Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  Today, after following Wade’s vehicle down North Avenue, Hammer pulled the black metal case from the trunk and carried it into the woods, behind an embankment that was directly across from the Gilmore home. He began to erect it as quickly as possible while Walsh stood over him with a pair of binoculars. The two looked like a pair of toy soldiers. One spread-eagled on the grass; the other looking over him like a scout. Hammer was fumbling with the mini satellite dish, trying to adjust it to a precise degree of focus on the big house. He plugged in two sets of earphones and began to listen attentively while adjusting the volume and frequency of the device. The battery pack was low, but at the moment, the agents could hear a guy named Greg speaking to the group. He was both angry and passionate about the events, voicing his aggressions to all. Hammer began to hear parts of the transmission as it popped in and out.

  “We’re gonna make this happen. Before this is over everything is gonna flip our way. The only captives will be the judge, the D.A. and the FBI. They will be forced to play our game. We’re gonna squeeze and squeeze until we get blood from them . . .” Greg was convincing. He was passionate. And the words brought a fresh sweat to Hammer’s brow. Again, the reception fizzled out, provoking a sizzling noise in the agent’s ears. Detective Wade readdressed the group effort, confirming assignments and the overall plan of action.

  “We’re back up!” Hammer was loud and excited about getting the mic working again. Relieved, Walsh was glad he didn’t have to try and read lips through the windows of the house anymore.

  “. . . Ladies, you know what you have to do. Dino, Demetrius and Danni, you will be the eyes at the back of my head. I’ll have to be ready to take him out. We’ve already got two down. If there has to be a third, so be it. But nobody else has to die here. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Wade is the shooter?” Hammer’s eyes grew by 10 percent. Walsh was jolted by his partner’s high pitch and heavy volume. “Wade’s the shooter! No wonder we can’t get anywhere with this case. He’s probably been holding out because he’s involved!” Hammer was so excited by his revelation, he almost bit his tongue.

  “Calm down, Hammer, I’m trying to hear what they’re saying. Shhh!” Walsh emphasized with the sound effect.

  Greg was speaking again. But the device also popped out again.

  “Let’s reach out to our friends in the press and television. I know . . . over at . . . and I could . . .” Wade was shook by Brenda’s name coming from another man’s lips. Walsh couldn’t explain the expression on Wade’s face and he didn’t hear much of Greg’s statement.

  “Let me handle Brenda. Please,” Wade interrupted. The device popped back on, following a sizzle and a fuzzy sound. Greg nodded. Walsh was becoming restless, not clear about all of the dialogue. He wasn’t that good at reading lips.

  “Keep the dish focused on the window. The windows! That’s why we’re not hearing everything. You keep moving that thing . . . keep it still.” Walsh blew his commands like he fired a gun.

  “When all of our people are in place we’ll drop the bomb on these fools! They won’t know who hit ’em.” Greg was strong and vocal with his convictions. Walsh swallowed real hard. Hammer shifted his head and eyes into Walsh’s direction and they both exchanged expressions of concern. The two agents knew for certain that they’d walked into a room full of dynamite. When it would explode, they didn’t know. But they were confident that they’d be there to witness it. Hammer, ready with his long-lensed camera, snapped photos of those leaving the meeting. License plates of the various vehicles were recorded. The entire investigation seemed to take a leap to another level.

  On the way back to the New Rochelle branch the two discussed their request for a bigger bud get for the case, how they would substantiate the funding, and the new information to be figured into the equation. More agents, better equipment, wiretaps, transmitters, and especially (the one thing they needed most) more time was all a part of the request which they contemplated.

  It’s On!

  Wade and Danni agreed that they would stick to Debbie like a respirator. If one had to leave her then the other would pick up the slack. On the day of the strategy meeting, both men escorted Debbie to the 45th precinct. Sean was waiting in the detectives’ division for the trio.

  “Hey, Walter,” he said, raising up from where he sat on the edge of Wade’s desk.

  “Hi, Sean. This is Danni. Debbie, meet Sean.” Debbie was humble, while Danni was a little edgy about being behind the closed doors at a police station.

