by Emery, Lynn
“Damn, betcha only three old dudes out there,” Lilly shot back. But she turned around and started unpacking her make-up.
Jazz watched for a few seconds as she applied dark red lipstick. Then she brushed out the long, thick black hair that was mostly an expensive weave. Lilly shimmied out of the cotton jumpsuit to reveal she still wore her costume. The shiny neon red halter and matching thong made her honey brown skin seem to glow. Customers flocked to Candy Girls to watch Lilly wrap her long legs around the dancer’s pole. Still Jazz was beginning to look for a replacement. Lilly got on her damn high horse too often. Jazz was sure one night she wouldn’t show, would walk out in a huff, or Jazz would throw her out. The last possibility might be the first to happen. No employee would dictate to Jazz or give her attitude for long.
“Consider that visit from the police a long break. It’s almost nine o’clock. You perform between eight and midnight. I’ll pay the same.” Jazz turned around to leave.
“Gee, thanks.”
Lilly went on applying make-up. She dusted sparkly body powder across her generous cleavage and then the rest of her body, paying special attention between her thighs. The glitter was her signature. Guys lapped it up. Jazz was about to set her straight when Tyretta pushed through the dressing room door.
“Child, you better get your glittering rear in gear. The natives are gettin’ restless. You got some good tips comin’ your way. Guess who just slid in all undercover? Lil’ Bit,” Tyretta blurted out before anyone could take a stab at it. “Girl, you know he got some fifties with your name on ‘em. I’ve been keepin’ him hydrated for ya.”
“Just as long as he keeps his sticky hands offa me. He be tryin’ to sneak a feel when he passes a tip.” Lilly made a face, but began to primp with quicker movements. The sound system kicked in, playing a raunchy song by a local female rapper.
“Them bills gonna spend the same, girl. Sticky or not,” Tyretta quipped.
“You ain’t even lyin’,” Lilly tossed back with a chuckle. She shook her butt as if warming up, humming along with the music. “Later.”
Jazz nodded at her as she walked by. “You have trouble, just signal Byron. These dudes know I don’t play that touchy feely crap with my employees.”
“Okay,” Lilly said. Her tone and attitude were less salty. She dipped and swayed her hips to the music as she pranced out.
“And why are you in here instead of getting guys to spend money on drinks and food?” Jazz snapped at Tyretta once Lilly exited.
“I came in here to save her silly ass from a whippin’, and you from getting arrested,” Tyretta replied and pointed a forefinger at Jazz.
“Humph. I think you just delayed what is eventually going to happen anyway. Lilly is on my nerves every chance she gets.” Jazz glanced around the dressing room. “And she better straighten up the mess, too.”
“Oh c’mon, relax boss lady. She’s not the only one that junks this room up. What’s got you in such a bad mood?” Tyretta picked up scarves on the floor and draped them on hooks attached to the walls as she talked.
“You mean losing almost three hours of income, a smaller than usual crowd because of the cops, and being linked to a murder isn’t a clue?” Jazz shot back.
Tyretta dropped a hairbrush on the table and stared wide-eyed at Jazz. “Wait, a murder? Who said anything about a murder? I thought the cops came around because of loud music and noise out on the parking lot.”
“Yeah, they always use some lame-ass excuse to make trouble. Some lil’ dude got shot up by Kyeisha’s thug boyfriend. Addison naturally hauls his long, tall self over here to harass me,” Jazz grumbled. “And, Lilly sure as hell better clean up before she leaves.”
“Right, I’ll tell her,” Tyretta replied. She followed Jazz out, a frown twisting her chocolate brown face.
Jazz headed down a hallway behind the stage out front taking the back route to her office on the opposite side of the club. She turned right at another shorter hallway that ended in her office. Tyretta followed on her heels asking questions about the murder.
“Look, you think I’m CNN or Fox News?” Jazz retorted over her shoulder. “All I know is some dude is dead and they looking for Cleavon. That’s all I want to know. Why in the hell he think Kyeisha is a friend of mine?” She muttered another curse at the ringing cell phone on her cluttered desk. “Well at least nobody stole my cell while I was out there.”
“Detective Addison uses excuses to hang around ‘cuz he’s sweet on you.” Tyretta took a melodramatic step back when Jazz spun around and scowled at her. “I’m so scared, but I gotta tell the truth.”
