Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  And Wade wasn’t a user. However, he was a romantic. The abundance of police resources filled a tremendous void in His life. It was almost 25 years since he lost his dear wife Renee in a high-speed car accident on the Audubon in Germany. The two met while serving in the Army. They were so compatible, thinking and speaking alike. They were soulmates, and Wade always told himself that he’d never replace her. She was the poetry in his life. When she was whisked away, life just turned colorless and grey. Things were never the same after that loss. She was so young. So beautiful. Wade kept himself from every movie or song which Vanessa Williams was a part of. No more radio in his life, because he could never know when another of her songs would come on the air. And besides, the singer reminded him so much of Renee. They looked so much alike it was painful to see a Vanessa video or a movie.

  Four years after her death, with a heart of stone, Wade left active duty with an Honorable Discharge, and he joined the police academy. He served his probation period walking the sidewalks as a flatfoot in the Bronx. White Plains Road. Gun Hill Road. Boston Post Road. He’d seen it all, walked in on robberies and delivered babies. He’d seen the same child who he delivered slain during an attempted car jacking as a teen. Yes, indeed, Wade had seen it all. And now, with close to two years until his retirement, and more than 50 solved homicide cases to his credit, Wade was suddenly stumped by the circumstances surrounding Fool’s Paradise and the murder of Nadine Butler, aka Moet. For sure, Wade had a lot of facts and suspects pinned to his strategy board. Too many. It was time to crunch. Time to whittle things down.

  Wade had his own way of working a case. First, he would detail his own idea of what happened based on witness accounts and evidence. Then he’d draw up a list of class A suspects, class B and class C. In whittling things down, he’d ultimately eliminate C suspects and then B suspects. The New York Daily Post gave only brief accounts of what cases Wade was working. That’s the way he wanted it. That’s the way it was. News of Moet’s murder didn’t hit the papers until Monday morning. Saturday’s paper had already gone to press and any news blotter rarely made the Sunday paper, more or less designed for exclusives, Arts & Liesure, and (of course) The Week in Review. So Wade had his various contacts that won him a story here and there; it was his “edge” in crime fighting. But for this latest case he wanted enough attention to shine on the details so that any potential witness, customers from that fatal Friday night, might come forth. Ordinarily, a story like this would be lucky to get page 17, if it even made the obituary. But with Wade’s juice, he pulled off a banner announcement. Bold white print on a black bar across the top of the front page.

  TOPLESS DANCER SLAIN

  Details on page 2.

  The story inside was column length and went into details about Moet, the club and the circumstances surrounding the tragedy. The papers always had a way of sensationalizing a murder. But Wade could always see right through the fat. Especially when the case was from his precinct. As Wade observed the board, he recalled the extended details of his investigation. He’d learned a lot from his class B list, so it provided a good starting point. At least Moet was no longer a mystery victim.

  She began dancing at the old Gilmore’s when the club was in Mt. Vernon, operating out of a virtual hole in the wall. At the time she was 13 years old, she had left a home where her uncles, her father and her brother took their turns at sexually abusing her. She didn’t attend high school, but was very bright and witty, nonetheless. Her rough childhood led to her degree in hard knocks. But surviving and overcoming those horrors resulted in her ultimately using her God-givens to manipulate men and women alike.

  True, Moet was viewed as a competitor for the dollars that came through the club’s entrance, but dancers still considered her a friend. Sadie was a close friend, and she didn’t mind letting Detective Wade in on some realities about Moet’s escapades with men. Or, at least, those she knew of. There was Bobby the fisherman. With him (so said Moet), it was purely money and sex. If Moet needed a piece of furniture, say a couch or an armoire, or help with her mortgage, Bobby easily dished out a wad of cash to subsidize her whims. In return (and this was in defiance of that “unwritten rule”), Moet would satiate his freaky desires. There was bondage and kinky sex. Moet even made a home video of an episode, according to Sadie. No, Bobby didn’t live with her. He was even married with children, Wade had later discovered. Bobby was married to a woman from Iowa, named Joy. They had two children and tucked themselves away, snug, in the village of Pelham Manor. Minutes away from Moet’s home and job. Too convenient? Or just convenient enough to commit murder? Wade wouldn’t so quickly scratch Bobby off of the list.

  On the other hand, Moet was deep in love and steadily dating major league baseball pitcher Ken Stevens. He was living out a 68-million dollar contract with the New York Yankees. He was in and out of town, according to his busy schedule. A second generation player of major league ball, following in his father’s footsteps, Ken definitely had dough. But along with the wealth, he drove a player’s lifestyle. He wasn’t a one-woman man, but then, Moet wasn’t a one-man woman, either. According to a bat boy at the stadium, Ken was swinging a couple of relationships himself. Bi-coastal. While numerous men of various classes in life continuously kissed up to Moet at Fool’s Paradise, she pretty much did the same, kissing up to Ken. Maybe it was his money or the idea that he could claim any one of the thousands of female fans who pursued him.

  “The intrigue or the jock status?” Sadie couldn’t call that one, because she didn’t sell ass. She said, “I can’t even imagine what that’s like.” But she was informed enough to be of help to Wade.

