Tamping down the urge to outright laugh in the woman’s face, Michelle resumed her fake role. “I’m so sorry to tell you in such a callous way. I felt certain you would know by now…TV, newspapers, customers…boss? Surely your employer would know if something happened to one of her dancers.”
Siamese knuckled at dry eyes and sniffed. Michelle offered a tissue from her purse, noting some of the black from the woman’s overdone eye make-up transferred to the Kleenex, leaving a smudged mess behind. Siamese really resembled her stage name now, especially the way she mewed in sorrow and quivered like a purring cat. Not quite an Oscar-winning performance, but close.
Summoning fake remorse for what she considered feigned emotions, Michelle rested a consoling hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Evidently you were close?”
“N…not really. Kitten hadn’t been here very long. What happened? And why aren’t the police snooping around instead of a private dick?”
“I-I….” Now it was Michelle’s turn to stutter. Why not the police? And private dick? Insulting but still a good question, and from someone who surprisingly grew composed so quickly. “I didn’t ask when her father hired me. This job means good money to me, and I’m not walking away from a paying assignment. Besides, I’m guessing the cops aren’t moving fast enough to suit him. You know, it doesn’t take long for a case to grow cold with so many crimes being committed. Who’s going to make a stripper’s murder a priority?”
Michelle never dreamed she could think so fast. Pleased with her answer, she eyed the drinks the cocktail waitress finally placed before her. Realizing the woman’s subtle delay was her ploy for a tip, Michelle passed the dollar to the upturned palm and got rid of the extra pair of ears. God, she wished she’d ordered water. Her throat was dry as dust.
“So, have you found out anything yet?” Siamese summoned her attention away from the frothy mug, shot glass and small bowl with two lime slices.
“Uh, no. This is my first stop. I figured where Kitten worked was the best place to start…you know, gal pals sharing secrets, knowing more about one another because you share the same…uh...career.”
The woman laughed. “This ain’t no career, honey. Do you think I’d be here dressed like this if I could find a different job? I have a daughter and two grandkids to support. My kid’s asshole boyfriend ran off and left her with another brat in the oven.”
Michelle’s previous assumptions turned to cloaking guilt. Hadn’t she learned not to judge people by now? And why was her mouth so dry? God, even the beer was starting to look good, but she was on duty. She considered summoning the waitress back, but jumped when Siamese’s arm brushed hers.
“Ain’t you gonna drink that?” The stripper pointed to the shot glass.
“I’m suddenly not in the mood for tequila. In fact, I think I’ll order a glass of water.”
Quicker than a lightning bolt, Siamese moved the shot closer to her. She reached for a saltshaker on an adjoining table and sprinkled some in the cradled V between her thumb and forefinger. Michelle watched the process, feeling like a beginner, as Siamese licked the salt, bit into the lime, and then downed the liquor. Her creased lips drew into a pucker. “Whew.”
“Well, like I said,” she continued, “I didn’t know Kitten very well. She hadn’t really been here long enough to get close to anyone. Maybe you should talk to the person who hired her.”
“Oh, you mean Kitty Kat? Where can I find her?”
“You mean him. Carlo Costanzo is the owner of this joint. I don’t know if he bought the name or just thought it would be clever to have everyone assume a feline role, but he’s usually in his office.” She stood. “It’s my turn on the pole, and the bartender’s been giving me some pretty nasty looks for sitting on the job. I wish I could have been more help.” She turned and walked away, then stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, and catch the bastard who killed Kitten. She seemed like a nice gal.”
Michelle hadn’t wanted to look, but as the woman made her way toward the stage, there was no denying, the older dancer did have a nice ass for someone her age.
