Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  Pop! The ball smacked the leather of his glove. Diaz came down in a tumble. He got up strong and amped. Excited. All of those emotions until . . . until he looked in his glove. No ball! In the fever, he didn’t realize the ball only hit the top of his glove—he didn’t catch it! The ball was on the other side of the wall with stadium workers already scrambling for it. Stevens had hit another grand slam smash and the stadium turned into an ocean of jubilation. A spontaneous combustion of erratic applause and uncontrollable jumping. The result was a roar that cut through the air like a rocket blast.

  After the game, Wade followed a series of corridors and wings, until he felt as though he’d circled the stadium twice. Pushing his badge when necessary, he headed for the team locker room. On the way, he grabbed a small sack of peanuts from a vendor, still descending ramps. Finally, at the door marked “CLUBHOUSE,” he muscled through teams of waiting reporters, spilling some peanuts along the cement walkway, until he was able to reach and knock at the door. A uniformed guard pulled open a small slice of Plexiglas, peeking through the portal. Wade mentioned his appointment. When the guard winced, Wade took the easier method. A sign even the guard could understand. The guard immediately became a best friend and even escorted Wade through the tunnels leading to the New York Yankees locker room.

  Showers were steaming in the rear. Laughter could be heard from various directions. Some players were half in and half out of uniform. Others were wrapped in towels, headed for their personal shower stalls. Soiled team jerseys were draped here and there. Rows of pinewood benches lined the areas a few feet away from similarly designed lockers. Some lockers were opened and looked lived in, while others were very neat and organized. There were centerfold posters, family portraits, neatly folded towels, shirts and hanging team uniforms. On the floor outside of most lockers were pairs of dirty cleats. Meanwhile, team attendants and players’ personal assistants were either collecting used clothes, or else setting fresh street gear out for the players in the showers. This was certainly a locker room, but it was a glamorous one. Carpet. Generous lighting. Very organized. Cell phones at the ready. Walls of sink and mirror arrangements. Towel boys. Televisions in the walls. And there was pleasing ventilation that accommodated these million-dollar men—pampering for million-dollar feet and hands.

  Ken was just about to head for his shower when Wade recognized him without his team cap, wrapped in a team towel. Wade caught his attention and they agreed to meet after and leave together for a discussion over dinner. In a room which branched off of the locker room, there was a lavish lounge. Instantly darker than the fluorescent lighting in the locker room, the lounge could have been mistaken for a nightclub from what Wade could measure. Luxuries galore. Video games. Snack machines. A mini bar with stools. Waitresses, couch-side telephones and top of the line flatscreen monitors made Wade almost feel guilty as he soaked into the fine leather couch, kicking his feet up onto a coffee table. As he watched the screen in front of him, the 6 o’clock news was beginning. Ernie Anastos and Brenda Blackmon were the familiar co-anchors for the local news on channel 5.

  “For our top story, today federal agents from the New Jersey Organized Crime Task Force arrested New Rochelle television producer and entertainment entrepreneur, Douglass Gilmore. They’re charging Gilmore with the murder of topless dancer Nadine Butler, known as Moet . . .” Brenda turned to a different camera. A photo of Moet showed up beside the anchor. “The murder of Miss Butler had been a mystery to New York City authorities for the past eight months. However, recently the Federal Bureau of Investigation took over the case—a case that is allegedly related to the organized criminal activities of the New Jersey-based Bianco family . . .” Video footage accompanied the anchor’s voice, showing the scene of the murder and various dancers huddled outside in the chill to be questioned by officers. The broadcast went on to detailed allegations of the link between Gilmore and his businesses being one of the many fronts for organized crime. There were mug shots on the monitor of the Bianco chain of command and known underlings. An on-location reporter fused the pieces of the story together from a position outside of Fool’s Paradise with the camera panning over to the club entrance and its sign overhead. A few seconds of video showed Douglass being led out of the courtroom, and then there was an interview with the district attorney, appearing to bring some authenticity to the story. Wade smirked at the inferences and the impressions that the newscast left viewers with. He wasn’t surprised. Typical propaganda, all pushed by the FBI. Nothing new, except that this was the first time in nearly 20 years that a case had been taken from Wade. But the TV hype did aggravate him.