  As a top money maker at Gilmore’s, as well as at the all-new Fool’s Paradise, as well as hundreds of private bachelor parties through the years, Moet had accumulated true wealth, experience and money. She not only had her own two-level home, the Mercedes and a gold Toyota Land Cruiser that was used seasonally, but she kept mucho cash on hand.

  The night of her murder, she still had $2,300 in her purse along with her house and car keys. At her house, there was a stack of Maxwell House Coffee cans lined up in a kitchen cabinet, air-tight with one hundred-dollar bills. Over $120,000 in total. So Wade had no doubts about the motive not being robbery. Remaining were those usual motives of jealousy, spite or revenge. Under jealousy, Wade considered boyfriends and customers. Under spite, there were dancers to question. Then there was revenge. Was there someone that Moet ticked off or hurt? Could be an ex-boyfriend or even a dancer if Moet stole another woman’s man. The idea of outright, cold blooded, reasonless murder was out of the question.

  “Murder has a reason every time.” That was a quote that Wade’s father shared with him before he died. All of those years of writing mystery and suspense novels rubbed off, finally put to actual use a generation later. But ultimately, it was up to Wade to choose the most likely motive. Even if it was one with the broadest possibilities. He leaned towards revenge. The bullethole at the center of her head made it clear that the suspect wanted her dead. D.E.A.D.—dead. And to want someone dead that bad (in Wade’s 18 years of experience) added up to nothing more than revenge.

  There seemed to be a month’s worth of investigation squeezed into 3 weeks, with Wade following dancers, staff members and a few regular customers to their homes. He verified employment of those girls who were only moonlighting at Fool’s Paradise. He accessed records from the Department of Social Services, and he surveyed bank accounts of the owner and some of his employees. He traced license plates from three consecutive Friday night crowds. He even had an opportunity to see . . . or investigate Moet’s private library of video tapes. He removed them from her house before officers had an opportunity to collect evidence. And in the three weeks he’d been on the case, he was able to devote an hour each night to her videos. Still—and this surely had something to do with the content of the tapes—so far, he had only completed 2 of them.

  Sadie

  The dancers that Detective Wade decided
to tail were the top-shelf girls from the club. Laurie Hill, aka Sadie, was very helpful with her insights on Moet’s relationships. Wade realized that they were close friends. Regardless of whether she was involved or not, Wade could only become familiar with a dancer’s habits and routines by observing Sadie and others for a period of time. Sadie had a 20th-floor apartment on 134th Street in Harlem. During his interview with her, Wade was blown away by her living arrangements. Sadie lived in the lap of luxury. Walls of mirrors increased the depth of so many lavish possessions filling her spacious rooms. A monster aquarium was built into a wall which separated the living room and dining area. A cabinet full of crystal, china and silver was sandwiched between 2 tall and plentiful wine racks. The carpet was a deep, lime green. Thick enough to hide a dancer’s overworked toes. An arrangement of plush couches were positioned against the walls. Wallpaper was fabric and textured with soft, contemporary designs. A 6-foot television screen was positioned beside a rack of 10 various stereo components, including compact disc players, AM/FM receiver, amplifier, 2 VCRs and other electronic accommodations. A 2-foot high, 5-foot wide, oval coffee table sat in front of the couch, while the surface of the table was a massive, polished ivory slab of the marble with off-white swirls. On top, a weaved basket was stuffed with dried flowers, providing a pleasant fragrance for the room. Attracting the most attention was a life-sized statue of an exotic dancer. It was sculpted of iron and held a black, glossy luster.

  Amazing how at 22 Sadie was childless, but not without companionship. She was the driving force behind a threesome; a relationship with a man and another woman. The three lovers lived together and slept together.

  Wade also discovered that Sadie’s bank account didn’t reflect her lifestyle, but it was a comfortable safety net. $10,550 in savings, $6,100 in checking. There were no out of the ordinary expenditures, so far as Wade could see. Tailing her, he noted her daily routine, how she took her cherry red Puget on various errands. The cleaners. The supermarket. A stop at a local lingerie shop now and then. Twice a week Sadie visited the video store and disappeared into the back room labeled “ADULT.” Wade guessed that Sadie’s life was full of passion and security. She was living life to the top and didn’t seem to be in a position to be jealous or vengeful. If anybody was jealous, it would be another dancer jealous of Sadie. Or any of the dozens of customers whom she had to reject weekly. Wade made his mental notes.

  It must be nice.

  Juicy

  The next dancer on Wade’s list was Erica Miller. Her stage name was Juicy, and she more or less served as a lure for the old timers who had been devoted customers for over 15 years. Juicy was 42. However, she was fit enough to appear as though she was 20-something. On stage, she wasn’t daring or exciting like the younger dancers. She moved slow and unconcerned, a slithery vixen. At her own pace, she was attractive enough for men age 40 and over. Some customers came specifically to see Juicy. Part of her following.

