Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  “It’s not even about that, Deb. I’m bein’ upfront with you. You don’t need him. Not as a boyfriend, not as a pimp . . . girl, he’s not even good enough to be a man.” Moet eased her attack, faced with Debbie’s frown. “I’m tellin’ you some good shit, Deb.”

  Moet reached across the table and placed her palm over the back of Debbie’s hand, offering compassion. Not a second later, they were disrupted. The waitress laid down their drinks. Debbie had a rum and Coke, while Moet lived up to her name and had champagne.

  After their red snapper dinner and some flirting at the bar, the evening’s excitement escalated with a trip downtown to The Shadow nightclub in midtown Manhattan. Moet’s Mercedes was extra shiny (well worth the $5 tip she’d paid outside of the restaurant) and it attracted some appreciation from the long line outside of the club.

  It was now 1AM, and Moet knew that she was playing with fire. The club usually sold out by this time on Saturday nights, and the crowd was body to body along the ramp ascending towards the entrance. She rushed into the adjacent parking lot, paid the attendant and encouraged Debbie to get a move on.

  “Come on. I know the doorman,” Moet said. And just so, the two avoided the crowd thanks to Moet luring the doorman with her half naked body.

  Once inside, Debbie could feel the drone of house music thumping and bouncing off of the walls and floors and ceilings. She felt her heart beating like a jungle drum under her breast as she looked up and out into the dark, captivating rotunda. Colorful strings of laser lights shot out into the fog above a sea of ethnic men and women. Heads bobbed and eyeballs roamed, while people wandered to and fro in their endless search for companionship.

  The heaviest concentration—where most of the body heat was focused—was the large dance floor in the center of the club, where men and women shook and wiggled and dazzled one another. Blending the rhythm with some attitude was DJ Sugar Daddy, currently spinning the classic Colonel Abrams hit, “I’m Not Gonna Let You,” and thrilling the venue of mostly 30-somethings. One behind the other, Moet and Debbie worked their way through the crowd of bodies, to different areas and designated rooms. In one of those designated rooms reggae music encouraged women and men alike to wind and grind against one another. Some men were standing back against pillars, or up against walls, merely observing the activities instead of actually participating.

  Leaving the reggae room was like walking through a sound barrier or time warp, with the reggae and club music clashing, the beats and tempos conflicting and the vibrations at war with one another. From that room, the two climbed a case of stairs to an intimate wing on the second floor. To the left was a jazz room where the mood was smooth and mellow. To the right was a glass-enclosed balcony, complete with couches, cocktail tables and a few intimate couples. From that position those couples had a glass-enclosed, unobstructed view of the crowded dance floor below. Moet and Debbie occupied a table and soaked into the obscurity of the dimmed atmosphere, and they too looked down over the sea of heads on the dance floor below. Although the music was muffled to a low hum, the vibrations still thumped and bumped and penetrated the walls and floors throughout.

  The night was just an ongoing movement for Debbie, now with this latest head rush to help her to forget the concerns at the top of her list; like suddenly feeling alone in New York; or like not being financially stable; and most of all, there were David’s deceptions that somehow persuaded Debbie to veer from her mother, and from her wants and desires for a successful future. All of these concerns were now so easily whisked away, or at least subdued by the ever-intriguing Moet. She seemed to have influence with all the right people in all the right places. Yes, her acquaintances were mostly men, but from all walks of life. She had what Debbie was beginning to crave. Control.

  That late night on the way back to Jackie’s house, Moet pulled over into a service area on the Grand Central Parkway.

  “Everything is . . . yeah, everything is fine. I just wanted to stop for a minute.” Debbie shrugged at Moet’s answer and sank back, relaxed in the passenger’s seat. She settled into a mood of calm, with her eyes closed and her mind on the pleasant, infectious sounds of Tony Toni Toné’s “Slow Wind,” playing on Moet’s Alpine sound system. Moet leaned over into Debbie’s own field of warmth. Her lips barely touched Debbie’s, prompting her to jolt and draw her head back wide-eyed and dumbfounded.

  “Moet!” Debbie seemed more amazed than shocked. Suddenly folding her arms over her breasts, she shrank into the soft leather, at a loss for words or actions. Her jaw simply fell open.

