Bare-Naked Lola (A Lola Cruz Mystery)

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  It was the same conversation every time I set foot in the restaurant. Their standard complaint was that being a detective was not an appropriate job for their grand-daughter and that I needed a man. At twenty-nine, I was rapidly approaching over the hill.

  “My job is fine, gracias or preguntar.” I ignored the rest. Whether or not Jack Callaghan was my boyfriend—and what that meant for my future—was not my grandparents’ business. I was a big girl, willing to lie in whatever bed I made—with or without Jack Callaghan. Preferably with, but that wasn’t happening anytime soon. I took my tray and disappeared into the kitchen.

  The late-lunch/early-dinner shift passed without incident or surprise visits from Jack. I left at five on the dot to get showered and ready for the Royals game.

  Forty minutes later, my wet hair was in a towel, I’d packed folded jeans and a ruffled floral blouse into my duffel bag for after the game, and I’d pulled on a navy velour sweat suit. I put on a thin layer of makeup and was packing the whole kit-and-kaboodle into a toiletry bag when the phone rang.

  It wasn’t in the cradle on my dresser. Damn it. Another reason to move into my own place. Antonio never put the phone back where it belonged.

  I dashed through the flat, following the ring. It wasn’t by the computer in the living room. Finally, just before the fourth jingle started, I found the receiver buried between the cushions of the sofa.

  “What’re you doing tonight?” Jack asked across the line. He didn’t sound like he knew I’d been cheering on six-foot-five basketball players the day before. I thought about just coming clean and telling him. Yes, he’d taken a bullet for me, and yes, he seemed sincere when he said he cared about all of me, including Lola Cruz, P.I. But the idea of him watching me as I jiggled and flipped and shimmied in front of thousands of people while scantily dressed sent waves of nerves on alert. In the privacy of his apartment? I was down with that, but at the Royals’ arena? Um, no.

  So I kept my mouth shut. Dancing for the Royals felt like a dirty little secret. I’d worked so hard in school, had earned my college degree in criminal justice, and didn’t want anybody, especially Jack, to see me as just a body. My goal was to wrap up this case muy pronto, before anyone found out and saw me getting jiggy with the cheerleaders.

  “Oh, I’m…um…I have plans,” I said. I glanced at the clock. 5:23. I had to dry my hair and get to the arena by 6:00 for warm-ups. Friday night traffic. ¡Ay, caramba! I had to move muy rápido if I was going to be on time. And seeing as I was a follow-the-rules kind of girl, I definitely did not want to be late.

  “Are you sure? I have ti—”

  “Sorry Jack,” I blurted. “I really can’t talk now. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  I hung up the phone before he could convince me to tell him my plans. I pushed my lingering women’s lib ideals out of my mind. It was all for the job. Fifty minutes and a barely escaped collision on I-5 later, I raced through the tunnel at the arena to warm up with the dancers. Before too long, the basketball teams would be taking the floor to warm up their players.

  A tall man, about six-foot-four, lean and lanky, sauntered across the court toward us as we went through one of the routines. He gave us two thumbs up before disappearing into the tunnel.

  I scooted close enough to Jennifer to ask, “Who was that?”

  “Michael Brothers,” she said.

  Ah. So that was Rochelle’s ball player.

  A sharp pain shot through my side and I lost my balance as Jennifer’s foot plowed into me.

  “Jesus, move over, Lola!” Victoria shouted from the side of the court. “Keep your head in the routine.”

  Processing through a potential clue and remembering dance steps was not as easy as walking and chewing gum at the same time. Victoria was right—I needed to concentrate on the dancing right now.

  As Jennifer got into starting position and led us through the routine, I thought about one of Manny’s mantras: Things are rarely as easy as they appear to be. My P.I. radar, once again, pointed in the direction of Rochelle Nolan or Mrs. Michael Brothers. Either one of them could have a grudge against Victoria or the team, Rochelle for being dismissed, and Mrs. Brothers for being replaced as Michael’s wife.