Chapter Four
So, Kitty Kat was a guy! For some reason, Michelle recognized the name, Carlo Costanzo, but from where escaped her. She’d run his name as soon as she got back to the office to find out more. Regardless, she was here and it was time to have a chat with Miss Kitty. Where was Marshall Dillon when you needed him? She laughed at her reference to the old TV show, Gunsmoke, long gone along with all the actors. Sad, really sad. She’d loved James Arness’ sexy swagger, broad shoulders and the way he carried himself. Almost like Tony. She shook the comparison. “Get a grip, Shell.”
Purse on her shoulder, she walked back to the bouncer at the front of the bar. Her throat even drier, she cleared it. “Ah, excuse me, can you tell me where I can find Mr. Costanzo?”
The fellow guarding the door straightened from leaning against the wall, his muscles flexed and the veins in his neck bulged. “Who wants to know?”
Intimidation overpowered thirst, choking off her words. “Ah…” She hadn’t come up with a fake name, and she sure didn’t want to give her real one. “Alicia Keys.” She assumed the identity of her favorite singer in a snap. “He won’t know me, but I’ve been hired by Cara Austin’s father to investigate her death. I believe you call her Kitten.”
“Kitten’s dead?” His square jaw cocked to the side.
Obviously no one in the place talked to one another…or so they wanted her to think. Michelle nodded, her patience faltering. “Murdered.”
“Oh, wow, I’m sorry to hear that. She was a nice gal.”
So far, the only thing Michelle knew about Cara was she was a ‘nice gal.’ “Mr. Costanzo?” She pushed ahead.
“Ah, I’ll have to check and see if he’s available.” The bouncer picked up the receiver from the wall phone next to him. “Hey, boss. There’s some chick here who wants to see you about Kitten.” He hung up and fixed his gaze on her. “He told me to send you back.” He pointed at an entrance behind the bar. “Through that door, follow the hall to the left, and you’ll see his office at the end.”
“Thanks.” She followed his instruction, passing closed doors on both sides of the corridor and headed for Costanzo’s office. Her detective side surfaced in curiosity about what went on inside the myriad of rooms she passed. She could only imagine, and she didn’t like what crept into her mind. Was that an erotic moan she heard as she passed the last door?
At the end of the worn carpeting, she paused outside Costanzo’s door and took a deep breath. “Alicia Keys,” she muttered, reminding herself of her alias. Oh, if only she sang like her fave. She wouldn’t be in this dive facing who knew what on the other side of the gaudy red portal.
She raised her hand to knock, but the door swung open and a short, stocky man in a pinstriped suit gestured her inside. Only a smidge of hair fringed his bald pate, and his bulbous nose was much redder than the rest of his bloated face. A looker, he wasn’t.
“Please come in, Ms…?”
“Keys.” Michelle gaped at the cluttered room. A large picture of cats playing poker hung on the wall behind a massive desk littered with papers; how clever, felines replacing the well-known dogs in the popular artwork. On an adjacent wall hung tons of pictures of Carlos shaking hands with a myriad of people. Some she recognized, some she didn’t. One in particular, Clint Eastwood, caught her attention. Too bad such a handsome man was now a wrinkled and aged version of Rowdy Yates, the cowboy she loved to watch in Rawhide on TV as a kid. She drew her attention back to her suspect, chastising herself for letting her mind wander.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Costanzo. I promise I won’t take much of your time.”
He motioned to a visitor’s chair as he took a seat in one that dwarfed him. He resembled a baseball nestled in a catcher’s mitt.
Sitting, she bit back a chuckle. What was making her think such stupid things? Nerves?
“I’m afraid you h
ave me at a disadvantage. You know my name and enough about me, but I have no idea why you’re here.” The owner steepled his fingers atop his protruding stomach.
“Let me make a proper introduction. I’m Alicia Keys, a private investigator hired by the Austin family to gather facts about the death of their daughter, Cara. I believe she went by the name, Kitten, here at work.” She retrieved a notepad from her purse.
He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Such a shame. I haven’t had the opportunity to share the bad news with the rest of the staff, but I did read about her demise in the paper.”
“Can you tell me a little about Cara…uh, Kitten?”