“Humph.” Jazz sat down at the desk. She found the box of cigarillos, pulled one out, and lit up. She inhaled the sweet smoke and let it out.
Tyretta had become the closest anyone had ever come to being Jazz’s best friend. They’d met at a group home after both had been kicked out of separate foster homes. Despite appearances, their bickering never amounted to more than their unique way of communicating. In some ways they were closer than Jazz was to her older sister, Willa. She thought of her sister because the caller ID on her phone showed Willa was calling. The phone played a popular R&B tune again. Jazz grunted and picked up.
“Yeah, Willa. The cops must call you when they come around here, huh? Get out of my business. I’m grown.” Jazz rolled her eyes to the ceiling. She sucked in more smoke, and let it trail from her open lips. “Yes, I’m fine. Hell no, I don’t need bail money. I’m at the club. I’ll talk to you later. I’ll let you know ‘bout dinner on Sunday. Bye.”
“She cares about you. That’s something. More than I can say for my jacked-up family,” Tyretta mumbled.
“Willa is a control junkie, all right? Not enough she got them two crumb snatchers to take care of, but she gotta be in my face asking questions.” Jazz dropped her cell phone into the pocket of her leather jacket. Then she took it out again and sent a text to Byron. “See if Lilly is out there workin’ her butt to make me some money.”
“I think it’s wonderful that she invites you over for Sunday dinner.”
“You wouldn’t think it was so wonderful if you had to deal with her holy-roller Aunt Ametrine preaching at you over mashed potatoes and meatloaf. Sister Ametrine will all but hit you over the head with her Bible. Talks about how Christians need to ‘smite the demons out of misguided folks’.”
Willa and Jazz had grown up in foster care thanks to Vivienne, their troubled, neglectful mother. They’d been separated six times. Jazz being younger had stayed with Vivienne almost four years after she was born. Willa had been removed by child welfare by then. Willa’s fourth set of foster parents adopted her. Through them she gained three aunts and six uncles, “holy-roller” Aunt Ametrine being one of her adoptive mother’s two sisters. Jazz didn’t call them her family, because in her mind they weren’t. No matter what they tried to say.
“Is it good meatloaf? I love me some good meatloaf and gravy. Umf!” Tyretta nodded.
“You’re not listening to a damn thing I say. I…” Jazz stopped when her phone signaled a text. “Damn right she better be dancing. I got bills to pay.”
“Who’d you say got killed tonight?” Tyretta said, switching gears back to the murder.
“It was yesterday or last night. Some guy named Brandon Wilks.” Jazz waved a hand and turned her attention to the invoices on her desk.
“I know that name,” Tyretta said frowning. “I wanna say he ran with the South Side of Town boys, you know that gang from the bottom.”
“You mean one of the four or five gangs in the bottom,” Jazz replied dryly.
“The Bottom” was the nickname for a south Baton Rouge neighborhood. Starting in the forties and fifties, many middle-class and stable blue collar African-American families moved there. The area boasted the first Black high school offering a diploma. Two of the city’s first African-American doctors had offices there and so did a black dentist. Small businesses flourished as well, with upholstery shops, various repair
s shops, and more that catered to black customers. Black Baton Rougeans avoided the demeaning experience of being forced to enter through a back door or being called “boy” and “girl”. And like many black neighborhoods, the passage of time brought change that wasn’t for the better. The downward slide began in the mid-1970s. When crack hit in the eighties, the slide became a speedy tumble down into a crime infested “hood”.
“I think they hooked up with some of those Spanish dudes that started movin’ south of LSU. Off GSRI Road, you know where I’m talkin’ about. Or maybe they got into a turf fight with ‘em. I don’t know. That was three years ago maybe.” Tyretta sat back and warmed to her subject.
“Yeah, I heard they kissed and made up, started doing deals together. Or something.”
“Nice history lesson, Tyretta. Now get back to…” Jazz’s head snapped up. “What did you say about Spanish dudes?”
“You know I was livin’ in Atlanta back in the day, moved there in 2005 for a minute. When I came back in 2007, I dated this guy named Rasheed. Damn, he was fine but he—”
Jazz cut her off to redirect her back. “Right, Rasheed was all that. But what about the Spanish dudes?”
