Riddles Copyright © 2008 by Rhonda Crowder
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and review. For more information, contact Rhonda Crowder at [email protected]
Cover Design by Wayne Henry Designs
Riddles is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people living or dead are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. All other events and characters are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
This story is dedicated to all of my sisters still in the struggle.
Every step a writer takes is a journey through the creative process…
Chapter One
A woman screamed so loud that I heard the squeal over the rap music. The song stopped.
“She’s dead,” the voice cried out, it sounded like the waitresses of Latin descent. “Call the police,” she demanded.
I froze. The handsome Caucasian man with salt and pepper hair looked at me with glassy eyes. I leapt off his lap.
What the hell? I thought, the commotion shocking me out own inebriated state. I slid the door back, leaving my customer in the stale, dimly lit, closet-like space the club called a VIP room. Something like this could only happen on Friday the 13th, I thought. My mind raced. And, while it is April, I ain’t up for some fool’s jokes.
I stood there, holding my clothes, wearing nothing but a red garter with money stuck in it, and strappy five-inch high platform heels. The DJ pleaded for everyone to calm down, but that didn’t seem to be working. My eyes scanned the room and I saw half-naked girls screaming and dashing around. A herd of men rushed the exit like someone had yelled “fire.” They knocked over tables, chairs, and each other trying to get out. Some escaped even though the bouncers attempted to gain control of the situation by directing the dancers to the back, and securing the club’s main entrance. But there was one security guard who hadn’t moved.
Who is it?
I wanted to see. For some strange reason, I felt compelled. In all of my years of working in strip clubs, I had never known a girl to die. Plenty passed out drunk, but never died. I noticed the night shift manager ushering his friends out of an emergency exit and took my chance.
“Who is it?” I asked the bouncer guarding the entrance as I approached him.
“Malibu,” he replied, stoic his eyes surveyed the pandemonium.
I gasped. “Malibu?” I covered my mouth as I leaned forward onto my toes, my breasts bobbing, trying to look beyond his big country built frame. “Let me see.”
“No!” he boomed. His face frowned up. “Now go. They want all girls in the dressing room.”
“C’mon,” I pleaded over the ruckus.
With his arms crossed, he shook his head. “Riddles, I said, ‘No.’”
I sighed then looked at my thigh. I peeled a single twenty-dollar bill from my garter and shoved it into his hands. He shoved it in his pocket then stepped to the side – out of my way.
I shook my head as I slid past him to peek inside. Malibu’s perfume invaded my cocaine coated nostrils as I laid eyes on her.
She is dead!
I swallowed the bile that started to rise out of my gut and into my throat as I stared at her naked body, the empty garter around her arm, and a broken rubber band at her feet.
Robbery? I wondered.
I diverted my eyes away from the body and gave the room a quick once over and saw a scant amount of cocaine on the top of it. I let my eyes go back to Malibu. And then, for the first time, I saw the striking resemblance.
Everyone around the club always said me and Malibu looked alike. I never really paid it any mind. I liked to think I looked like myself. I figured they only saw that we were both dark skinned girls who wore long weaves. To me, that was the extent of it. But, at that point, I saw it.
It looked like me stretched out on a blood-stained loveseat. It looked like my head cocked to the side and arms limp along my body. I felt my heart bounced up to my throat, my hands started to tremble, tears welled up in my eyes, and my breathing became short and quick.
I looked over at the bouncer, still standing guard, eyes forward. I didn’t want him to witness my emotional breakdown, after all, I had asked for the bird’s eye view. I intentionally changed my thoughts to memories of her in attempt to pull myself together.
I hadn’t known Malibu too long, about a year, but I loved her. She maintained the sweetest demeanor, always smiling, very friendly. Young in the business, she hadn’t become corrupted yet. Or so I had thought.
I stared in her face, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Are you crazy!” the night shift manager yelled. “Get the hell out of there.”
I jerked and almost toppled over the tip of my shoes. As I turned to go out of the door, I ran smack dab into my so-called boss’ face. Our eyes locked. The stare off lasted for a hot second before I got out of his way.
Approximately sixty to eighty dancers worked at Jokers Gentleman’s Club at any given time, and it seemed like all were there that night. Agitation, mixed with a whole lot of anxiety, stirred inside me as I entered the narrow, hallway-like space designated as a dressing room.
The standing room only area didn’t properly accommodate us when we came in sporadically, and now with girls all pushed inside it at once, I felt smothered. I wiggled my way through the crowd and already could hear the rumor mill churning.
Several girls, including troublemakers, Pussy and Buttercup, gathered and gossiped. As often as Pussy stayed up in somebody’s business, it didn’t surprise me to see her big, red lips running like a contestant in a marathon. I glanced up at the clock on the wall. 9:30.
It’s still early.
I leaned against the double row of gym lockers and took in a deep breath. Realizing I left my costume in the VIP room, I sighed again then I reached for the money in my garter and attempted to count it. But, between the cocaine and chaos, I couldn’t concentrate.