“She only worked for me for a few months. She mentioned something about needing money to help pay college expenses, but I never asked what she studied or which school. She was a looker, right for the job, and willing to dance, so I hired her on the spot.”
“Do you do background checks on your employees?” Michelle wanted to roll her eyes, but blinked instead while making notes. Why would he care about someone’s life as long as they were padding his pockets?
“Uh, no.”
At least he answered truthfully.
“I just expect the people I hire to do their jobs while they’re here. Their life history doesn’t concern me.” He bent forward and retrieved a bottle and two glasses from a drawer. “Care for drink?”
“No thank you…unless you have some water."
He put away the second glass and produced her liquid of choice. She accepted the small plastic container and drained it.
She placed the empty on the desk and focused back on Costanzo. “Did you ever notice Cara having a problem with a particular customer?”
“Oh, all the girls have problems from time to time. Men drink, wanna touch, make it more personal than it should be, and faces get slapped. Cara had her share of guys pawing at her, but none in particular stand out. I have a hard and fast rule. Touch the girls and you’re outta here.” He smiled. “You met my bouncer, didn’t you?”
Michelle nodded. “Yes, I did. I imagine he wouldn’t have much trouble ejecting anyone.” She jotted another note. “So, since you don’t recall Cara having any specific problems with her customers, would you mind if I talk to some of your staff? Perhaps someone noticed something you missed.”
“It’s a little late to ask, don’t you think? Especially since you already spent quite a bit of time with Siamese.”
Michelle’s puzzlement must have displayed on her face.
“Cameras.” He pointed behind her. “There isn’t much that goes on in here that I don’t see.”
She turned and spied the monitors mounted over the door. One focused on the audience area, one on the bar, the other scanned the hallway.
“Oh, that’s how you knew I was at your door before I even knocked.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I’m not psychic.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. “And, I got no problem with you nosing around. I hate that someone killed one of my favorite dancers and I hope you catch the creep.”
Michelle cringed at his reference to psychic, but gave a silent sigh of relief that he hadn’t echoed everyone’s sentiment about Cara being a ‘nice gal.’ Mr. C’s expression of sympathy was as empty as Michelle’s water bottle. The dead dancer had only been a dollar sign to him, not a person. Shell didn’t much like the man, but he had been willing to see her, and as obnoxious as she found him, he didn’t immediately warrant the suspect list. Damn!
Michelle stood, tucked her notepad away, and slung her purse over her shoulder. She extended her palm. “Thank you, Mr. Costanzo, for your help. I appreciate your willingness to let me speak with your employees, and also that you took time to meet with me.” After he shook her offered hand, she wished for anti-bacterial soap. She made a mental note to buy a small bottle to carry with her if she planned to frequent places like this. Silence lingered.
Crap! Now was the time she would present him with a business card and ask him to call if he had any further information to share, but unfortunately she didn’t have any that identified her faux personality. She had to think fast.
“Since I don’t have my business cards printed yet, I’ll be checking back with you in a week or so. If you remember or hear anything, please jot it down.” She turned to leave.
“Oh, Ms Keys…” he summoned her attention. “The dancer’s dressing room is behind the stage. I’ll ring my bouncer and let him know I’ve okayed your visit.”
She smiled. “I appreciate that. I sure wouldn’t want him and all that muscle on my bad side.”
She left, closing the door behind her and resisting the urge to pause and listen outside a few of the others as she headed toward the dressing room doors. Certainly, Mr. Costanzo watched her every move on his cameras, and she didn’t want to tip her hand in any way.
A PI wouldn’t be interested in anything other than a particular case, but wouldn’t she love being able to turn some proof over to vice and have this place shut down? She halted her thoughts and did an about-face. She might not approve of the vocation the dancers elected, but hadn’t the owner himself told her that Cara planned to use her earnings to further her education? And what about Siamese who bared it all to support her family? Where would they be without a means to make a living? Humility covered her like a shroud. She quickened her step and moved from the musty corridor back into the smoke-hazed room. The bass thumping that had shuddered the hallway walls became deafening.