  Total fabrication, he thought.

  Ken’s Version

  Ken maneuvered his way out of the stadium garage as if the world was after his ass, moving far and away from the throng of press and waiting fans in his armored, gleaming black Lincoln Navigator. The truck was bigger than life, appropriate for the way the million-dollar player lived. The inside was clean and expertly loaded for any occasion, whether a party for eight or a cruise for two. Wade felt his body float on air as he nestled in the soft, glove-leather passenger seat, his feet planted firmly on the foot mat. The floor was as close as he could come to any hint of solid ground while Ken moved along the streets with commanding energy. When he took that first hard turn Wade held the door strap, expecting to feel gravity pull him in the opposite way. Nope. The luxury vehicle seemed to defy gravity because Wade barely budged with the seatbelt holding him so snug. He did, however, need to take a deep breath, and for the want of occupying the drive time he stared at the bronze carpet that covered the floor and matched the interior throughout the vehicle.

  Must be nice.

  A low volume feed of classical jazz played over the hi-fi sound system as they headed for Ken’s favorite grub spot. In the meantime, Ken was comfortable enough with Wade to freely share his background. Perhaps this satisfied the void he felt, escaping all those reporters stranded and strung-out back at the stadium. The jeep eventually rolled up to a stop in front of Jimmy’s Café. A valet stepped up to take possession of the vehicle, but quickly backed off when he recognized who it was. Apparently, Wade guessed, Ken always parked on his own. And the valet stepped aside and indicated for Ken to go and park as usual. In the rear of the lot, next to the convenient exit, Wade and Ken hopped down and out of the vehicle, then they strolled into the eatery. At the same time, a maître d’ was already waiting to seat them. The two settled, ordered food, and Ken continued to talk Wade’s ears off.

  “What attracted you to Moet?” asked Wade, feeling confident enough to jump to another subject. He also needed to give Ken some direction, to stop him from wandering back into his sports-celebrity world; the shit Wade had heard enough of.

  “I think it was her obsession with me. I know that might seem strange to you, knowing that I’m the one who’s always approached by fanatics. But Moet was the right kind of woman that a man, any man, would want to be obsessed . . .” Wade sipped at his coffee to save himself an expression. Since he’d seen a few videos, he already knew what Ken was saying. He even wondered himself if Moet could have affected him that way. “. . . even if we had a little spat or something,” said Ken, “she’d call me right back the next hour or the next day. Even if I was wrong.” Ken explained how he met Moet, things they did and how long or how much. She had been to his loft a few times, but it was Ken who visited her home most of the time. After a game. After dinner. After a movie. And whenever he did bring her home, she usually stayed for a few hours of gratuitous sex. No more, no less.

  Ken seemed to be thrown off a bit when Wade described (more in depth) how Moet was left for dead. The only knowledge that Ken had of Moet’s death was by Wade’s initial phone call. That was what initially brought Ken closer to Wade. Close enough to confide in him. Close enough to share other things.

  “I’ve never shared this with anyone . . .” Ken leaned into Wade like a weeping willow; tall as a 6’5” tower, Ken had Wade beat by almost
10 inches of height. “Once when I was out with Moet I had to put up a fight for her.”

  “A fight?” Wade reached in his pocket for a pad. For a while, he didn’t think he’d be needing it anymore. Not for this case anyhow.

  “Well, I dropped Moet off at her house one morning . . . it was almost noon. The whole block where she lives was like, deserted. Except for a few cars. We kissed . . . we’d spent the night together at my loft in the Village, and I turned my jeep around, heading for the airport. You know, her block is a dead end. They’re building more . . .”

  Wade shook his head and acknowledged that he knew all about her block, the construction, and the house. Just get on with it, dude.

