Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  Claudine

  Claudine was a simple subject to measure. She was a young and very naive 19-year-old who had been dancing for just a year at Fool’s Paradise. She was attending the College of New Rochelle in an attempt to major in communications. She maintained part-time hours as a receptionist from a local entrepreneur, but even her boss treated her like the wannabe that she was. At the time of the murder, Claudine was but an underpaid intern, whose rationale for working for free was:

  “I just wanna be part of somethin’ legitimate,” because—Detective Wade guessed—nothing else in her life was. Upon further discovery, Wade saw that she wasn’t even keeping good grades in school. One of two siblings who came from a broken family, Claudine’s father had died and her mother became a schizophrenic and unbearable to live with. Homeless for a while, even sleeping on the floor of her campus dorm, Claudine eventually shacked up with a young boy and his mother in a Bronx apartment.

  Wade had noted that (if Claudine was the murderer—and he already guessed she wasn’t) she might’ve been jealous of Moet, thought Wade, but it would’ve been more envy than anything else. If anything, Claudine was in awe of all the top-shelf dancers.

  “She thinks they’re fascinating,” one dancer told the detective. “She’s always aspiring to be like one of them. But she never could quite cut it. She’s just Claudine. Plain Jane Claudine. She don’t even have a stage name. Too naive to think one up, I guess.”

  Wade also found that she drank excessively at times, escaping the realities of her failures. Two abortions in 6 months. Forced to sex her boyfriend for lack of a place to stay. And besides (quiet as she tried to keep it) she couldn’t succeed at the various jobs she applied for. Even the average Joe could get a job at McDonald’s at the local mall or as an on-campus librarian. But not Claudine. She was a miserable failure. She felt hopeless, trapped and lacked direction and self esteem. Very often her boyfriend was in attendance at Fool’s Paradise to monitor her activity, and likely helping with that esteem issue. But was he the jealous type? Or was he merely practicing to be a pimp mandating that she bring her earnings home only to hand it all over to him? Questions to be answered as Detective Wade dug more and more behind the scenes of the topless industry’s activities.

  On the night of the murder, Claudine’s boyfriend was nowhere to be found. That could’ve meant a lot of things that evening. Wade assumed that, in Claudine’s dizzy state that night, she was the first to stumble on Moet’s corpse. Yet, she may not have known that Moet was dead. At St. Barnabas Hospital, the physical performed by Wade’s friend Diane came up with some hard revelations. Claudine had blood in her mouth. Moet’s blood. Moet’s blood was also soaked into Claudine’s clothing. In taking samples from under Claudine’s fingernails, Diane found that the girl had had her fingers in and around Moet’s vagina.

  Was she finger fucking the dead body as well? Wade wondered.

  “Walter, the blood shows a nine percent alcohol content in her system. Her blood also revealed traces of marijuana. In all, the girl was toasted and high as a kite,” said Diane following that fatal Friday. Wade concluded that there was no way Claudine could have killed Moet. Not only was she inside the club most of the night, even getting into an altercation with the boss; but she was also seen leaving the club an hour past the estimated time of death. The Dodo bird didn’t even have sense enough to distinguish interactive sex from sucking on a corpse.

  Cinnamon

  Sheryl Moore took on the name Cinnamon once she came to appreciate the constant compliments from her customers.

  “You sure do have fine skin, baby.”

  “Woman, just let me touch your skin. How much do you want?” Even dancers commented about Sheryl’s alluring skin that was proclaimed as “butter soft” and “good enough to eat.” So, she adopted the name Cinnamon and it caught on like fire. Even her friends outside of the topless world called her by her stage name. Cinnamon was an adventurous dancer. Much of what Wade learned about her, he picked up from her stage performances and comments from co-workers. Besides being a hit on the main stage, Cinnamon was well known for her girl-on-girl shows at Fool’s Paradise. Although body-to-body contact was not permissible by law, certain entertainment at the club went on (despite rules) and became standards. Cinnamon did a lot of girl-on-girl stuff on Friday and Saturday nights, at the busiest hours. And mostly on a whim, she would put on her show with exclusive partners Sadie or Moet.

