by Jim Stevens
“Yeah, where?”
“The Zanadu.”
A pause, a pause of interest on his part.
“I’ve told them all about you. They have a position open, and the VP of Operations wants to meet you.”
“What’s the job?”
“Floor manager.”
He hesitates for a moment before answering. “What time should I be there?”
“Nine.”
“Okay,” he says and hangs up.
Doesn’t anybody say thank you anymore?
I wait another fifteen minutes and Tiffany finally shows up. “Where have you been?”
“I had to get something new to wear tonight.”
I should have known.
We go inside where the Zanadu is setting up for another night of Hip Hop bacchanalia. Bruno’s replacement is behind the bar stocking vodka. His barback is loading clean glasses onto shelves. I stop in the middle of the dance floor to peer up at D’Wayne DeWitt’s skybox. There’s plywood in the last two panels where the glass was blown out in the explosion.
We proceed past the bar area, through the back hallway to the door marked No Admittance. I knock. The door lock clicks open and we step inside.
“How’s the new job treating you?” I ask Massey seated at his desk.
Massey covers up the work in front of him. “Just fine.”
“How are you?” Tiffany asks the Behemoth.
“Dun’t know.”
“Mr. DeWitt told me to tell you we have no reason to admit you into the club,” Massey says.
“Speaking of Mr. DeWitt, do you know if he’s in?”
“I’m not sure.”
I look over to my comic book reading buddy and he tells me, “Dun’t know, either.”
“Let’s say we all take a trip upstairs and see for ourselves?”
I don’t give them a chance to argue and hurry as best I can out the door. I’m pretty close to the stairway door when Massey catches up.
“Mr. DeWitt doesn’t want to see you,” he informs me.
“I need to reserve a room for a private party.”
“I’m throwing a very exclusive event this evening,” Tiffany adds.
“I can help you with that.”
I tell him. “It’s going to be a coming-out party for the person who blew a hole in Mr. DeWitt’s private suite.”
Massey stops, gives me a long look, and punches in the code to open the stairway door.
We make our way up the flight of stairs, which for me is excruciating.
“Hello, Mr. DeWitt,” I say as I enter the somewhat refurbished suite.
“What are you doing here?”
“I need to borrow your digs for a little get-together this evening.”
“Not possible,” he tells me.
“I’m inviting the person who tried to waste you, the person who murdered your bartender, a couple of drug dealers, a real life hoodlum or two, plus some other folks who really know how to party.”
“You are?” a very flummoxed and surprised Tiffany asks
I assure Mr. DeWitt, “You’re not going to want to miss it.”
“Want me to escort these people out?” Massey asks Mr. DeWitt, as the Behemoth licks his lips in anticipation.
“Oh,” I say to Massey, “you and your large friend are also invited. The party just wouldn’t be the same without you two.”
“Mr. DeWitt,” Massey repeats.
Mr. DeWitt comes from behind his desk, waves Massey off, and approaches me. “This some kind of a joke, Sherlock?”
“Maybe, although I’m not sure exactly who the joke is going to be on yet.”
Mr. DeWitt is about to speak, but holds his thought.
“Parties are always more fun when there is an element of surprise, don’t you think?” I ask everyone.
The Behemoth is the only one who answers, “Dun’t know.”
“I love a good party,” I tell the group.
Massey looks to his boss for the next move, but Mr. DeWitt backs off. “What if I’m busy and can’t attend?” he says.
“Then someone will come and escort you,” I inform him. “Trust me, Mr. DeWitt, you’re not going to want to miss this one.”
The man gives me one last look, and walks back behind his desk. His motion is as good as a checking the yes box on an RSVP invitation.
“The festivities should start around nine,” I say.
“I’ll have my people come and set up at around eight,” Tiffany adds. “Any special dietary things I should know about?” Tiffany inquires. I think that’s very thoughtful of her.
“Dun’t know.” Again, the Behemoth is the only one to answer.
Before we exit the Zanadu, I scribble down a list of my attendees and hand it to Tiffany. “You better give this to Arson and Sterno.”