  “Relax, Deb. I like you. Just wanted to get with you closer—you know?” Moet maintained dominance, with her arm extended, resting behind Debbie’s neck next to the headrest. Yet Moet held a concern in her eyes. She didn’t appreciate the rejection. Nor did she expect it—not from anyone.

  “Don’t you like me?”

  “Yeah . . . but . . . Moet?” Debbie widened her lids inquisitively. Her way of confronting a taboo. “I’ve . . . never . . . I mean, you know . . .” She tried to explain with open palms. “. . . like . . . been with a woman.” As if these were words she was expecting, Moet placed her fore and middle fingers to Debbie’s lips.

  “You don’t have to explain. I understand.” Moet maintained control over Debbie’s senses, now reaching over to the volume dial on the car stereo. You could hear a pin drop, the car turned so quiet. There were also those faint “zips” and “whooshes” of speeding vehicles darting past on the parkway. The force of the wind budging the vehicle ever so slightly.

  “Close your eyes for me and relax. Let nature take over.”

  Moet leveled her serious eyes, and the moment made Debbie shiver a bit. Debbie also felt her nerves pricking under her skin and her lungs pumped harder and deeper breaths as Moet touched her fingertips to Debbie’s lids, guiding them closed. Now, with that full feeling of the unknown, a wave of heat flushed Debbie’s body. Moet rolled her fingers down along her cheek, then her lips, and on down her neck until she grazed Debbie’s stiffened nipples. Debbie’s whole body was stiff. Her nostrils flared—the result of sensations shooting through her . . . of being touched so delicately. Moet now had all of the girl’s breast in her hand. One hand on Debbie’s; the other on her own. Then she moved in and pressed her lips to Debbie’s. Debbie’s eyes twitched as if they were anticipating eye drops, but she slowly gave in and relaxed under Moet’s pressure. She found comfort in the moment; a security and warmth that she’d been missing for so long.

  Moet became more aggressive, prying into Debbie’s lap and then her panties. It came to a point where Debbie jumped defiantly. Moet had gone too far. For now, anyway. And still, Debbie attempted to save face, saying, “This is . . . this is moving too fast for me. I . . . I need time.” With puckered lips and eyes full of desire, Moet backed down. But behind her eyes Debbie could see some promise, as though she didn’t want to chase away the future of this potential relationship. Relationship? What am I saying? And, now that Moet’s intentions were clear, is this the reason she said those things about David? Moet didn’t even need to try hard to provoke Debbie to change her mind about David; she discouraged her just enough, and then extended her own invite.

  In all of New York City, there couldn’t be anyone more confused than Debbie was right now.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The new Gilmore’s, now widely recognized as FOOL’S PARADISE, was open for a year without incident. Incidents such as fights and shootings were not uncommon in many New York nightclubs, but Fool’s Paradise seemed to steer clear of this. The women came to work to make money. The men came to the club to get the attention of those same women. It was a perfect cycle.

  After such an impeccable track record, Murphy stopped by and he brought his “anything that can go wrong”song with him. The incident involved an argument with a correctional officer, and resulted in him retrieving a pistol from his car. But what made the incident all the more significant was not only the intensity or the potential violence. Also,
there were special visitors who came by the club on that night.

  For a long time, Douglass had been coached and advised by his friend and neighbor, Steve—the same well-known and very successful club owner who represented a major source of support for Douglass. Not only did Steve give Douglass consultation and technical support, but on occasion (and off the record) he provided thousands in financial support. Meanwhile, the two shared industry secrets, always discussing who would and would not survive in New York radio, clubs or concert promotions. Whether it was Douglass who called Steve, or if Steve called Douglass, the two could rant and ramble on for hours. And coincidentally, the two became wise and experienced as a result of their conversations, forever affirming each other’s points of view.

  As Douglass became his own man, building his own name in entertainment and spearheading the construction of Fool’s Paradise, he’d always update Steve on the club’s progress and development, always inviting him to stop by. Steve, on the other hand, was forced to comply with his own responsibilities with operating two heavily attended New York City nightclubs, spending time with his own family, as well as he managed various other business concerns. Besides that workload, Steve was also a tremendous help to his own father, owner of the world-famous Copacabana. All of these factors made it too difficult to just stop in and say hi, or to give hands-on advice at the drop of a dime. All the more reason why Steve’s first visit to Fool’s Paradise was both ironic and eventful. Finally, he’d get to meet Douglass’s father, as well as he would get to offer his own analysis of Douglass’s accomplishments. After all, it was with Steve’s help that Douglass summoned during the development of the new establishment; all those problems he was having obtaining a license to sell liquor and other necessary permits; not to mention all the hurdles and paranoia as a result of the Happy Land fire.