  “You know, basically, just sixty-nine stuff. We used bananas, whipped cream and even cherries. You’ve never seen one?” Cinnamon answered Wade’s curiosity as if it was normal for a man to have witnessed such an event.

  “No,” he emphasized, “I haven’t .”

  “Well then . . . you don’t know what you’re missing.” Cinnamon widened her eyes as though she had a passion for the subject. Wade had been on the case long enough to expect certain things, but he didn’t expect this conversation. Nor did he expect the arousal that went with it. He expected that he was stronger than anything this case could bring his way. But Cinnamon was a trip. Her abrupt, salacious expressions and impulsive responses cut through Wade’s demeanor. Cinnamon went on to discuss her enterprises; the bachelor parties, the private parties, the newsletter that she founded, and the lesbian pilgrimages that she spearheaded every year.

  “I never heard of that . . . what all does that involve?” Again Wade was going beyond his detective questions, back to that predictable, horny-man status.

  “Well, there’s about four or five hundred of us that go out to camp grounds upstate . . . Bear Mountain.”

  Wade interjected with his silent humor, “You mean more like Beaver Mountain,” he thought.

  “There’s three days of picnics, games, seminars and other fun activities.” As Cinnamon explained all, Wade wandered off thinking, envisioning what “other fun activities” might mean. Adventurous was an understatement with respect to Cinnamon. Just as was the case with Sadie, she also lived with two companions—two female companions. Foxy and Monifah were a part of her permanent entourage. Within some of the most lavish standards of living, the ladies were lovers in a Brooklyn brownstone. Each of them fine, young and sensual, they all danced for a living, sometimes for club bookings, but mostly for the very best bachelor parties. Cinnamon was the ringleader of the trio, maintaining a simple yet warm atmosphere at home. The walls were kept in their original state, genuine red brick, while the floors were finished wood with modest oriental throw rugs in a couple places. On the floor there were only necessary furnishings; a long and sumptuous soft-black-leather couch. An expensive sound system. A 50-inch television; and about seven fine art paintings of African images at various areas along the walls and in the hallways. The art seemed to defy conformity, how it stood out, unfazed and purposeful, under tall, arched stucco ceilings and ceiling fans. There was a generous picture window that offered an ultimate, elevated view of the Great Lawn, the playground and clusters of blacks and Latinos in Fort Green Park. Wade figured that with three or four thousand dollars, the combined income which the three women took home weekly, it was easy to see how the three dancing dolls lived so well. Secure. Complete. Comfortable. Wade left Cinnamon harboring the same feelings he took from his visit with Sadie. Her bank account was just shy of $8000. However, Cinnamon kept credit cards. Her credit report showed she had 10 altogether—the gold and platinum plaques of her success. Cinnamon and her housemates also shared twin Volkswagen Rabbits and were close to paying them both off in full. Their cellphones were legal and they each had their share of man problems. But, according to their three’s-company living, they managed to keep them at a distance. If anything, Cinnamon was endeared to Moet. Maybe the two even took it to another level. But she definitely didn’t . . . wouldn’t kill her. Just another attractive, sexy vixen relationship. And another dead end.

  Wade shook himself from the stupor he was caught up in for at least a half hour. He didn’t feel the need to doze off or rest, he just kind of gazed into the cork of his
bulletin board and focused on his case. Reviewing. Deciphering. Contemplating. He decided to play more of the field. His class-A suspects. The first character was Debbie, since most of those he interviewed brought up her name as one of Moet’s closest friends. Others said the two were lovers. Based on the various accounts, it wasn’t unusual to see Moet and Debbie side by side for up to a month before the murder. But now, she was nowhere to be found. Wade had a vague description of Debbie. She had only been around Fool’s Paradise for a month or so, and Claudine remembered seeing her with a guy named David. Claudine knew even more about this guy David and was apparently holding something back. Wade figured immediately that the two (Claudine and David) took their roll in the sack and that there were those inevitable issues between them. But as for Debbie, nobody knew much about her, which posed a problem for Wade. Almost a month into the case and all of the class-A suspects were accounted for except Debbie. Why else would she just vanish like that, unless she had something more to do with this. That was more than suspicious. How could someone who was that intimate with Moet just disappear? Surely she’d have been at the funeral, or at least the wake. These were concerns of Wade’s as he headed home to view more of Moet’s videotapes.