  The last routine finished, and I retreated into the locker room to begin my preparations for the game, beginning with makeup, which I enhanced considerably. It ended with taping my cleavage to maximum plumpness and slipping on my costume, which today consisted of shorts that barely covered more than my favorite string bikini did and a tight, glimmering royal blue iridescent shirt that tied at the breastbone.

  ¡Ay, ay, ay! I liked my sex appeal as much as the next girl, but this was overboard. A little cleavage and a feminine, ruffled skirt? Sí. A short skirt and lots of leg with a more modest top? Yes. Pero both? My heart pounded at how many people would be seeing me dressed in almost nothing.

  I found an empty corner in the changing room. Lying flat on my back, I did fifty crunches. My abs weren’t quite as defined as some of the dancers’, but after the sit-ups I knew the muscles were there, even if they were buried under cheese enchiladas and breakfast burritos.

  The nerves that had jumped willy-nilly in my stomach at the last game had ratcheted up again, and by the time the dance team glided onto the court, I was energized and ready. I’d rock that arena. And I’d seize any opportunity to figure out who was sending the threatening letters to my teammates.

  Chapter Eight

  We spaced out and did our “warming up the crowd” routine, pointing and kicking to the pounding beat of the music. The individual team members were introduced, the national anthem was sung a cappella, and the Courtside Dancers hurried back to the dressing room for the first costume change.

  Game on.

  When we came back to the front of the tunnel, I watched the game, paying special attention to the ball boys and the sweat moppers as they scurried around. Not a single one of them held an envelope or a guilty expression, nor did they do anything other than their job.

  The team played through the first quarter before we took to the floor again. I stayed in position, got every step right, and before long the first routine was over.

  We went back to the dressing room for a water break. I took a deep drink, reapplied my lipstick, and sat next to Jennifer. “Tell me about the players.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Best to stay away from them,” she said.

  I gave her a sideways glance. “What do you mean?”

  She studied her face in the mirror as she retied her shirt. “Victoria says it’s unprofessional. We’re supposed to stay away from them, especially during games.”

  “Why especially during games?”

  Carrie, the dancer who was sitting to my left, piped up. “Look in the triangle above the bench.”

  “The players’ bench?”

  “Yup.”

  The players sat along the court line if they were suited up. If they were out for the game, they dressed in nice street clothes and sat out behind the players.

  “When you go back out,” she continued, “check out the triangle.”

  “Tell her why,” Selma said, coming up beside me.

  Carrie swung her hair behind her shoulders. “Take note and steer clear. Those are the players’ wives.”

  They were so damned cryptic, but what they were saying registered like a neon sign. “So we can’t talk to any of the players because their wives might get pissed off. Got it.”

  Jennifer smirked. “After you’re done gawking at the wives, check out a couple rows above them.”

  I bit. “Okay, why?”

  Carrie dropped her voice. “That’s where the girlfriends sit.”

  I stared, the subtext of her words sinking in. Still, I asked for clarification, thinking maybe I was wrong and it wasn’t quite so blatant. “So the players who have wives…those women sit in one section, and the players with girlfriends…they sit in a different section?”

  “No,” Jennifer said. “What I mean is
that Number Thirty-four’s wife is sitting with the other wives, and his girlfriend is sitting with the girlfriends. Nice and sordid, but tidy. Almost all of them have wives and girlfriends.”

  ¡Ay, caramba!

  “A method to the adultery madness, so to speak,” Jennifer added.

  I shook my head, trying to grasp that it was just accepted that the ballplayers were unfaithful spouses. But did the wives know? I came back to thinking one or more of them might be behind the notes to the dancers.

  Carrie pulled out her lipstick, carefully applying it to her plump lips. My money was on silicone. She patted my knee. “So we steer clear.”

  After Carrie sauntered off, Selma sat down, rolling her eyes.

  “But can I talk to the players off the court?” I asked her. “I mean, how did Rochelle hook up with Michael Brothers?”

  “Have you seen Rochelle?”

  Big boobs. Blond hair. Paris Hilton’s twin. “Yep.”