  “Sean, we’re gonna chat with Debbie for a few moments. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll come down to your studio as soon as we’re done.” Sean made his way through the door. Both men seemed to clear their throats in preparation for the inevitable.

  “Debbie, do you remember David? A customer at Fool’s Paradise?”

  “Sure. He helped me get a job at the club when I just came to New York. We met on the Internet.”

  “Debbie, David is dead. Shot once in the face . . .” Wade paused for a reaction. Debbie exhaled what little air she had in her lungs. Not as disturbed as Wade anticipated. “. . . but there’s more that you should know. We think it might be more than a coincidence that Moet and David are dead. Did you know a guy named Bobby?”

  “I can’t remember,” Debbie answered after a few seconds of thought. “That might be someone Moet was dealing with.”

  “That’s right, Debbie . . . and he’s dead, too. Someone rigged his vehicle and he crashed. It seems that these bodies are turning up as people that either you or Moet knew. There could be some psycho-secret admirer out there who’s been killing people associated with the club in some way.”

  “But I don’t know this guy Bobby, and I never . . . I mean David and I never . . . well, you know, fucked. We spent some time together, but never in bed.”

  “That’s not so much the issue, Debbie. The killer could think you’ve been with David. He could even want you for himself. We don’t really know what makes these fools tick. We just know that they do exist. They’re excessive and extreme. There’s no tellin’ how or who they’ll strike next.” Wade made enough of an impact on Debbie to keep her undivided attention.

  “Sean is downstairs with an artist’s rendition of the suspect. We need you to come down and add your opinion. We’ll also need you to look through some books . . . mug shots, we call them . . . to try and identify the man who kidnapped you and Moet. This could be a long day.” Wade was direct. No nonsense.

  “That’s . . . that’s okay. I wanna help catch this guy. Moet wouldn’t hurt anybody. And I’m sick and tired of seeing people die, only so that killers can get away with murder.”

  Debbie followed Wade and Danni shadowed her. They stepped intentionally through the squad room, down a wing of the building. In the rear, Sean’s office was filled with technology. Computers. Monitors. Scanners and an overhead projector. There was a large drafting board with lamps stretched up and across the work area. Sean was seated at his desk where a 21-inch flatscreen was anchored and supported by an iron swivel arm. Wade and Danni stood behind him and Debbie took a seat next to Sean. On one half of the screen was the virtual image changing with different hairstyles, eyeglasses, mustaches, and hats. The artist’s rendition on the left had all the features of the suspect, except she remembered lighter hair. She remembered shades . . . the Terminator look, she told them. Sean took Debbie’s directives and made the adjustments. Debbie described the man’s eyes as squinted, with a lot of white in them, and a grey spiral around the pupils. And thinner lips, she said. Sean maneuvered his mouse while a tiny pointer skated across the monitor, back and forth, to and from various electronic tools as the virtual image on the right went through an instant metamorphosis.

  “That’s him!” Debbie blurted abruptly. Then a chill slipped through her when she thought of her friend Moet. Sean pressed his thumb into the ALT button on his keyboard and simultaneously, he smacked the “p” key with the pinky of the same hand. He pushed himself bac
kwards obediently, and he immediately swiveled around in the same motion until he was precisely in front of his HP color laser printer. It was already producing and spitting out the suspect’s likeness. Sean waited a few seconds for the copy, snatched it up and swiveled back around to hand it to Wade.

  “Make three more of these, Sean. Give one to the chief, too.”

  “You got it.”

  “Debbie . . . Danni, join me in the next room.”

  The three stepped through a doorway. Wade flicked a light switch, and the place lit up like an operating room. There was a conference table in the center of the floor with a series of chairs positioned at its perimeter. Danni was gentlemanly, pulling a seat for Debbie, while the detective went to a cabinet with mugshot books stacked throughout. For the next 2 hours, Debbie, Wade and Danni reviewed photos of known offenders. They canvassed the books for every white face they could find.