  The first two tapes were exciting to watch. Candid footage of Moet’s stage show, Moet in the dressing room with other dancers and Moet in her car. But there were at least nine other tapes to go through. None of them had dates or times or labels. So it was anybody’s guess as to when they were shot. However enticing the subject matter, Wade focused for clues of dates. Maybe someone was wearing a watch or perhaps there might be a newspaper laying around. Whatever. Wade just knew that some serious investigative work was ahead of him. For certain, he had to find Debbie.

  Video Voyeur

  Wade lived a cluttered single life. Cluttered because of his many interests. First, he had an insatiable appetite for videos and books galore. There were his three dogs with accessories to complement their every whimper. And then there was his shitload of tools. Wade loved serving the public and solving crimes; however, to fill the void, instead of the sports or cars or the club hopping that other officers engaged in, he became a mister-fix-it at heart. Fixing and inventing things were the activities that consumed Wade’s so-called leisure time; especially after Renee’s death. This is where he devoted hours of patience and concentration until a particular problem was solved. But there was no future in trying to be Inspector Gadget. After all, that was just a cartoon. So the next best thing was creating push-button devices for his car and convenient gadgets for his fifth-floor apartment.

  Wade cursed the elevator again as he finally reached the fourth case of stairs, wishing down deep that he’d kept up with Kiara’s physical fitness show on ESPN. Dogs from various apartments always blew Wade’s cover when he used the stairs. It was the same for the various buildings that he had to enter through the day, trekking up case after case of stairs . . . alerting dogs. It made him wonder if he carried a scent that called out to them, making them bark no matter what the hour.

  Before he put his key in the door, Wade pressed his door bell 7 times, abruptly. Another clever invention of his, the 7th consecutive impression of the buzzer turned the peephole on the door into a visitor-friendly device. Now, the peephole made a 180-degree turn, giving a telescopic view of a mirror that was strategically positioned at the rear of the short hallway inside his apartment. Simultaneously, as the device on the door rotated, the house lights glared on, giving Wade a full, well-lit panoramic view of his apartment before even entering. Obviously, his dogs exploded with that routine, ruckus reaction. So the apartment was clear of threat and he could enter carefree.

  Wade frequently asked himself what all the security was for. A covert peephole. Lights on. Dogs. And 3 guns?

  Well, he reasoned, someday you dogs won’t be around anymore. But Wade also knew, deep down in his heart, that one day all of his voids wouldn’t be voids anymore.

  Bells and Whistle were the names of Wade’s 2 prized Japanese poodles. They were harmless; one black and one white. The 3rd dog was an English bulldog named Bones. Bones had an unusually long, sluggish figure. He moved like everything was a burden. More bark than bite—all three of them. And this was his so-called security.

  After a brief walk, feeding, checking his answering machine, and his own relief at the toilet, Wade poured himself a tall glass of orange juice and sunk himself comfortably into his oversized, futon ottoman. To his side was a table and lamp. He swigged at the OJ, placed the glass on the table and switched on the lamp, instantly flooding 2 stacks of Moet’s videotapes with more light. The poodles were now flat on the floor, pressed up against the door to the bedroom. Eventually Bones swaggered in; he posted himself in the middle of the room and observed Wade picking out one of the video cassettes. As if to be familiar with the sights and sounds about to play on the TV screen. Bones then made a semicircle, more or less chasing his tail before he spiraled to the floor, conveniently facing the television.

  “All-knowing bastard,” Wade huffed at Bones sarcastically before he fed a video into the VCR. His video system was set to go, with a cable running from the unit, down to the floor and under a Persian rug until it connected with a 35” television set across the room. On a handy remote control, Wade pressed the power button and awaited the next episode to be shown on the television.