  Douglass had, for a long time, testified, “The club is safe, Steve. The licenses are all legit—come on, man. Stop by just to take a peek. I would have never gotten this club open without your help.”

  However, when Steve stepped though the entrance, with his girlfriend in tow, he may have well hit the lottery of circumstances. Douglass and his dad were already overwhelmed by the visit; but then, they were all dumbfounded to see the rush of activity. This angry correctional officer raced through the entrance, past the doorman, and he pointed his gun at everyone and no one in the center of the room. In the flurry of activity, a wave of patrons and staff opened up in a semicircle (or, maybe, something like the parting of the Red Sea) to keep their distance. Meanwhile, Douglass and his guests took quick leave through the side door leading to Gilmore’s messy office. Messy or not, the office had its own back door which led to the sidewalk outside. The incident, despite what it appeared to be, turned out to be a dud. The guy never fired a shot. But for sure, certain images were left to reckon with; and needless to say, security had to be reorganized.

  And still, no security overhaul could have prevented the murder that took place in the parking lot.

  Detective Walter Wade

  The history of Fool’s Paradise was one of the factors which most intrigued Detective Walter Wade. A man in his 50’s, with some Ozzie Davis likeness, Wade was graying with wisdom enough to expect a topless establishment to carry burdens of trouble. Shootings, anarchy, robbery, fights, and rapes were usual occurrences with many of Gilmore’s competitors. How then did Fool’s Paradise beat the odds? What chemistry or method had the establishment mastered? Or were there payoffs, or better yet, was this just a big, perfect front for other things? It was too good to be true. Wade smelled a cover-up of sorts and was suspicious of the club and everyone responsible for its existence. Perhaps the wonder of it all simply overwhelmed Wade, with his modest job and his modest paycheck. But this was not the time to bring his personal life into the mix of thoughts that floated through his mind as he watched the blitz of activities before him.

  This was officially a crime scene. The area outside the club, in the parking lot, at the side and rear, everything was brightly illuminated by two Hollywood-sized halogens. Sunrise was only hours away, but the details of a homicide were critical in police procedure. The moonlight, the daylight creeping in, and the dim spotlights that hung from high up on the wall wouldn’t be sufficient. Coroners from the Bronx City Morgue were now finished bagging the corpse. The zipper was pulled, sealing the long, dark, vinyl heap. Moet’s body was carried to a black station wagon at the driveway’s edge. Wade was casual about it all. Been here, done this at least a thousand times. And that was just his attitude as he sipped cautiously at his hot chocolate.

  Another fickle thought now:

  “How convenient; working a case next door to Dunkin’ Donuts. Mental note.” He juggled his cup while pulling out his short pad and Bic pen, and he wrote, “Interview Donut workers.”

  Wade flipped the pad closed and stuffed it back into his Army jacket. He looked back up to see Claudine, draped in a sheepskin coat and holding its flaps tight as if she’d just been pulled from the icy, murky Hudson River. So far, Claudine was the first and most important eyewitness, and she leaned back inclined against one of the seven patrol cars on the scene. An officer was standing a foot or two away, pad and pen connected as he interviewed her. In several other areas of the lot similar interviews were being conducted with staff members, patrons and the owner. Everyone exhaled their own levels of vapor into the cool air. A bright-yellow plastic strip with POLICE LINE printed in bold, black letters was tied across the edge of the driveway, keeping a crowd of 20 or so standing at the sidewalk.

  The owner of the black Cherokee, the one by which Moet was lying stiff with a bullet in her forehead, was irate. He was Jamaican, with a rainbow-colored, Dr. Seuss-sized hat, arguing with another officer about his vehicle. He wanted to go, and the police were preventing him from doing so. The jeep was currently being dusted for fingerprints.

  Forensic specialists were hovering over and about the truck with what looked like thick blush applicators, stroking that white dust all over the hood, doors, tires and windows. The Jamaican could be heard in the distance, something about “painting me jeep all white.” A few dancers were freezing their asses off, standing in a threesome huddle, legs bare, answering questions and chain-smoking.

