Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  Besides the occasions with other women, Moet also had sessions with Ken, the gazillion-dollar baseball star, and Bobby, the fisherman from the South Street Seaport. Those tapes and escapades were helpful in providing Wade with images of the various associates in Moet’s life, and yet they were also uneventful in the way of hard evidence. However, there was a controversial engagement with Douglass Jr., Mr. Gilmore’s son. The video was short lived due to some vile name calling and a physical struggle which followed. The last image left on that video was of Moet throwing a potted plant at Douglass; then came a backhand across Moet’s face sending her in the direction of the camera. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when Moet got even more physical, shoving Douglass with all her might and shouting, “Fuck you, daddy’s boy!” Then she swung a lamp that hit his wrist and the action was on from there. The video camera toppled over and fell to the floor. And there it was, Wade’s first motivated lead; a disagreement which began with “who would do who,” escalating into a battle of the naked egos.

  The video and TV screen went black after the camera hit the floor, leaving Wade to assume this was the latest video tape. Maybe the camera broke. Maybe not. He’d have to figure that out. If the camera broke, then that was obviously the last videotape. Suspect. If not, and other videos were shot subsequent to the argument, then Douglass Jr. was off the hook. Maybe. It was also that tape which compelled Wade to revisit Moet’s home for an intimate investigation. No forensic specialist. No flatfoots or rookie investigators. Wade needed to see things for himself.

  At the Barnes Avenue home, Wade was already familiar with the layout. The block was a development of identical 2-family homes. They were all done in white, aluminum siding and had short driveways with short, manicured lawns. A model home at the head of the block was set up and furnished for new prospects to see. A sign hung outside, close to the sidewalk: NEW HOMES—INQUIRE WITHIN.

  Every home was no older than 6 months, with new ones being built on adjacent blocks. The latest model automobiles occupied various driveways. Mercedes. BMW. Utility vehicles. No fences. No apparent need for security other than the private agency on regular patrol. The development was a diamond in the rough. A very suburban essence, smack dab in this overcrowded section of the Bronx.

  Wade’s discussion with the realtor was productive. Moet had lived in the house for no more than 4 months. Before that, she was on the waiting list for a year. To get on the waiting list, you were interviewed and scrutinized and then required to lay out a $15,000 deposit. The 2nd payment of $15,000 was due upon occupancy and a 1st mortgage of $1,500 a month was payable thereafter.

  A sore thumb for the development, the sunny-yellow police tape was still stretched from border to border around Moet’s home. As Wade parked out front he decided that if he didn’t do it, the police line might stay up until trees grew around it. There was no more need for a police watch on the home—that ended during the first week of the investigation. Furthermore, there was tremendous aggravation still lingering. Moet’s first floor tenants were paying her $1,100 a month rent for their 3-bedroom dwelling. And now that Moet was gone, not only were the renters burdened with various sessions of police questioning, but there was also the question of who to pay the rent to, not to mention, of course, that damned yellow police line. So much drama.

  Wade made his way up the steps that led to the entrance of Moet’s half of the house. The late Moet, that is. After balling up the stretch of police tape, Wade fit in the key he obtained from the property manager. He pulled open the front screen door, unlocked the second, and easily slipped in the entry. He climbed a long stairway that was plush with golden shag carpet. The daylight beamed down on the passage through the skylight above, illuminating his ascension to the top. Somehow, this climb was different for Wade, since having seen a number of videos and knowing Moet as he did, this dead person’s home seemed a lot more familiar than it might otherwise. The detective humored himself, thinking about the guests that Moet had entertained (the various men and a bunch of dancers), and wondering why there wasn’t semen seeping from the walls. Moet could have had a party every night, and if she did, it could’ve easily competed with the action at Fool’s Paradise, just miles away.