  “Guess Mike Brothers likes that.”

  Selma was the exact opposite. Slighter build, natural beauty, a golden all-over tan, and normal-size breasts. Even made up for the game, she was the girl next door.

  “So they make the moves on the dancers if they’re interested?”

  Selma made a face. “Sometimes the girls will get notes from the opposing team’s players, inviting us to a party or something. If you’re lucky, a player from the Royals will try to hook up.” She made sure Jennifer wasn’t listening and lowered her voice. “If one of us goes that way, we do it at our own risk. We all signed contracts when we got this gig. We are not allowed to fraternize with the players.”

  “So that’s why Rochelle, er, left?” She may have quit, publicly, to save face, but it seemed clear to me that Victoria had pulled a Donald Trump on her with a, “You’re fired.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Before I could ask her anything else, she spritzed perfume in the air, walked through the mist, and hurried back to the court for the second half of the game.

  …

  We were just heading toward the tunnel after our next routine when one of the ball boys jogged over, a white envelope clutched in his hands. He gave it to Selma. She held it with two fingers, and from the way the ball boy had been pawing it, getting fingerprints might be sketchy, but at least Selma was trying.

  But then, from the corner of my eye, I saw her run a finger under the flap of the envelope. No! She’d been at Camacho & Associates when Manny had said he hoped to get fingerprints off of one of the notes. Why was she opening it?!

  But I couldn’t get to her in time to stop her. The envelope snapped open and she slid out the tri-folded paper, holding it by the edges.

  Good girl, Selma. She was being careful, anyway. We might get prints off the note itself. She read the lines of the letter, her eyes growing wide.

  I scanned the court but in the dim light it was too difficult to tell if anyone was paying attention to her. I studied the ball boy. He slowed his pace as he walked by me. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. I crooked my finger, motioning him toward me as I jogged out of line and leaned against the wall.

  “Hey,” he said. The acne on his face confirmed his youth.

  “Hey back.” I held in a cringe at the come-hither wink he sent me. “Got one of those for me?”

  The ball boy shrugged, his eyelids heavy as he considered me. “Not this time, baby.”

  I pouted, tilting my head to one side. “But where’d you get it?” I pointed to the rows above the players’ bench. “From one of them?”

  He shrugged again. “Nah. The letters are always by the clean towels. There was a note once that said for me to deliver to one of the Courtside Dancers, so now whenever there’s an envelope, that’s what I do.”

  “You deliver messages for someone but you have no idea who it is?” There had to be something in it for him.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Do you get paid for it?”

  “Sure do,” he said, grinning. “Twenty bucks every time. It’s always right there under the envelope.”

  Twenty dollars to scare the bejesus out of a dancer. Cheap labor. “And you have no idea who puts them there?”

  He took a step back, wary. “I already told you, no. Why?”

  Eek. Maybe I’d been too direct. Undercover, I reminded myself. I regrouped, giving him a flirty wink. Which, given my attire, felt altogether nasty. “Maybe someone’ll give you one for me,” I said coyly.

  He relaxed. “Yeah. Maybe. You new here? I haven’t seen you around before.”

  “Just started this week.” From the tunnel, the girls were intent on the game. I had a good long while to see if the ball boy knew anything that he didn’t realize he knew. “How about you?”

  “I’ve worked for the Royals since the season started.” He leaned his shoulder against the wall.

  I forced myself not to move away. “Bet you deliver notes to all the girls.” Lame, I thought, but flirting with a teenager made me nauseous.

  “Maybe I’ll arrange a personal delivery.” His voice rose over the cheering crowd and he edged his hand along the wall toward me.

  “Oh, so you do know who—”

  “From me.” He stiffened beside me. “I’m right here. Why would ya want some loser who doesn’t even know the players?”

  Damn. “Oooh, so you know the players? Is there a party tonight?”

  He leered, his eighteen-year-old, acne-scarred face making him look a touch unstable. “I’ll show you a party. Real private-like.”

  Okay, now this was going too far. “Oh, I don’t know…” I patted his hand in a gesture of dismissal, but he didn’t take the hint.