“Some crazy gangsters from Houston and Cali I remember. Rasheed used to party with them. Wonder where he is now?” Tyretta brushed her long locks as though expecting handsome Rasheed to walk through the office door.
“In prison. Got thirty years for stabbing his girlfriend. She almost died. You remember the names of any of those Hispanic gangsters?” Jazz got up and came around the desk.
“Damn, he didn’t even kill the girl and he got thirty years,” Tyretta said.
“She was the third person he attacked in four years, and he had a record for other stuff. That dude is a violent psycho with a nice body and charming smile. Good thing y’all broke up.”
Jazz leaned against her desk and crossed her arms. She’d rattled off Rasheed’s fate, but her mind was on another handsome gangbanger, one from her own past and with a sexy, silky Spanish accent. Filipe Perez had been her lover of the moment four years earlier, but Jazz didn’t remember Brandon Wilks. Not that she knew all of his thug life associates. Like Rasheed, Filipe was in prison. Jazz hadn’t kept in touch, mainly because she’d helped put him there.
“Damn, Rasheed. You crazier than I thought you was,” Tyretta said and stood up.
Chyna knocked though the door was halfway open. “Hey, I wanna take a break, Ty. Not many guys out there, so you won’t be running your legs off. Sorry, Jazz.”
“We’ll pick up by Friday or Saturday,” Jazz said, her thoughts not on the small crowd or weekend.
“Okay, I’m comin”, Tyretta replied and waved to her. When Chyna left, Tyretta turned back to Jazz. “So you know that guy what got shot after all?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I can find out though. Bet my pain in the ass sister can tell me but not before I have to hear a long lecture. Guess I’m going to put up with her smart mouth kids and crazy aunts.”
“Quit frontin’, ‘cuz you love those kids.” Tyretta had a distracted expression as though her thoughts were elsewhere. “You’re lucky to have a place where you’re welcome.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Jazz retorted with snort. She sent a text message to Willa accepting the Sunday dinner invitation and asking for a favor. Then she plotted out making time to do some of her own research.
Chapter 2
“Well at least she closes that den of iniquity on Sundays,” Aunt Ametrine said in her usual judgmental stage whisper, knowing full well the subject of her criticism could hear her. She looked at Willa’s daughter Mikayla. “Pass me the peas, baby.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mikayla complied and then glanced at her seventeen-year-old brother. “What’s a den of iniquity?”
Anthony lost his look of bored distraction, the expression he used around his elders. His brown eyes twinkled. “That means Aunt Jazz operates a place where it ain’t nothin’ but a part-ee, part-ee. Get down and part-ee,” he sang the words while bobbing his head.
“Hey! Ain’t nothin’ but a part-ee,” Mikayla joined in with gusto. She dropped her fork and waved her hands in the air like the popular hip hop artists her mother disliked.
“Heh-heh,” Papa Elton grinned at their antics but wiped it from his face at the dirty looks from his wife and Willa.
“Stop that,” Mama Ruby said, her voice sharper than a steak knife.
“Ahem, yes ma’am,” Anthony replied and shushed his baby sister. Still, he wore the remnant of a smirk.
“Yes, Mama Ruby,” Mikayla answered dutifully.
Willa spread her squint of disapproval from her adoptive father to her son. “Daddy, don’t encourage them. Y’all have been watching those old blaxploitation movies from the seventies too much.”
“I like the funk,” Anthony offered. He smothered a laugh when Aunt Ametrine slapped a hand on her chest.
“Lord have mercy, the things these young people say,” Aunt Ametrine huffed in true church lady fashion.
Papa Elton cocked a thick black eyebrow at her. “Oh calm down, Ametrine. Funk is a music genre from back in the day. You ought to know. You was on the dance floor with the rest of us at The Spot back in the seventies. Remember? Yeah, your favorite group was the P-Funk All Stars. You was dating that guy Junior Patin and—”
“Yes, and I changed my life around for the better,” Aunt Ametrine cut him off. She patted her face with a napkin. “Praise Jesus for his grace and mercy. Beryl, wasn’t the choir in fine form at worship this morning?”
Willa’s Aunt Beryl blinked at her sister in surprise. “Um, yes indeed. Sister Carter’s niece has a beautiful voice.”
