by Tim Maleeny
“You must be Shayla. I’m Sam, your—”
“—friendly neighborhood policeman.” She took his hand in a smooth, strong grip.
“Guess my cover is blown.” Sam reclaimed his seat.
Tamara spoke from the loveseat. “With Gail as a neighbor, there aren’t that many secrets on this floor.”
“Except one.” Shayla grabbed her own water and plopped down next to her roommate. She turned to Sam. “Guess that’s why you’re here, huh?”
Sam felt compelled to state the obvious. “You’re talking about Ed, I take it.”
“Dead Ed,” said Tamara, nodding.
Shayla turned to face her roommate. “I always told you pigs couldn’t fly.”
Both women erupted in laughter, then looked at Sam like two schoolgirls caught smoking.
“Guess you both had a motive, then?” Sam asked gently.
The roommates stopped laughing, but their eyes betrayed their amusement. “You probably think we’re awful,” began Tamara.
Sam shook his head. “Just surprisingly honest. Most people don’t speak ill of the dead. At least not when they’re talking to a policeman.”
“We’ve got nothing to hide.” Shayla spread her arms wide.
“An ironclad alibi,” added Tamara.
Shayla nodded. “It’s all on tape.”
“Tape,” Sam repeated. “You went out that night?” He figured they went to an ATM machine that night or a club or convenience store. Walk into any store or restaurant downtown and you were probably on tape for at least half the night. You might have a right to privacy, but the ability to get some was something else entirely.
“No,” replied Shayla. “We stayed in.”
“C’mon, we’ll show you.” Tamara uncrossed her legs and stood up in one fluid movement that could have put Viagra out of business. Sam shook his head and followed the roommates across the living room, down a short hallway, and into the first bedroom on the right.
The apartment was a two bedroom, two bath arrangement featuring one bedroom on each side of a short hallway running perpendicular to the living room. The room Sam entered held a bed topped by a down comforter just slightly smaller than Mt. Everest, flanked by a nightstand on the right that held the usual tchotchke of reading lamps, tissues, books, and alarm clock. Against the right wall was a couch low enough to trip over, set adjacent to a small desk. On the desk was a computer with a flat screen monitor. Near the left wall was a short dresser pushed up against a princess vanity with enough lights around the mirror to blow a fuse. From bed to carpet, the overall color scheme was pink, with occasional accents of pink against a background of pink, complimented nicely by random touches of pink, just to keep things interesting.
“Go ahead, guess my favorite color,” prompted Tamara, launching herself onto the bed.
“That wouldn’t be fair,” replied Sam. “I am a detective, after all.”
Shayla smiled and curled up on the couch. Sam half expected her to start purring.
“You said something about an alibi?” he said hopefully.
Tamara looked over at Shayla and winked, then smiled broadly at Sam and did something that caught him completely by surprise. She curled her arms around her sides and slowly lifted her shirt over her head, revealing a pair of breasts that should have been hanging in the Louvre.
Shayla giggled to fill the silence as Sam was struck speechless. Tamara did her standing-up move and stepped uncomfortably close to him, saying, “Here, check it out.” Then she took his right hand in hers and steered him gently over to the computer.
Sam was busy reminding himself to breathe when Tamara released his hand and grabbed the computer mouse, jiggling it back and forth on a pad next to the keyboard. Sam found the jiggling painfully distracting until the screen saver cleared, revealing a new image on the flat screen that explained everything.
Actually it was four images, each in its own quadrant. In the upper left was an aerial shot of the room they were standing in—Sam figured the camera was set somewhere in the corner above the door, based on the view of his own back. The image in the lower left showed a view of the bed from the ceiling. Lower right was a view from behind the vanity, looking directly at anyone sitting there. And in the upper right were Tamara’s perfect breasts, warped and magnified in loving detail by a small camera mounted directly above the computer screen.
Sam managed to reverse his blood flow back toward his brain and state the obvious. “You ladies have a web cam.”