  “Come on, baby. Lemme show you the locker room. They don’t let nobody back there anymore, but I’ll give you a personal tour.”

  Hmm. This was tempting. I glanced around. We had about ten minutes before our next routine. “Can you give me the tour now?”

  He seemed unsure as he glanced back toward the court, mulling it over before making up his mind. “Sure thing, baby. Hold that thought.” He jogged down the court, said something to one of the moppers (who turned to gawk), then he jogged back.

  He snatched my hand and pulled me into the tunnel after him. “What’s your name, baby?”

  What was with all the baby stuff? He was the baby in this equation. “Lola. What’s yours?”

  “Josh.”

  I pulled my hand free. “Well, Josh. Impress me. Why do they keep it so off-limits?”

  “Scandals and stuff. Gotta protect the players.” We walked side by side until he stopped short in front of the door to the locker room. “This is it.”

  Like any pro sports team, Royals players had had their share of accusations lobbed against them. Drugs. Gambling. Women. I hadn’t been able to dig up any dirt on any of the dancers yet; the players were next in line.

  “Can we go in?” I asked, wondering how I could get rid of him so I could search the lockers real quickly. Maybe I’d get lucky and find a stack of ready-to-deliver envelopes piled in a corner somewhere.

  “Nah.”

  “Oh.” I frowned. “Well, that’s not much of a tour. I’ve never been this close to someone who actually knows famous basketball players.”

  Josh puffed up like a peacock, full of his own importance. “Well,” he said, “maybe for a quick minute.”

  He pushed the door open, poked his head around the corner to check out the room, and, when he was sure the coast was clear, let me pass.

  My heart pounded. It was only a locker room, but getting caught wasn’t on my list of things to do tonight. Cubbies with the players’ belongings lined the walls and a buffet spread far superior to the one in the dancers’ locker room spanned two rectangular tables. Cases of bottled water were stacked in one corner, beside a soda machine, vending machine, and a closed door along another wall.

  “This is it?” Despite the buffet, I expected more bells and whistles for a championship-contending basketball team.

 
; Josh spread his arms wide as he turned around in a circle. “What d’ya mean, ‘this is it?’ This is the Royals’ locker room. It’s fan-freaking-tastic.”

  I walked by the cubby lockers, checking each one as surreptitiously as I could.

  No envelopes.

  No paper.

  No writing instruments.

  No big surprise.

  I peeked through the window of the door next to the vending machine. Linens. “What’s over there—?”

  I broke off as Josh clamped a hand on my shoulder and spun me around. He crashed his mouth against mine, gripping my shoulders with his icy hands.

  “Thtop!” Instincts kicked in. I hauled my knee up, slamming my foot down a split second later, landing squarely on his toes.

  He screeched, pulling back. I threaded my arms in between his to knock his hands away and slapped his cheek. “What the hell are you doing, Josh?”

  He held his palm to his face, hopping on one foot. “What d’ya mean?” His eyes turned glassy. “You wanted to come in here.”

  Son of a bitch. “Right, to see the locker room. Dude, I’m way too old for you. And, uh, let me enlighten you. Girls you hook up with don’t want to be groped the second you get them alone. Whatever happened to getting to know someone before exchanging spit?”

  He looked me up and down, still clutching his reddened face. The cocky attitude had been replaced by eighteen-year-old confused frustration. “But you’re dressed like…like…” He waved his hand up and down at my body. “Like that. And you’re hot.”

  Pobrecito. It wasn’t cool to mess with a teenager’s libido. “Wanting a tour is not code for something else,” I said. “Bit of advice, Josh. These dance costumes are a uniform. And even if a woman is dressed…er…suggestively, that’s not a green light that she’s game for a hookup.”

  Josh just stared at me, hurt and dumbfounded, but I didn’t have time to give him any more mini lessons on how men should respect women. I resumed my quick search. I walked briskly through to the showers, glanced at the urinals and toilet stalls, and passed by another door. “What’s in there?”