you in on everything when I see you. But, um, I’ve gotta hang near the studio because I’ve got Riley in there poking around. To see if that place can serve as a hideout. Plus, I saw Watkins drive up. She’s inside, so I’m hoping Riley can get a bead on what Watkins is up to.”

  “Who the hell is Riley? Girlfriend, you got some serious explainin’ to do.”

  “I will. But I can’t leave now. I’ve gotta stick around and find out what Riley discovered and then drive her back to . . . well, I don’t know really. Wherever she wants to go.”

  “Been a busy little do-bee, haven’t you?”

  “I gotta keep my eyes on the prize, as it were. Time’s something this kid doesn’t have.” Jonelle sat in the driver’s seat of her Jeep and, with her arm across the steering wheel, put her head in her hand.

  “You still there?” Adrienne asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “How much longer you gonna stay at that studio?”

  “Until Riley comes back or the shit hits the fan,�
�� Jonelle said.

  “You parked out front or somewhere else?”

  “Down the block. Right before you turn onto that side street. Why?”

  “We need to talk. In person. I can be there in, what, twenty minutes I think.”

  Jonelle was shaking her head before Adrienne finished. “Oh no. No way. You are so out of this, it’s not funny. Stay away. I’m serious.”

  “Yeah. Me too. See you in twenty.”

  • • •

  Jonelle paced back and forth. She squinted at the watch on her arm, aware that the practice of wearing one was obsolete these days given that everyone carried a cellphone, yet she couldn’t give it up. Almost an hour had elapsed since Riley entered the studio. If Riley wasn’t out in another half hour, or if Watkins’ car hadn’t left, she’d find another way inside.

  A familiar gray sedan approached and parked behind the Jeep. Adrienne emerged from behind the wheel and met Jonelle on the corner. “You walking back and forth like that might give some dude the idea you’re looking for work,” Adrienne said.

  “At least there’s no competition,” Jonelle shot back. “Believe I asked you not to come.”

  “Since when do I pay much attention to your demands?”

  “Since I got your face splashed in photos that are in police possession,” Jonelle said. In a softer voice she added. “You’ve no idea how crappy I feel about that. Whatever I need to do or say to . . . whomever, I’ll do and say it to get you out of this mess.”

  “Not in a mess. Your Burt did a helluva lot to prove my innocence, so when I talked to some detective with Baltimore vice, all I had to do was reiterate how everything was your fault.” Adrienne giggled.

  Jonelle tried to hide the relief in her voice. “‘Your’ Burt? What the hell’s that mean?”

  “It means you owe him more than a mere thank-you, if you catch my drift.”

  “You’re right. I’ll take him to dinner, or something.”

  “Pretty sure the guy would prefer the ‘something.’”

  Jonelle waved the comment away. “Can’t deal with that now.” She headed to the corner where she could see the front of the studio.