  “Fred Gordon here.”

  “Fred! Hi, this is Lou, from SuperStar TV . . .” After a brief conversation with the renowned magnate of Black News and Affairs, Lou arranged to meet for lunch in Manhattan. They discussed the case against Douglass and the facts relating to Moet’s murder. Fred was inspired by the opportunity to break the story first. He enjoyed controversy and took such dives at every possible turn. Admired by millions for his tact and aggressive, investigative approach with the president, with ambassadors from around the world, and even during his exclusive with O.J., Fred’s talent upstaged the heaviest of the heavyweights. Nowadays, his face was syndicated nightly in every state throughout the nation, known for the integrity that he brought to every story. Lou and Fred hardly touched their food through the first hour of their meeting. The waiter had to re-heat what they ordered, and they didn’t mind; it gave them more time to discuss old times and their school days at the Center for Media Arts. In total agreement, Lou and Fred shook hands as though they’d completed a world-renowned Peace Accord. They parted company; Fred strutting towards his newfound mission at National Broadcast News, while Lou was only beginning to address his long list of friends. Next person to see was Oscar Sutton, president of the Black Syndicated Radio Networks on Park Avenue. It sure paid to know friends in high places.

  While Lou continued to work magic with his old friends, Greg contacted his fraternity brothers and informed them of the dilemma in New York. Georgetown University may have been a distance from the big city, but the school produced an ocean of accomplished black journalists who were scattered all over the nation. Greg made it a practice to maintain contact with his 4 closest classmates. The Fabulous Five was their acclaimed title. They were campus celebrities, known for their witty investigative techniques, exposing facts and injustices on campus and off, forcing the most important issues to the forefront of administrative and political agendas. Aside from their tight skills, they were committed to one another. When a distress call went out, no questions were asked. Roll call. A week after Greg contacted his frat brothers, The Fabulous Five were together again, huddled in a suite at the Grand Hyatt Hotel on 42nd Street in Gotham.

  The journalist superstars had a surefire formula to follow, one that Professor Hopkins taught them well. “Treat every story as if it were your first and your last,” he would say. “Someone’s life depends upon the impact of your words . . .” He also warned them to “use every means necessary, the news services, colleagues and foes, publishers and editors . . . mailroom clerks. Make yourself the longest list possible of avenues to expose your story and then double that effort. Leave no stone unturned.”

  Four years after their graduation, Jamal, Andrew, Reginald and Rick created a bi-coastal network of media saturation. Along with Greg, the group had columns, cover stories, editorials, content and consulting positions at major regional magazines, newspapers and websites in most major cities. When there was an issue that affected or infected the black community, these brothers joined forces to cause a unified consciousness throughout the country. The NAACP, CENTER FOR HUMAN RIGHTS, AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL, ACLU, and at least a handful of other organizations all kept a focus on the themes and issues that The Fabulous Five brought to the plate. If they were talking about it, it had to be important. And as they masterminded their latest strategy in the generous hotel room, dressed in sharp post-collegiate and corporate wear, the issues related to the “FREE GILMORE!” campaign were printed on yellow legal tablets and spread out on top of the queensized bed. The room was a bolt of lightning energy; a blur of suspenders, bowties and spectacles, and an extemporaneous collaboration of ideas, suggestions and opinions. It was almost time for action.

  It was Brenda who suggested Manhattan Proper as the location where Wade, Debbie and Danni would join her. Some Tuesday night comedy to loosen things up; perhaps the raw, black humor would settle the sensitive nature of their planned discussion. Maybe the climate would even alleviate some stress from a long day’s work.

  After the show, close to midnight, Brenda guided the quartet for a 5-minute drive to the USA Diner on Merrick Boulevard. They warmed themselves with coffee and cocoa, and Debbie and Wade shared a chunky slice of strawberry shortcake.