“Girls, listen up,” the house mom yelled in her southern accent as she entered the room. The volume of the noise from the floor slightly faded.
“Pussy. Buttercup,” the house mom shouted. The two biggest gossipers were still making noise. “I need you quiet!” She glanced at more talkers giving them a stern eye. “The police are here to . . .”
From there the night became long and tedious. The police questioned each and every girl, as well as the staff, and even the customers that didn’t make it out before they blocked the doors. I kept my responses direct. It took until the wee hours of the morning to finish, the detectives remained tight lipped about the cause of death the whole time.
She could have died after the customer left but that wouldn’t explain the empty garter and broken rubber band Malibu kept her money on her at all times. Someone had to kill her and leave the body in the room. Malibu had been murdered. I thought.
“This is unfortunate. Very tragic,” the night shift manager said during the briefing before he could let us go. “So for everyone’s safety, until the police finish their investigation, we’re closed. We’ll let you know when you can come back to work.”
Safety? He know it’s murder too, I continued.
I couldn’t wait to go home. I had seen enough for one night.
The girls mumbled. They didn’t like the idea of being off from work. Our boss held up his hand. “Probably just a few days,” he said trying to appease them. “Nothing to fret about.” His eyes surveyed the crowd. “And as an alternative, you can work at Dreamers. But, hear this. It will be first come, first serv
e,” he said and with a pointed finger. “I suggest you get there early. Only a hundred girls can work a night. I already have seventy five on the roster.”
The grumbling escalated. “I got bills to pay,” one said.
“And, no one. I repeat. No one will work without their permit. No excuses.” He waved a hand. “We don’t have your license on file down there, so you will need it on you. And most importantly,” he paused. It seemed he looked me directly in my eyes. “If you know anything about what happened here tonight, come to me. I don’t want any of you talking to the police or the media. We can get beyond this if it’s handled properly.”
“We still have to tip out?” an Asian girl asked.
“Right?” Buttercup questioned.
“What you think?” the night manager said then headed toward his office.
“This is crazy,” I mumbled to myself.
I hurriedly passed out nearly a hundred dollars in tips to everyone from the DJ to the bathroom valet. Dancers were required to tip the support staff on top of the fee they paid to work every night. Strip clubs committed highway robbery with their policies, but I learned not sweat this one because the staff worked harder for girls who tipped well. And that night, it really didn’t matter, the quicker I paid out, the sooner I got to go. I didn’t want to possibly be in the same place as a murderer.
After taking care of everyone, I went back to the dressing room to take a breathalyzer. The law required it. And if you failed, you had to stay until you sobered up or get a ride. I didn’t drink much so I always blew a zero. I took the test and the housemom wrote my score on a piece of paper then handed it to me. I took the “blow ticket,” grabbed my bag, and left.
When I stepped outside, Georgia’s early morning air felt refreshing, leaving the smell of cigarettes, and drunken men behind, but making the downright funk on my body more apparent. I had been in that building for twelve hours, and even though I had become accustomed to the stench specific to strip clubs, I needed to slip into my bathtub asap.
The young, skinny, white valet ran up to me. I handed him my blow ticket along with a five dollar tip. He pushed the money into his pocket, looked at the piece of paper, tossed it in the trash, and rushed to get my car. As I waited for him to return, I saw media trucks and reporters gathering across the street.
“Can you believe it?” I asked the valet as he got out of the car. I tossed my bag in the backseat and nodded my head toward the reporters. “This might be the death of Jokers.”
“Hell yeah,” he replied. “What a crazy night. I should’ve known something when this stupid nig...”
I twisted my face and squinted my eyes.
“Black guy,” he corrected himself. “This young, black guy, driving a brand new, fully loaded BMW Grand Turismo. Fucker didn’t tip and damn near ran me over getting out of here.”
“We got a dead girl in there,” I pointed back toward the club, “and you talking about somebody didn’t tip you?”
I got into my car and slammed the door. Shaking my head at the insensitiveness of the valet, I drove off. But no matter how far I drove away from that club, my mind remained fix on the sight of Malibu’s dead body. I wondered what kind of guy would come up in Jokers and murder her in a VIP room with over a hundred people around. I wondered who and I wondered why.
Chapter Two
With Jokers closed, I didn’t work. I didn’t like Dreamers and didn’t want to pay three hundred and fifty dollars for permit to work somewhere else. Instead, I did absolutely nothing but sit around my house and think of Malibu.
Memories of her from the day we met to seeing her dead body consumed my every waking moment. They haunted me. I didn’t turn on the television, didn’t eat, or sleep. I didn’t even brush my teeth or smoke weed, two things I did everyday. I just moped around, not bathing, not even combing my hair. Sometimes, I caught myself staring off into space.
Her death weighed on me. And my preoccupation with it grew more intense by the hour. I even wondered why her as oppose to me.
Silly, I know.