The conversation shifted to topics more comfortable for Aunt Ametrine. Willa’s kids joked as they helped her clear the table. At Willa’s urging, the older adults agreed to have dessert in her living room. Jazz picked up a couple of serving platters and trailed after her sister from the dining room to the spacious kitchen. Once saucers of cake and a silver pot of hot coffee were loaded on a wheeled tray, the kids went off to serve their elders. The sound of their voices in spirited discussion floated in. When they were alone, Willa faced Jazz.
“You know Aunt Ametrine is just… being herself. She doesn’t mean any harm.” Willa shrugged at the look Jazz gave her. Then she finished loading the dishwasher.
“Yeah, she’s holier than everybody to let her tell it. But Mr. Elton got her good though.” Jazz barked a laugh. “He was about to yank some skeletons out her closet, and them bones still had meat on ‘em.”
Willa suppressed a giggle by pursing her lips. “Mama Ruby is going to get on him I bet.”
“I don’t think so. Miss Ruby didn’t say a peep. She was trying too hard not to laugh. I’m getting a picture of Sister Ametrine getting funky on the dance floor.” Jazz grabbed a dish towel and waved it in the air as she shook her hips. She did her imitation of Aunt Ametrine’s generous butt sticking out as she moved.
“You got Aunt Ametrine down. Like Papa Elton said, bet she got loose and real funky,” Anthony said from the archway that led to the dining room. He cut a couple of moves too while making the sounds of a beat.
“Stop it, Anthony. Show some respect for your great-aunt,” Willa said, forcing a stern expression.
“Yes, ma’am.” Anthony stopped dancing. He shot a glance at Jazz and grinned.
“What did you come in here for anyway?” Willa asked.
“Grandmamma wants ice cream.” Anthony cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other.
“Okay, then get busy.” Willa got out a tray and piled bowls on it with spoons. Anthony got a container of ice cream from the freezer and left with the tray. “You see what you started? He’ll be imitating his Aunt Ametrine for days.”
“You mean like this?” Jazz struck another pose with her butt in the air and shimmied across the tile floor.
“Stop it,” Willa said. She lost the battle to be disapproving and burst into loud laughter until tea
rs came down her nut brown cheeks. She got control. “Girl, you too crazy.”
“Hey, somebody gotta lighten up these Sunday-come-to meetings,” Jazz wisecracked. “Anyway, thanks for including me.”
“Of course you’re included. Always,” Willa said and gave Jazz a hug.
Jazz cleared her throat and moved away. Sentimental moments had been few and far between in her life. Willa had more experience with that sort of thing. Somehow Willa had come out with fewer scars from Vivienne and a succession of foster homes. But then, she hadn’t suffered the same kind of trauma Jazz had gone through. The memory of abuse tried to push through Jazz’s defenses. Sometimes a touch or a scent set off flashbacks to that night and… Jazz started to get a cigarillo from her purse in the pantry, then she remembered Willa’s strict no smoking policy. Do something with your hands, move. Jazz strode back to the dining room with the dish towel. She gathered up the table cloth, put the lovely centerpiece back on the polished wood table, and went to the laundry room. Once she’d started the wash cycle, Jazz went back to the kitchen and started cleaning the granite countertops.
“Hey, you don’t have to do all that,” Willa said over her shoulder as she scrubbed a ceramic serving bowl she didn’t want to put in the dishwasher.
“You don’t want stains to set in the tablecloth.” Jazz kept moving around the kitchen, looking for other things to do.
“Hey, hey. Slow it down, girl. Remember I’ve got household help. Why else would anybody have kids, right?” Willa quipped. Her smile faded as she looked at Jazz. “You okay? I mean the other night…”
“Yeah, oh right. The cop thing at my club. That was nothin’. Unless…” Jazz felt the anxiety ease its grip on her chest. She breathed easier as she sat down on a stool. Propping her elbows on the long breakfast bar, she studied her big sister. “You didn’t happen to do a little digging. Mighty strange you were on the phone calling to see if I was alright. How’d you know anyway?”
“Ahem, one of my friends is a reporter at WKXL. She was listening to her police scanner and heard Candy Girls mentioned.” Willa swiped the bowl dry and started washing a second matching one.