She noticed the “okay” signal flashed to her by the bouncer and climbed the three steps at the rear of the stage, averting her gaze from the seductive moves of the duo dancing and ignoring the catcalls from spectators. Flicking aside the red satin curtain, she stepped into a dimly-lit room filled with props and the usual backstage paraphernalia one would expect in a live production. Of course, the rack of multi-colored feather boas, and another holding various whips, chains and leather straps didn’t quite fit the bill. A crooked star hung on a closed door and from behind it came muffled voices. She gazed around and seeing no other doors, stepped over the endless electrical cords snaking across the floor and knocked.
“Who are you?” An overly made up, though still attractive face, peered around the slightly ajar door.
“Alicia…Keys.” She waited for a flicker of recognition at the name, but breathed a sigh at seeing none.
“What do you want?” The girl opened the door wider. Her rouged cheeks lifted in a welcoming smile. She wore a sequined brassiere and a pair of hipster-type shorts emblazoned with sparkles. Beneath a raised dark brow matching her short bobbed hair, her azure eyes stood out like the blue waters of Hawaii.
The other women in the room paid Michelle no mind and continued applying their make-up at a jar and bottle-covered counter lit by a steady line of round lights over huge mirrors.
“Mr. Costanzo has given me permission to ask some questions about Kitten, so you don’t need to worry about breaking any rules. He does seem like a stickler for them.”
The girl’s eyes misted. “Poor Kitten. Siamese just told us about her being dead and all. I can’t believe it.”
The mention of Cara’s stage name caught the attention of the others. They turned, eyes lowered and muttered their sympathies. One girl crossed herself as befitting the Catholic religion.
Michelle gestured to an empty chair. “Would you all mind if I sat and asked you a few questions? I’m trying to help solve this case as quickly as possible for her family’s sake.”
“No, not at all. Please. Oh, and I’m Persia…as in Persian. Get it?” She giggled while she dusted powder off the wooden-backed seat.
“How clever.” Michelle again resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course no one would want to reveal their true name.
“It’s nice to meet you, Persia. And who are your friends?” Tingling with curiosity about the monikers given the others, Michelle sat and retrieved her notepad.
Persia moved from woman to woman, resting her hands on each o
ne’s shoulders as she called out their name. “This is Calico, this is Cheetah, this is Tiger, and last but not least, is Manx.”
“My pleasure, ladies.” She turned her gaze to Persia. “Are there others?”
She nodded. “You’ve already met Siamese…but, let’s see…“ She tipped her head up as if searching her memory. “Burmese, Panther, Tabby, and…who am I forgetting?” She looked to her friends for help.
“Abyssinian,” offered Calico. “Remember, Carlos gave her the name because she looks Egyptian?”
“Lord, how in the world do you remember who’s who?” Michelle raised a brow.
“Oh, it’s easy when you get used it.” Persia smiled. “Actually, I like my stage name so much I use it in my daily life. It’s sexier than Bernadette. That sounds more like a nun…no offense Cheetah.” She looked to the woman who had made the sign of the cross earlier.
“None taken.” Holding her mouth open and slightly to the side, Cheetah applied another layer of mascara.
Michelle practiced the same ritual, strange as it looked. Why, she wondered?
Despite all the interesting things going on in the room, she jerked her attention back to the reason she was there. “Well, I know you have schedules to keep so I’ll keep my questions quick. Feel free to chime in if you have something to share.” Michelle readied her pen. “Do any of you know of a particular customer or…even someone you hadn’t seen here before who visited Kitten…perhaps gave her grief?”
Silence allowed the overwhelming bass from the music in the other room to invade the space. The women either shrugged or shook their heads.
“How about a significant other. Did Kitten have one that any of you met or heard about?”
A Novel Murder Page 4