Malibu’s death dug deep into my soul and I couldn’t shake it. After four days of this depressive state, in an attempt to clear my head, I decided to work on the adult-oriented website I owned and operated. I figured taking care of business would help, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stay focused. Nothing could distract me from my thoughts of her.
I brewed a cup of coffee, went into my office, and sat behind the computer. I took a sip but had to spit it out. My stank breath wouldn’t allow me to swallow. I couldn’t go another moment without handling it. When I returned to my desk, I cleaned up my mess then prepared another cup. Sitting back behind the computer, I hit the spacebar and pulled up the Atlanta-Journal Constitution’s website. After it loaded, I clicked onto the Metro page. My eyes rolled over the screen, and a headline, in the briefs, caught my attention. It read:
Stripper’s Death Ruled a Homicide
The death of an Atlanta woman, Kenyatta Morgan, 19, whose body was found in a private room at Jokers Gentlemen’s Club, Friday, April 13, has been ruled a homicide by Fulton County Medical Examiner. According to the autopsy results, the cause of death was asphyxiation due to a broken neck. The coroner’s report also showed that two-inch, rusty carpenter nails had been inserted into her armpits post mortem, and that Morgan carried a first trimester fetus. The case is under investigation said Atlanta Police Department Chief of Police.
“Broken neck? Rusty carpenter nails? A baby?” I said aloud.
Who? Why? I questioned as I leaned back in my chair. I turned and gazed out of the window into my backyard.
Random? I wondered. Could it really have been random?Some sicko?
I remembered the money missing from her garter.
“If it was someone she knew, someone out for her, why would they rob her? But, would a robber take the time to drive rusty nails into her? They would have had to bring the nails with them.”
Robbers don’t carry around nails.
I felt my face contort. Well that doesn’t make any sense.
“Malibu was so sweet, had the sunniest disposition. A gentle spirit,” I said out loud. “This ain’t right. Why would someone do this to her?”
My mind shifted to my mother. I missed her so much. Only twenty-two at the time, my stepfather found her dead in a Las Vegas hotel room one week after they married. Police ruled it a robbery and homicide. A prostitute, everyone reasoned her death resulted from a trick gone bad. No one ever bothered to find out.
I’m willing to bet the same thing will happen with Malibu.
Police rarely cared about sex workers. Most considered pursuing those cases a waste of time, one less headache out on the street. I hoped maybe the police wouldn’t just dismiss Malibu. That they’d care enough to investigate and find out what happened in that room.
As I sat there trying to make sense of things, I couldn’t help but recall another club I worked in – The Gold Club. It had a grand multi-level floor plan and extra tight security. Something like a murder would never have happened there.
I worked at the Gold Club shortly after I moved to Atlanta, just before the 1996 Summer Olympics. Jokers was a far stretch from GC. A dump, for real. Much smaller, but it was where several of us landed after the GC closed when the Feds convicted the owner of money laundering and ties to organized crime.
Jokers had a gloomy appearance and gave off an air of being unsafe. No one never really cleaned up the place so shoes sometimes stuck to the floor. It reminded me of a bar and grill type of restaurant with stages and brass poles. And, even though there was a slight fear of contracting Ptomaine poisoning, people ordered and ate food from Jokers’ grimy chef who fried everything from french fries to chicken fingers in the greasy kitchen with little ventilation.
Jokers wasn’t the type of place that hosted celebrity clients, although some came in from time to time. They catered to average Joes with some money and a willingness to spend it. With that, dancers and waitresses
could make a decent living if they had half a brain and hustle.
The club could occupy ten VIP rooms at any given time. With sliding doors for complete privacy, the guys loved them. Most were no larger than a half bathroom. The biggest one held six to ten people, the rest only fit about three comfortably. The house charged the customer one hundred and twenty-five dollars per half hour for the smaller rooms and three hundred for the big one. Most girls requested double that amount to step away from working the floor. Some guys haggled over the girl's rates, but many paid the price with no problem. And, because of the high ticket, a few expected more than a private dance.
Depending on the girl, they just might get what they wanted, too. But no one had enough money to screw me in a VIP room. They could get a hand job at best.
Now, Malibu’s murder wouldn’t be the only incident to bring negative attention to Jokers. The club had some bad publicity in the past. Just several years earlier, the media reported that a police officer admitted to accepting payoffs from several strip club proprietors in the area and named Joker’s owner among those who paid-to-play during his plea deal. That kind of slowed business down for a minute, but it eventually picked back up.
Jokers also had a reputation for heavy drug activity. The customers flat out asked the girls for it and did plenty of it in the VIP rooms.
I remembered the coke in Malibu’s room. I knew she didn’t blow. It brought me back to her murderer.
He had to be getting high. Maybe he lost his mind?
Still, a random act wouldn’t explain the nails. None of it made sense but I felt an insatiable desire to know, like my own sanity might depend on it.
Chapter Three
“Chyne?” my best friend, Tory, said as she answered my call. Her squeaky voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “Hey girl. What’s up?” Unlike her usual self, she kept it short.
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