  Before he could see an image on his screen, there was music playing, accompanied by a few feminine giggles. This went on for a minute or so until Bones nonchalantly turned towards Wade behind him. With half opened eyes, the dog yawned and repositioned his head on the floor, his big nostrils contracting slightly after an expansive exhale.

  Just then light appeared on the screen, as if a door had just opened to a tunnel. Wade was quick to realize that a camera’s lens cap had been removed, as the TV screen came to life with light and color, unveiling the unfolding events in Moet’s bedroom. The camera angle was unstable at first as someone tried to hold it steady, pointing it at a king-sized bed covered with pillows, a few teddy bears and a visibly soft comforter. Tossing about in the thicket of blankets were two women, with their brown curves and limbs in motion and harmony. They were holding, embracing, caressing and tongue kissing each other in a frenzy. A third female joined them after placing the video camera on a flat surface of some sort. The video was now steady and pitched perfectly to record the action.

  Wade silently inhaled the imagery on his TV screen. Somehow, this was equivalent to closing his eyes, holding his nose, taking a deep breath and then jumping head-first into Moet’s superfluous sex files. Bones was still as a statue, his head still flat on the floor, and his eyes still holding a glossy gaze. Wade adjusted his thinking, recalling the gruesome vision of Moet’s dead body. He remembered the happy expressions she brandished in the various photos in her photo album. He couldn’t immediately make out who the other two women were on the bed. One was somewhat familiar. She looked like she could’ve been one of the dancers at Fool’s Paradise. A dark almondtoned woman with Caribbean features. The other woman had a caramel complexion. In his mind he assumed that perhaps this was Debbie. Considering Debbie’s stage name was Caramel. Of the three, she was the light (yet tanned) adventurous girl in the video. Wade’s intent on keeping business and pleasure separate was challenged by moans, laughter and cries on the screen. Bones raised his head after one of those passionate expressions. And he kept his head up in an interested manner. The dog’s face couldn’t change, however; still with that permanent frown weighed down by the layers of skin pulling at his jaw. Meanwhile, the poodles cared less about the TV and instead let their eyes volley from Bones to Wade and back.

  Despite the attitudes of his dogs, Wade was becoming obviously excited. The three women entertained each other with what Wade imagined to be soft licks, tender caresses and light spanking. They inevitably built upon their involvement by creating that never-ending circle, connected only by their tongues inside of each other. They alternated positions. They alter
nated partners.

  Click.

  It was just as easy to turn off the excitement as it was to be absorbed in it. Thoughts of Renee were what moved him through his days and nights. She was the spirit now—the only spirit that made him smile and then cry, all within the space of a few moments. Wade knew deep down that she was the reason why he couldn’t keep a love interest or a steady girl. Being single wasn’t just convenient, it kept the spooks out.

  Wade lowered his head and stared at the remote. Sure, shutting down the amateur porn was part of his personal issues, but it wasn’t something that he couldn’t get over. Apparently, it was the same for Bones, as he hopped up on the couch to comfort his master.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  There’s No Place Like Home

  Wade learned a lot about Moet in a short period of time. As if he was piecing together her biography. Moet was a dancer, yes, but that was second only to her being a nympho. She either loved sex, loved being with different partners, or at least she was practicing amateur video producing. More of her video library allowed for some new discoveries. Sometimes Moet would cry out her partner’s name, other times there was role playing that provoked idle talk. Meanwhile, she was never at a loss for partners. Debbie (aka Caramel) and Valerie (aka Sadie) turned out to be those in Moet’s famous threesome. One tape even recorded a foursome. It was Cinnamon and her two friends, Foxy and Mo. Cinnamon and company took turns satiating Moet as if they were lining up for a religious confession of some kind. Wade saw the event as a celebration for Moet, because from what was on video—a birthday present?—Moet was the only one being satisfied. Plus, everyone wore party hats and edible party outfits. There was lively music and a spread of party favors about the floor.