Shayla giggled again as Tamara theatrically put her arms around him and gave him a peck on the cheek. Then she strolled over to the bed, reclaimed her t-shirt, and hid her twin genetic masterpieces from view. Part of Sam was horribly disappointed, and part of him was relieved. He was suddenly back in the world he understood, the world of vice and human commerce, and no longer in the letters section of a men’s magazine.
“It’s more than a web cam,” said Tamara proudly. “It’s the soft-core website of the month, according to Matt.”
“Matt?”
“Masturbation Matt’s Reviews,” replied Shayla. “The source for quality adult entertainment on the web.” Tamara added, “Just go to masturbationmatt.com—he gets 80,000 hits a day.”
Sam had the sudden need to sit down. “Mind if we go back to the living room?”
When they were back on their respective couches, drinks in hand, Sam put it together. “That’s how you pay the rent.”
Shayla nodded. “We take turns sleeping in the room with the cameras. Getting undressed, doing our makeup—topless, of course.”
“Of course,” replied Sam. “You ever vacuum in there?” He had to ask.
Tamara nodded. “Nude.”
“Naturally,” said Sam. “Who needs lint on their clothes? And how many, um, visitors do you get?”
“We have about two thousand members at any given time,” answered Shayla.
“Ten bucks a month,” added Tamara.
Sam ran the numbers in his head. “Two hundred and forty thousand dollars a year?”
“Not counting expenses,” replied Shayla. “We pay for links to other sites, placement on search engines, that sort of thing.”
“I’m going to med school,” said Tamara.
“Law school,” added Shayla.
“We’d make more if the site was hardcore,” said Tamara, frowning. “But a girl’s gotta have some privacy, wouldn’t you agree?” She adjusted her t-shirt and shifted on the couch.
“Absolutely,” replied Sam with a straight face.
“Plus we make some money on the side,” added Tamara. “But nothing serious—I’m eye candy.”
“I protest,” said Shayla.
Sam thought Shayla was jumping to her roommate’s defense until he remembered hearing the term before. “Eye candy,” he said slowly. “An escort service?”
“Un-nuh.” Tamara shook her head empathically. “You’re thinking call girls, dressed up like arm jewelry.” She turned to face Shayla. “I ain’t no ‘ho, am I sister?”
Shayla laughed. “She gets paid 500 bucks a night just to go to parties.”
Sam nodded. USA Today had a feature article about a year ago. He was so accustomed to the underground world of prostitutes that the growing above-ground economy built on sex often eluded him. “Some millionaire is throwing a party or a major celebrity’s son is having his eighteenth birthday, they want enough hot girls to fill up the room.”
Tamara nodded. “I’m part of the scenery, like wallpaper with tits.”
Sam wrestled with the image only for an instant. “No strings attached?”
Tamara shook her head. “Wouldn’t do it if there were. Sometimes I even meet someone worth talking to, but most nights it’s just boring. Free food and drinks, easy money.”
Sam looked at Shayla. “Not you?”
Shayla shook her head. “Don’t want to give up my nights. Not enough of a social life as it is.”
Tamara nodded ruefully. “San Francisco—half the men
married—the other half married to each other.”
Sam titled his chin toward Shayla. “And you protest what, exactly?”
Shayla shrugged. “Anything…everything. I get a call, I call some friends, we go to a march.”
“You lost me.”
Shayla leaned forward. “Remember the antiwar protests last year?”
“Sure,” said Sam. “Screwed up traffic downtown for a week.”
Shayla smiled, pleased with herself. “I was there. And remember the anti-outsourcing march down Market Street last month?”
“I must’ve missed that one.”
“Didn’t get a big turnout,” admitted Shayla. “Then there was the bikers’ rights ride down Market Street.”
“The motorcyclists bitching about having their own lane, like the bicyclists?” asked Sam.
“Yeah, I was on the back of a Harley. It was fun.”