  Back to business, Wade passed through the kitchen, not really expecting much there. It was organized and appeared to be infrequently used. New pots hanging over the counter. All the accessories and cabinets were new and, except for a shelf of various dried spices and seasonings, the cupboards were bare. There was a freezer still packed with frozen dinners, some Cornish hens and many varieties of seafood, salmon, shrimps and crab legs were piled and stacked in every possible space. Wade thought briefly about Bobby the fisherman and how his premier video might impress his wife. Did she know that he liked to wear flowered panties around his neck and a pink ribbon in his hair while being spanked and straddled like a horse? Did she know that his favorite expression was “meow?” Wow, Wade thought of how easily he could get his own freezer filled with free fish for life. And while he was on the free-resource trip, he spotted that same set of cookie jars positioned on Moet’s kitchen counter. They reminded him of his earlier visit and the day he found what appeared to be her savings.

  There was at least one sleepless night when Wade dreamed of coming alone to the house after she was killed . . . he dreamed of finding the $120,000 that she had compacted in her cookie cans . . . he dreamed of keeping it, and of how his life would change ever so immediately. Who would know? After all, wasn’t she dead? For now, Wade thought about karma and that perhaps the circumstances were meant to be as they were. So he wouldn’t have to ask or think or wonder what to do with the money. It was kept from him as an issue that he did not have to address.

  So why am I thinking about it now? Wade asked himself. And then, after making a mental note to see Bobby, Wade perished the thought. But not before he felt his feet soaking into the wall-to-wall carpet in the hallways, the living room and the bedroom. He flicked on the light in the bedroom, adding to the thin rays that already penetrated the partially closed blinds. Now Wade was feeling as if he’d come on to a movie set long after the crew had gone. He turned towards the closet and fingered through a healthy collection of costumes, negligees, bras and thongs, all neatly hung and coordinated by color, sequins, fluorescent, jet black leather and chiffon. It was all there—enough to corrupt a couple of high school cheerleading squads. Wade couldn’t deny the thoughts; there were so many sexual fantasies that this closet contributed to. So much from just one woman. She must have been a walking, talking fantasy fulfilled.

  The queen-sized bed was made of solid, black Formica, with drawers underneath and nightstands as wings. Wade pushed his hands down on the mattress as if he were an educated consumer, and the mattress gave in, absorbing his touch. There was a rolling reaction that only a water-filled tube would give. Wade sifted through the various drawers and then plopped himself down on the bed, evaluating the room. When he realized that he was actually laying on the stage—the stage—he immediately jumped up to his feet. He moved to the vanity, adjacent to the bed, assuming that this was where the camera often sat. Wade lifted his hands so that they were inches from his face, and connected his thumbs and forefingers to simulate a viewfinder. As if he was a director, checking for a point of view, Wade squatted down into a deep knee bend until he felt that he’d achieved his goal. Realizing the ideal position, Wade stilled himself, recalling hours of video footage. Switching his imagination on and off. On and off. And then again, he had to close his eyes a few times to make this happen. To make out what he was seeing now, nervous about what he’d seen on video. Either way, Wade was focused on the bed, its nightstands and a window in the distance. He inhaled the flowery scent in the air which escaped from the open closet and with investigative eyes, cut through the room’s stillness.

  “The answering machine!” Wade heard himself speak out loud, knowing that something was missing. It was in the videos, so why wasn’t it in the room now? Wade searched
the drawers again. Now on his knees, he moved a pair of velour slippers from the floor underneath the nightstand. Feeling around with his hand, he located the thin, electronic box. Wade figured Moet had hidden the machine just before one of her trysts. Why else would it be stashed away? And who did she need to keep secrets from anyhow? Wade’s mind flipped through images of the major league player. Then Bobby. Lord knows who else, Wade concluded.

  The machine was still blinking intervals of eight. Eight messages. Wade adjusted himself to sit on the floor against the bed, and pressed “PLAY”.

  “Bleep . . . Hey, Mo. I’m coming in on a seven-thirty flight on Tuesday. Maybe you can meet me at the airport. Beep me. Love ya.” The male voice was masculine, sporty and abrupt. He was casual and spoke with a comfortable, presumptive tone. Wade figured the call was from Ken. And so far, Ken was the last on Wade’s list of A-subjects to see. Usually airborn, and a jetsetter, Ken’s interview was still pending. Wade knew he’d eventually catch him before or after a home game. Two messages which followed were propositions for private parties. The voices were unsure and insecure, and it seemed as though Ken and the other callers didn’t realize that Moet was long buried in the ground. Then again, there were no dates on these messages. However, Wade’s thoughts continued to reach; the calls could be the perfect cover-up for someone’s alibi. As usual, Wade didn’t let much pass.