  “Well, anyway, I had a game in Seattle that night. So, I had to go. But before I got to the end of her block, I peeked into the rearview mirror. I don’t know why, but I saw a guy, a white man, running up behind Moet. I thought it was curious and stopped quick. I almost hit my head on the windshield! Anyway, I backed up on her block and jumped out to see what was up. The guy was pushing her, like, right in front of her door. I ran up and snatched this dude by the collar. He flung around and popped me in the shoulder with his fist. I mean, I’m not a wimp or anything, but I never expected that. I’m no boxer or nothin’, but I moved closer to grab him or hit him or something. I’m always concerned about being put in the press for some assault stuff.” Wade yawned, visibly tired of Ken’s ranting and beating around the bush. “Got to watch my image, you know. There’s big money riding on me . . .” Wade wanted to shake Ken to get him to finish the damned story.

  “. . . anyway, he was like, fuck off, jock . . . then he pushed me again . . . dude is like big, not big and tall, but wide like a freakin’ truck! He was real light in the skin. Almost all—

  Ken twisted his face, trying to recall. And Wade helped.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Like an albino. Anyway, the dude pushed past me, cursing at Moet like she was a prostitute or somethin’.” Wade now turned his face, knowing that Ken obviously didn’t know everything about Moet.

  “He yelled something like, ‘You bitch! You wanna fuck with my girl? I’ll show you—you fuckin’ dyke!’ That’s when I was like, dude! I went to grab him again, but he ran back to his car. A Chevy or somethin’. I looked at Moet. She was okay, just out of breath and hysterical. That made me run after the guy. He already closed himself in the car and locked it. I was bangin’ on the window, but there was this sharp pain in my right shoulder. And I was like, shit, shit, shit!!! My shoulder! All I could think about was the Seattle game. Now I was really mad. I ran after the car for practically half the block. Exhaust fumes were in my face and everything. But he got away.” Wade was listening to the story in between the flubber, envisioning the scene. White guy tries to attack Moet. He’s saying Moet is messing with “his girl,” and he’s mad, he’s in a Caprice. That was the real story. Question is, who was Moet ticking off, and what girl was this guy referring to? The dyke stuff? He already knew Moet was bisexual. Nothing new there. Wade felt a little breathless himself, as if he was there. Hanging onto every word coming from Ken’s lips. Maybe Ken was Wade’s best lead, after all.

  Wade and Ken both had Ken’s favorite dish. Grilled turkey salad with cheddar cheese and croutons. After the meal, Ken joined Wade for the short trip to Moet’s house. Sean Clancy, the police artist, met them there, part of Wade’s idea to prevent publicity and to help Ken with recollection of the faces and events. There was no doubt in Wade’s mind that Ken’s run-in had something to do with Moet’s murder. So once Ken was sure that the sketch fit the description of the attacker, he acknowledged Wade’s office and pager numbers, then zoomed off in a blur of black. Now, on the way back to the precinct, Wade and the police artist discussed more about the drawing; but Wade had stared at the likeness long enough to know that he hadn’t run across any suspects with this description. He also marked Ken off of his hit list, recalling that his alibi was as good as an alibi could be. On the night of the murder, Ken was stuck in a hotel room in Kansas City waiting for part 2 of a double header. Besides, his story about the skirmish fit perfectly with the shoulder injury that prevented him from playing a few games. Must have been a bad hit, thought Wade, since Ken had been through a month of rehabilitation therapy for his entire right arm.

  As Wade absorbed the impact of the speed bumps at the entrance to the headquarter’s parking lot, he shared some male trivia with Sean.

  “Do you know that Stevens hardly remembers the names of the women he lays?” Wade expected Sean to be more surprised.

  “Really?” Sean was neither here nor there about the subject, finally swinging into the nearest parking space.

  “Yeah. Since he visits quite a few different states, he’s devised a system that can prevent him from screwing up the names. He gives them ‘pet names.’ Like nicknames. It starts immediately when he meets them, so if he’s in Atlanta, and meets a girl there, her name is Atlanta. If he’s in Montreal, then that’s her nickname—Montreal, or Montey. The women adopt the name like it was their own. Coming from a sports star and all.”

  “What if there’s two girls in the same state?”

  “I don’t know. I never got to ask.”

  “Maybe you weren’t cut out to be a detective after all,” said the artist, and the two laughed as they entered the rear of the station.

  Passaic County Jail

  Going to jail for the first time isn’t pretty. It’s a culture shock, to be more exact. But for Douglass, the passage into Passaic County’s Public Safety Facility was a death defying experience. To say the least, the jail was overcrowded. Something like a dog kennel, only for men. And as soon as he arrived there, Douglass was packed in with everybody else, regardless of their crime. Even if you were a petty thief, you might be grouped with an axe murderer.