  Wade had techniques for catching the individuals on his “hit list;” his, so to speak, covert operational approach. He’d simply follow them home from work and knock (conveniently) a moment after they closed their front door—as if he was the cab driver returning something left in his car. Most dancers took cabs to work. Juicy was one of those who did, so Wade played taxi cab driver to gain entry. Then the badge.

  “Juicy? Detective Walter Wade. Mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?”

  “Listen, man . . . I’m tired. My feets is tired. I ain’t eat donuts and count traffic tickets all night—I worked.”

  “Whoa, there, lil lady. I’m not here to make a scene. I just need a couple of minutes of your time. Nothin’ but a few questions, if you’ll just give me—”

  “Come in, man. And keep your own business.”

  The detective was apprehensive about this invite into Juicy’s basement apartment. Her place was part of a 4-story walkup on Hamilton Terrace in Harlem. The outside of the dwelling looked as authentic and classy as the rest of Hamilton Terrace. Wrought iron gate. Clean, limestone facade with 18thcentury style carvings and moldings. But once Wade stepped through the entrance, at first sight his mind was thrown for a spin. The place was an atrocity. Ransacked and corroded. Compared to the elite appearances of the brownstones that lined the immediate area, with cobble stone accuracy and impeccable stained-wood entryways, Juicy was living in a pigsty. The basement was unfinished with encrusted plaster and paint on the walls and ceilings. The floors were untiled, unclean cement. Wires and pipes ran a maze along the ceilings and floors. Three steps past the front door led Wade through a dark hallway. A room to his immediate left was where the interview was held. Wade could have smacked himself for his so-called “covert actions,” and for assuming that every topless dancer lived lavishly and organized. He wondered why he didn’t just interview Juicy at the club. He cursed himself and reconciled that he’d be as quick as possible with this conversation. Wade had no choice but to record the surroundings with his four senses. His fifth sense was being challenged with every passing second as he stifled his breathing as best he could. While asking questions, his tongue even became preoccupied with the odor from the piles of spoiled clothing—a thick aroma that provoked a tart taste in his mouth.

  A makeshift stand supported an outdated TV set which flickered between viewable and fuzzy. It looked as if Juicy kept it on all day as a form of security. Two milk crates were stacked with a slice of plywood placed on top as a flat surface.

  Her dining room table? There on the wood were jars of peanut butter and jelly. The jelly jar was opened, with the lid just next to it. Fruit flies buzzed over and around the jelly, unchallenged. A half loaf of bread was also opened, with a few slices exposed to the murky absence of ventilation in the room. A mattress in a corner on the floor lay adjacent to the TV, and that shameless variety of feminine articles threatening to break a fragile, plastic shelf. Observing all of this, Wade remained still in an antique armchair while Juicy went along with the session. She appeared to be aggravated by Wade’s timing, and in protest she remained busy as they spoke. She undressed as if he wasn’t even there, took a damp washcloth from a shelf and wiped her underarms and vaginal area. Then she threw an oversized t-shirt over her head—apparently ready for bed. Wade almost wanted to barf as he breathed in the mix of her body odor along with the spoiled jelly, airborne asbestos and dust, as well as the soiled laundry scents. As if by clockwork, Juicy casually proceeded to count her singles on top of that same soiled mattress.

  “So, this is it, huh? This is what dancing at Gilmore’s gets you? After what—” Wade looked at his pad and produced a disbelieving expression. “—I hear you’ve been dancing there for twelve years?”

  “What’s it to ya, Pops? You got all the questions—you got answers, too? You ain’t ever walked in my shoes, you come in my house like some super cop—probably ain’t got no warrant—and you wanna cast judgment on me? For your information, I’m happy. I been there, done that. Been around the world wit all you men, and y’all ain’t nothin’ but the same. If you put on a good act, ya might hide what’s in your minds; but I can see through all that there.”

  “Oh, really. And what is it that you see?”

  “See, I been with more men than you can count on an army’s fingers and toes. I know your lies, your insecurities, your fears and your denials. I know what makes you weak, and what sends your egos through the roof. So, you can’t come in here judgin’ me, Kojak. Cuz, I already know y’all ain’t nothin’ but some swingin’ dicks lookin’ to bust off down some poor girl’s throat. Some of you ain’t neva had it that good, so you’ll settle for creamin’ our tits or ass. And the percent a y’all that did have some type a real love in your life, well . . . y’all might wanna fuck us the right way, the way the Lord meant it to be.”

  Wade froze for a time, even disgusted at himself for digging down the wrong path. I asked for that, he told himself as he tried to block out a lot of the dancer’s comments from his mind. And as Wade completed his in
terview, having endured more discoveries than he would have liked to, Juicy didn’t even bother to see him to the door. She actually dozed off right in front of him, soaking into the pattern and impression left in her mattress.

  And to think that Wade tailed Juicy for two days subsequent to this eventful interview. All that just to get to this latest decision to remove her from his list of suspects. Not only didn’t Moet have an impact on Juicy’s cash flow, but they had worked alongside one another for years. The younger and older woman actually complemented one another—part of the “old school” of Gilmore’s stable of dancers. Meanwhile, Wade qualified Juicy’s alibi for the time of the murder. She left the club at 1AM in a cab. The driver confirmed the same.