Sam drank off the last of his soda. “How does it work?”
Shayla’s eyes lit up. “Most people don’t know it, but almost all the protests, marches, sit-ins—you name it—are organized by the same four or five guys.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Everything’s got a political angle, right?”
“OK.”
“Think about it,” said Shayla, warming to her topic. “Protest the war, the current administration looks bad. That’s worth something to the other party. You don’t want outsourcing, well, that’s worth something to the unions.”
“The guys on the motorcycles?” asked Sam.
Shayla smiled. “Two groups working together. The union guys who paint the lines on the streets and a city councilman who worked the biker clubs to get elected to his district.”
Sam nodded. “And wherever there’s politics, there’s money.”
“Exactly.” replied Shayla. “So a small group of entrepreneurs got an idea—call yourself a grassroots organization, apply for nonprofit status, and pay yourself outrageous salaries as the organization’s executive directors. Then make money by organizing a march or protest for any client—from any political party or cause, in any city—anytime you want the press to cover an issue.”
Tamara interjected. “And all you need are a bunch of highly social young people, connected by technology. An instant, mobile army that’s highly photogenic.”
Shayla pulled a cell phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. “I’ve got three hundred contacts in this thing—I send an instant message and at least fifty of them show up at any given time, bringing other friends with them. I get paid five hundred for smaller events, a grand for anything that commands national coverage, like CNN.”
Sam ran his fingers through his hair, feeling like he was back in school. He should definitely be taking notes. “What are your politics?”
Shayla shrugged. “I’m a libertarian—I think both parties are filled with a bunch of crooks who wake up every day trying to figure out how to take your money and give it to some guy they went to school with—after telling you that they truly understand the plight of the black community…or the working family…or the bilingual student…or the ostracized motorcycle gang.” Shayla made a face that suggested nausea. “And I don’t think a march ever changed a damn thing.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because marches make people feel better—like they’re doing something. And because the money that goes in my pocket comes out of the pockets of those politicians.”
“So you’re playing the system?”
Shayla raised her eyebrows. “Better than letting the system play me.”
Tamara reached across and pinched Shayla’s cheek. Her coffee skin turned pale beneath her eye before regaining its luster. “It helps she’s a sister—and she’s hot.”
“That’s me,” said Shayla. “Tall, black, and nonfat. The politically correct drink of choice for reporters everywhere.”
Sam thought of all the college professors and media pundits saying young women were in constant danger of being exploited because of their sex. These two women had turned the tables on everyone, playing off their looks but using their brains to grab the world by the balls. They were going to graduate from med school and law school without an ounce of debt, and they would never look back.
“I’d hate to get on your bad side,” he said to both of them.
“You getting back to business, huh?” asked Shayla.
Sam nodded. “You were in the next room, on camera, the night Ed died?”
Tamara nodded. “Yup.”
“Both of you?” asked Sam. “I thought you took turns.”
“Some nights we hang out together, like normal roomies,” said Shayla. “Paint each other’s nails.” She extended a bare foot, revealing purple toenails.
“Only we sit around with our tops off,” added Tamara.
“Gotta pay the rent,” said Sam mildly.
“Exactly,” replied the roommates in unison.
“Nice alibi.”
“You want to see the footage?” asked Tamara helpfully.
“What man wouldn’t?” asked Sam, feeling like the straight man in a vaudeville act. “But thanks anyway. How about telling me why neither of you is wearing black to mourn our dear, departed landlord.”
Shayla leaned forward. “Easy. He tried to shake us down.”
“For money?”
“For sex,” replied Tamara.
Shayla lowered her voice and scratched the side of her face as if she had a beard. “Give me a blowjob and I’ll lower your rent.”
Tamara matched the pitch of her voice and added, “Fuck me or I’ll kick your ass out on the street.”
Sam shook his head.
Both women nodded. Tamara spoke first. “Ed was a class act, I tell you.”
“And that was only the first week we lived here,” said Shayla.