  Wade sipped again at his sweet and frothy hot chocolate, preparing to make his own rounds. First he’d get an update from the captain, then the officers. He wanted to re-address Gil and Claudine, because they were part of an obvious scene that took place inside the club earlier that night. It may mean something, so Wade had to know. Afterwards, he wanted to get back over to Dunkin’ Donuts. This time, if he applied himself in a more official capacity, maybe the second cup of cocoa would be free. Wade’s eyes passed back to Claudine. A fellow officer had mentioned something about her lying on the ground with the victim. Wade suddenly wanted to hear this one himself—directly from the source, if at all possible.

  About 30 minutes later he spoke with Claudine.

  “I don’t know . . . I . . . was, you know . . . drinkin’. Maaaan, do I have to go over this again? My head is killin’ me.”

  Wade wasn’t yet growing impatient, but he had an urge; still he kept his composure.

  “Listen, Claudine. I understand that you’ve got a headache and you’re probably dying for a nice, comfortable bed. But the fact is that if you don’t answer my questions here, you’ll have to go down to the precinct and answer them.” Claudine’s face expressed another level of dismay in resignation.

  “Now, I need you to relax and to be honest with me. You were found laying half naked on top of the victim. I’m told that’s she’s been dead since one AM. But you left the club at something past two. Now think back, Claudine. What did you see and how did you come to be so . . . so intimate with Moet, not more than an hour after she was shot in the head?”

  Claudine was visibly shaken as the realities of her predicament were explained to her. Detective Wade offered her a cigarette and Claudine eventually buckled down and gave
in to his confidence. Once all of the physical evidence was accumulated and interviews were completed, Wade reached for his cell phone and called his ace, a doctor at St. Barnabas Hospital. He arranged for Claudine to be escorted there for a just-to-be-sure check-up. But of course, there was a hook.

  “Hi, Wade. Thanks again for dinner the other night.” Diane was as perky and alive on the phone as her breasts and curves were in person. And she had that bit of daytime attitude to break through the overnight monotonies.

  “No problem, baby. I hope we can do it again, soon.”

  “You wouldn’t be tryin’ to push up on me now, would you, Detective Walter Wade?”

  “Me? I don’t know what you mean.” The two chuckled slightly before buckling down to the business at hand.

  “So what can I do you for this morning? You got a backache?” Diane asked facetiously.

  “I’m sending over a young lady. Her name’s Claudine. We’ve got a homicide case over here at Fool’s Paradise.”

  “Fool’s Paradise . . . hmmm. I know that place—wait a minute . . . you’re not going topless on me now, are you?” Wade smirked at the pun and continued to explain.

  “I need you to do a check-up on her. I mean . . . a real check-up.”

  “Okay. So . . . the usual; blood, hair samples, urine?”

  “Yup. And check under her nails and even her panties . . .”

  “Was she raped or something?”

  “I don’t think so, but I have a few hunches. The only way I can follow up on them is to get this extra-personal data. Know-whadda mean?”

  “You got it, boss. Does this mean I can go for a lobster next time?”

  “Sure . . . and listen, Di. This isn’t pretty. She’s had a bit to drink. But take this seriously. Okay?”

  “Always.”

  Suspects and Developments

  A few weeks after the homicide Detective Wade found himself swiveling, idle in his leather executive chair, bent back and staring at his cork bulletin board. This was where he strategized all of his cases. The monument of his glory. And not one of his cases ever went unsolved. Maybe that had to do with his choosing whether or not to take certain cases and to refuse others, maybe not. Wade was indeed a clever man, and it was well represented right there on that wall. Newspaper headlines, clippings and photos scattered about the wall. All of it organized in a disorganized way. Some were tacked to the board. Others were scotchtaped to the perimeter of the board. Either way, Wade was accomplished with or without fanfare. If not for his 18 years on the force and his consistent success, he probably would have resorted to opening his own firm as a private detective. But the resources and fringe benefits as a well-received New York City police officer were limitless. The donut breaks sustained his potbelly. He could talk as much as he wanted on the phone—on the city’s tab. He could walk into various city-run agencies and buildings without invite. All of this access to information on just about everything and everybody was nothing less than a pot of gold for a single man. Forget the badge. What about the women! How many gorgeous city workers did Wade know on a first-name basis? Such a resource was as good as having more money than he could count. It would never run out.