  “Beep . . . tell you what, you bitch. I’ll teach you . . . you think you’re miss hot shit, huh? Well, I got somethin’ for you!” The line went dead. Wade replayed that message a few more times, making sure to write down every word. Angry. Vengeful. Young. Male. Wade noted all that he could, not knowing whose voice it was—but presuming that it was related to the video he watched. There were 3 consecutive hangups without messages. One last message.

  “Beep . . . Girl, I don’t know what that shit was about but I was scared to death! I had to get out. What is going on? Why don’t you answer? Where are you? I’m going back home—this shit is too wild for me. I can’t take it. Call me at seven one eight, four five eight, eight—” The tape went dead without transmitting the remaining digits. The voice was hysterical . . . a female. Go back where? Had to get out? What was Moet into and who was the girl calling? Wade spun so many ideas in his mind and his heart beat just as fast. These were two critical calls that should have never gotten past the police who took inventory on Moet’s house.

  After a more thorough look through the room, Wade returned to the living room for a more critical evaluation. He sat on the butter-soft, white leather couch that was long like a stretch limousine. He sat back and observed the various authentic paintings, the entertainment center and the rack of CDs that were organized in a carriage that was curved like a vertical cobra. Just as Wade began to feel comfortable, he noticed that his grip in the armrest was unstable, like it was broken. When he looked closer he saw that the armrest was a variety of items. A few remote controls for Moet’s rack of electronic devices. A paperback book and the infamous palm-corder. It was the type which accepted small cartridges. There was one still lodged inside. Wade uttered a sigh of relief, thinking that he’d moved a step closer to some solutions. He set it in his lap and switched on the power. The tape was used almost to its end, so Wade pressed REWIND hoping to watch the tape right there, through the eyepiece. There was a clicking sound that indicated the tape was stuck, rotating slightly back and forth. Wade pressed STOP. Then PLAY. No dice. He pressed RECORD. The tape moved and a red light went on. The camcorder was not working correctly, except for the recording command. In a rushed paranoia, Wade pressed STOP a number of times to be certain not to destroy the tape in the chamber and whatever was previously recorded on it. It did stop. And Wade was relieved, thinking of how to view the tape without the palm-corder. He pressed the EJECT button. The sound of a click and pop was followed but the side panel extending and freezing the tape inside. Wade was now at ease, carefully removing the tape. He dropped the tape in his jacket pocket and placed the palmcorder back in the armrest caddie. Viewing the tape would be easy enough. He found a cassette adapter in Moet’s collection of commercial videotapes. And also pocketed that. Then he called it a day.

  On the way back to the 45th precinct, Wade recalled the quarrel with Moet and Douglass Jr. Gilmore. He decided at that point to take a detour to New Rochelle.

  Progress and Regress

  The Gilmore empire was growing, indeed. After 18 months of rough edges and fine tuning, Fool’s Paradise had become a staple in New York’s adult entertainment industry. Advertisements were playing constantly on the city’s most listened to black radio stations. The printed adaptations of the radio spots were running weekly on the big metropolitan newspapers, The Daily Post and the New York News. The club and its varied showcases seemed to be on the tip of everyone’s tongue. From celebrities in film and music, to jocks in radio and sports, the personalities lined up to adopt and endorse Fool’s Paradise as their weekly dose of entertainment. Even Ed and Dre, who (at the time) were hip hop’s dynamic duo of television and radio, made the club a shining star by discussing their “in the club” experiences on their daily radio broadcasts, reaching in excess of 2 million listeners daily.