  This was all Brenda’s idea: the meeting, the comedy and the dinner. Sure, Wade made the phone call . . . he needed her anyhow. But it was all on Brenda’s terms. She was in a position to state demands, especially now that she knew what she knew. The justice, the rush to judgment, the misconceptions . . . and now the FREE GILMORE! campaign. Ohhh, shit! She almost blew her top. This was her story first. Her angle and her leads. How could this leak out without her involvement?

  And all after she did her goddamned slave hours!

  When Wade agreed to the meeting, Brenda felt better, but still unsatisfied. She needed to push herself back up front on this one. That might help to relieve her of some of that used feeling she was carrying around.

  At the diner, far and away from Manhattan Proper’s hysterical entertainment, Wade reintroduced Danni and Debbie, explaining how they came to meet. The information shared at the diner was actually confidential police business, but Brenda pressed Wade so well—as if she was his wife or something—that he was feeling behooved and beside himself with obedience. Besides, his intentions now (even if he was still an officer of the law) were somewhat personal. He had to admit to himself that he was sinking his teeth deep into this case. It had become an investment of time and energy that he intended to see through to completion. And he had close to 10 deputies at last count!

  Wade knew that Brenda had some close interest in this investigation. He also recognized her position, talent, and resources to be limitless in value. So a 6-pack of apologies and a half dozen new responsibilities lured Brenda in. Now there were 11 deputies. But, by the time the 3 finished shooting off various elements of the story to Brenda, her body was whizzing with adrenaline. She was feeling like her favorite childhood characters: a sort of Nancy Drew concealed inside of Foxy Brown’s body. Brenda added what she heard to what she learned from Ken Stevens and, BOOM. She indeed had just as much, if not more of the story than the FBI. After all, the FBI . . . or even Wade hadn’t read into Ken’s journal as she had. The slave hours were starting to pay off.

  Dancers Unite!

  Fool’s Paradise could always boast about “100 Dancers!” The club could brag about being “The Leader in Adult Entertainment!” And tell your friends all about “The biggest celebrities from sports, music and film!” But the arrest and confinement of Douglass posed the most significant challenge to the industry leader. It was proof that all the money and success in the world could not buy a person’s immunity. The reality is, if some local, state or federal authority wants to, they can swoop into an empire, take what they please, and make up their reasons later, after the damage has been done.

  The injustice and charges with which brought all of these problems called for a response. It all called for a pool of political strength and the outcry of the people. The team behind FREE GILMORE! hatched the plan; and sure, they knew that there might be an uphill batt
le because of the stigma of topless dancers and adult entertainment as the backdrop to their dilemma. But, this was the world of the patriarch, in an age where sex and pornography ruled; shock-jock Howard Stern on the radio and television, coercing women (only) to strip and show their entire bodies; the biggest A-List actors, Tom Cruise and his wife (at the time), Nicole Kidman, starred in their own virtual butt-naked sex film, while A-List actress Halle Berry won her Oscar by also giving a good on-camera fuck; and then those mostly naked billboards standing 100 feet high on Times Square—how could anyone miss being brainwashed by it all? Anything but would be a state of denial!

  But even if the circumstances surrounding Gilmore’s tragedy called for a movement of conscious brothers and sisters, of political and community leaders to speak out against the agents and agencies behind it all; even if those who might otherwise come out in support were kept in the shadow due to the moral dilemma of issues in the so-called socially unpopular, politically-perilous world of sex, obscenity and adult entertainment ordinances, there were still others to turn to for help. It became evident that “Team Gilmore” had to recruit their own vigilantes and advocates, no matter who.

  “That motherfucker ain’t never done nothin’ for me. Let ’em rot, for all I care!” Claudine, the forerunner of belligerence and deceit, was a cancerous element amongst a number of dancers who were no-shows. Some others had excuses like school and not having a babysitter. But Dino and Demetrius kept on pushing. They were able to convince more than 50 dancers to go along with their plan. Valerie rounded up 17 more herself. Most of all the top-shelf dancers were up for the challenge, as though they were intelligent enough to understand the depth of the dilemma and that Douglass was partially responsible for their bread and butter. Not that some of the girls weren’t brilliant. Just that a few of them were naïve and only went along because of a friend.