“So you did what?” asked Sam, already knowing the answer.
“We invited him upstairs for a drink,” said Shayla, smiling at the memory.
“Asshole thought he was going to get lucky.” Tamara smirked. “But we asked him to repeat his generous offers.”
Sam said, “And you got the whole thing on tape.”
“Broadcast live on the web,” said Tamara.
“And recorded onto our hard drive,” said Shayla.
“Poor Ed,” said Sam.
“Poor dumb Ed,” said Shayla.
“So the room is miked?”
“Yeah, we have audio,” said Tamara, “but we usually deactivate it, so we can talk shit about whatever we want—our members only care about the T&A, not the witty rapport.”
Shalya snorted. “Most probably have the sound off on their own computers anyway, so they can beat off while their wives are in the other room.”
“How did Ed react?”
“We hit the replay button and all the blood drained from his face,” said Tamara.
“It was beautiful,” said Shayla.
“Then we made him take his pants off,” added Tamara matter-of-factly.
Sam coughed. “You’re not serious.”
Shayla nodded. “We are very serious.”
“Very,” agreed Tamara. She laughed from deep in her belly. “He was mad as a hornet.”
“And limp as a wet fern,” added Shayla, laughing just as hard.
“He ever bother you again?”
Tamara stopped laughing. “Would you?”
It was Sam’s turn to laugh. “Not a chance.”
“So that’s our story, Mister Policeman,” said Shayla, doing a remarkable Betty Boop impersonation right down to the fluttering lashes.
Sam knew when he was outgunned. “So you settled your score, and you’ve got the tape to prove it. Gail tells me Ed tried to force her out of the building, too. Anybody else have a reason to dislike our ex-landlord?”
“Can’t think of a reason why anyone would like him,” replied Shayla. “Did you?”
“Nah,” said Sam. “I thought Ed was an asshole.”
“Did you ki
ll him?” asked Tamara playfully.
“I’m a cop, remember?”
“That just makes it easier to cover-up,” said Shayla.
“You kill everyone you think is an asshole?”
“No,” replied Tamara, still smiling. “We just make them take their pants off.”
“Exactly,” said Sam. “So how well do you know your— our—neighbors?”
“You talk to Gus yet?” asked Tamara.
Sam shook his head. “Is he the old guy, end of the hall?”
“Yeah. Retired, nice as can be—plays tennis at the courts in the park across the street. Says it keeps him young.”
“How old is he?”
“I dunno,” said Tamara. “Around Gail’s age, maybe? He’s sweet on her, I think. I’ve seen them having coffee sometimes—it’s cute.”
“OK,” said Sam, feeling the need to stretch his legs. “Anybody else?”
“Jill,” said Shayla. “You know Jill?”
Sam shook his head. “Gail mentioned her, but we’ve never met.”
“Last door on the left,” said Tamara. “You’d like Jill.”
Shayla looked Sam up and down, like she was weighing him for sale in the produce section. “He would like Jill. How old are you?”
Sam told her.
Tamara beamed. “Jill’s great, very cool lady. She’s a singer—you know the bar on the other side of the park?”
“Yeah.”
“Friday nights,” said Tamara. “Jazz.”
“She’s got that husky voice,” added Shayla. “You’d like Jill.”
Sam found himself blushing. “OK—anybody else?”
“How ‘bout the crackheads across the hall?” asked Shayla.
Tamara flushed. “They are not crackheads. Jerome’s cute—he’s just…”
“A crackhead,” insisted Shayla.
Tamara flared her eyes at her roommate, then smiled at Sam. “Two brothers, Larry and Jerome. They live across the hall. Larry’s a little uptight, but Jerome’s kinda sweet.”
Shayla rolled her eyes. “He holds the elevator door open for her, and the girl swoons.”
Tamara smacked Shayla on the leg. “I like men with manners.”
Shayla shook her head sadly. “He’s a crackhead.”