  Notwithstanding his current legal woes, Douglass still felt he could handle the circumstances. After all, he had already been introduced to “communal living” at age 17—even worse than jail, as far as he was concerned.

  It was just after high school that he signed up and enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps where he endured 90 days of boot camp on the infamous Parris Island training grounds in South Carolina. So, he figured if he could take 24 hours of physical torture for 90 days straight—physical training, psychological pressure and shouting—then he could certainly withstand a few days in the slammer . . . at least. He had no choice but to do that; to face the challenge.

  U.S. marshals drove Douglass from the courthouse in Newark to Passaic. Detained as a federal prisoner until bail was paid or the case was decided. One way or the other, this was home for now. Escorting their prisoner through an electronically raised garage door, both marshals unstrapped their Glock MP 30s from their waists and, like a well rehearsed ritual, they stashed them; one in the glove compartment, the other in the armrest, between the seats. They raised from their seats and out of the car and moved towards the rear doors, approaching Douglass from both sides. Closest to Douglass was a female marshal. She had long, Barbie-blond hair, and the good looks to match. She reached down to help Douglass from his seat, and he instantly inhaled a dry flowery fragrance like his elementary school teachers used to wear. She was cordial, too; so far from the abrasive, bounty-hunter types that Douglass had been so far introduced to.

  If this marshal thing ever falls through, you can always dance for me. It was like Douglass to think the craziest thoughts at a time like this, if only to lessen the torment. And he made the same assessment with his eyes, taking a slow, slithery evaluation of blondie’s features. In the meantime, the other marshal, stiff, with a medium build, led the way through a door into the jail until all three of them stood before an elevated, glass-enclosed operations center. Something like box office seats for a basketball game. There was an intercom system through which the marshals made their representations, sliding some papers and identifications through a slot in the wall. After the paperwork was signed, the marshals took a receipt in return, and just lik
e that the transaction was complete; Douglass was passed and delivered to the hands of the Passaic County Sheriff’s Department.

  From one facility to another, the difference was as clear as black and white. From the moment that the door closed behind the marshals, Douglass was ordered around and manhandled like a runaway slave. Actually, slave masters would have been kinder; even if wielding a stinging leather whip. Within minutes, a 9-foot tall giant began barking orders. He had the uniform and a sheriff’s badge . . . he had dark hair, was clean shaven, and there were those bigger-than-life hands. Douglass would never forget this guy, because of how he grabbed him. Douglass didn’t dare voice his disapproval, but he was surely thinking of how his father always grabbed him up when he was younger.

  “TAKE OFF YOUR SNEAKERS AND BELT, AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP AGAINST THE WALL.” There was a small, plastic bin on the table nearby. A sign inside said “PUT PROPERTY HERE.” Everything was unquestionable and clear. No misunderstandings, as though this had been exercised a million times in the past.

  On the wall, there were a few sets of handprints. They were large, as if the titan-sheriff was the one who buried his hands into a bucket of red paint and slapped his palms on the off-yellow wall three times in a row. There were also directions and orders (blown up and printed) and meant for anyone to understand, apparently prepared for all languages and I.Q. levels.

  So tall was the giant sheriff that he had to bend down low in order to execute his procedures. He first frisked Douglass, placing his hands on his shoulders, then gliding them along the outline of his arms, torso, outer and inner thighs, and ankles. The sheriff attached a plastic wristband with the prisoner’s name and date of birth in permanent marker. It was similar to a hospital patient’s ID bracelet. From one of many cubby holes, with varying sizes of blue, laceless skips, the sheriff pulled out a 9½ pair and tossed them to the floor to be worn. Another grab from another cubby, and he flung a Ziploc bag of items on the table. Douglass still had his palms on the wall, doing whatever he was instructed to do. Still he could peek or at least sense the sheriff’s activities. Meanwhile, behind the glass there were uniformed men and women flipping switches, ruffling through papers and answering phones. Some black, some white, and some Hispanic, everybody back there was a busybody.