  “Give me a sweatshirt I can wear on MTV, dude. I’ll wear that shit proudly, for all to see,” Dre told Douglass. Indeed, the subject of different voluptuous dancers made for interesting content on radio and TV. But all of those mentions accumulated to lift the club to sky high popularity. National magazines showcased the club in 2 and 3-page editorial spreads, while booking agents for the most famous porn stars called constantly to have their clients showcased exclusively. Accordingly, revenues and profits flowed in streams and then rivers, with no end in sight. Gilmore reinvested more and more, soon building an additional bar, additional offices, and he improved the sound system and special effects lighting. Many became aware of the influx of cash which Gil controlled, and idea-men frequently walked through the entrance looking to get their piece of the pie. There were contractors, handymen, graffiti artists, emcees, comedians, snack vendors, bubble gum machine vendors, soap dispenser vendors, payphone salesmen, and self-acclaimed specialists of every kind. Peddlers. Consultants. You name it and they came runnin’. Remarkably, the majority of these treasure-chasers were accommodated. Gil seemed to like doing business with the tiny, unsubstantial types who had never previously proven themselves.

  “Let’s give the guy a shot,” he’d tell his son. “He talks a good game, so let’s see if he can back it up. Doesn’t hurt to try.” Douglass had heard that story over and over again, wondering when the balloon would bust—all of these hucksters feeding off of the house that he helped to build. But he didn’t need to wonder much, since it was happening right before their very eyes.

  In the flurry of activity, most of it controlled by Gilmore himself, there was no way to see just how much the entire empire was being attacked. From the inside out, and from the outside in, Douglass realized some of the more obvious and indiscreet activity which happened mostly behind his dad’s back. He sometimes had to maintain a stricter-than-most demeanor whenever he was in the presence of club staff, although the attitude wasn’t a happy one. Douglass had to fight the show of emotions and be that only true Teflon that kept the establishment strong. And although Gil expressed recognition and pride in his son’s experience and business savvy, sometimes turning to him for advice or support on certain business decisions, the bottom line was clear. Douglass had no control of the final decisions and little if any influence over the staff. Staff members became comfortable in their positions, testing their limits in various ways without any serious policies in place. Bartenders continuously over-poured drinks, making them stronger than required. Bouncers saw to it that certain people (like their friends and friends of friends) were admitted at no charge, avoiding the ten-dollar admission. Some bouncers were even brazen enough to accept a percentage of that admission themselves from those they didn’t know. If a bouncer wasn’t getting over in that way, then he was st
ealing cases of beer through the rear exit. Those who weren’t outright thieves stole time instead, drinking alcoholic beverages on duty or smoking weed in the men’s room, blatantly defying the “no-drugs” rule in the establishment. Hence, the bouncers projected nothing but a false sense of security. The club was better protected by the electronic alarm at closing time. If the negligence, corruption and incompetency of the club security wasn’t enough, the bartenders were also stealing. Often pocketing money instead of ringing and recording the transaction on the cash register. Some even operated their own business, their own hustles on the side. To top that off, the dancers were becoming more aware of the various opportunities in the club, capitalizing on the freedom to carry on with their own cons. If not that, dancers were at least showing up for work late. They were appearing on stage late, if at all. They frequently left the club with men who made get-rich-quick offers for bachelor parties or sex. Sex with the customers. Sex with the bouncers. Sex with the boss. At a minimum, hundreds of dancers bounced through the entrance of Fool’s Paradise; and of those employees, the boss was sexually involved with dozens of them. They’d come and they’d go like clockwork. Most times, the encounter took place right there in his office, behind closed doors and his busy, money-making nightclub. This all may have been satisfying for his ego and his loins; but for the future of this establishment, these activities led to nothing more than the poor, decaying moral of this million-dollar business.

  Douglass grew ever arrogant with each passing day. His observations of the activities in the club, when brought to his father’s attentions, were met with a casual attitude.

  “If it ain’t broke don’t fix it,” he’d say. Gil simply neglected the hard work that Douglass put into locating, developing and marking Fool’s Paradise. Yes, Gil certainly established the original Gilmore’s, its following and a decade-plus of continuity. But when the heat was on, when the locals in Mt. Vernon put pressure on the business—not forgetting the police raids or the neighbors complaining—it was Douglass who suggested the move; it was Douglass who found a new location and suggested the new club name Fool’s Paradise. And it was Douglass who brought that new energy that could keep up with the competition. Douglass virtually reinvented the flames of the legendary Gilmore’s, and those flames blazed. Because of Douglass, that watering hole in the wall from Mt. Vernon turned into an institution that was welcomed by the big city, with its big city rules and big city potentials.