She reads the list. “Mr. Sherlock, I can’t have these people at one of my parties.”
“Why not?”
“They’re way out of my social network, hardly my kind, and once Alix sees this, she’ll post them on Facebook and my name will be Ms. Persona Non Party.”
“When this party is over, that list is going to be on a lot more places than Facebook.”
“Twitter?”
---
I go home, call the girls and remind them I’ll pick them up tomorrow at ten to go to Care’s basketball game.
“I want to thank you, Kelly,” I tell my oldest.
“What did I do?”
“You helped me figure out the motive behind the Zanadu case.”
“I did?”
“You certainly did. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Kelly has no clue what she did, which I find quite amusing.
“So, you figured out who tried to poison Tiffany?”
“No, not yet.”
“You figured out who iced the bartender?” she asks, getting more confused by the minute.
“No, I haven’t figured that out either.”
“So, Dad, what did I do?”
“You opened my mind to possibilities, just like I try to do for you, daughter dear.”
“Oh my God, now I’m the one giving out life lessons.”
“Like father, like daughter.”
I tell my daughters I love them, remind them again to be ready on time tomorrow, and hang up.
I keep my new phone in my hand and start punching buttons to find the list of phone numbers saved. Once I find the right page it will be easy to find the right number, because, as far as I know, it’s the only number that has been saved. It takes me about five minutes, but finally the number pops up. I write it down, turn the phone off, wait, turn the phone back on, and dial the number.
He picks up on the second ring.
Looking up at The Original Carlo, it’s easy to go through the entire case step by step with him. I tell him what I know for certain, what I suspect, how I believe it was all done, and what’s going to happen this evening.
He says very little, asks no questions, and gives no directions. But he does say he will be in contact with me one more time and calmly hangs up the phone.
I lie down on the floor, put my feet up, and fall asleep. Sleep, oh blessed sleep.
I awake a little before eight. I load up with another four ibuprofen, take a very hot shower, find my best pair of slacks, a shirt still in the cleaner’s plastic covering, and get dressed. Just to be sure, I make a trip into the kitchen, take down the recipe box in the cupboard, and open it. I count the money, smile, and return it to its hiding place. Just before I leave, I grab my faux leather jacket from the hall closet.
It’s time to party.
CHAPTER 21
“You wore that!” is Tiffany’s opening comment upon meeting me in front of the Zanadu.
“I like this jacket,” I tell her. “It makes me feel good.”
She looks gorgeous in a tight blue mini-dress, matching 4-inch heels, and a luminous gold choker around her neck. Her blonde hair shimmers in the neon light. “How could somethin
g so atrocious make you feel good?” she asks.
“Because when I put it on, it proves I’m no slave to fashion.”
We walk past the long line waiting to get in. “Are we set up inside?”
“I went with the canapés, the ramaki, and avocadoes wrapped in bacon and shaped like a heart.”
“Bacon isn’t good for you, Tiffany.”
“I was going to go with the shrimp, but I never know what to do with the little tail after I eat one,” she admits.
“Life can be difficult.”
We reach Arson and Sterno.
“You wore that? Again?” Sterno says to me.
“Considerin’ some of the outfits your other friends are wearin’, we’ve had to tell people the private event is a costume party,” Arson adds.
“Who’s here so far?” I ask.
Arson shows me the list. I scan it quickly then I show the pair a photo. “This guy show up yet?”
“He came about ten minutes ago.”
“Still here?”
“Yeah.”
I turn to Tiffany. “Go get Jack Wayt, and tell him to get down here right now.”
“No problem,” she says and hustles off.
I point to another name on the list. “When this guy arrives, tell him how to get to Mr. DeWitt’s suite.”
A tap comes on my shoulder. I turn.
“My orange jumpsuit would have looked better than the jacket you’ve got on, Sherlock.”
Before I can answer, Sterno’s hand pushes past me. “Mr. Fearn, we really miss you.”
“How’s business boys?” Gibby asks.
“Not as good as when you were here.”
I whisper into Gibby’s ear, “Don’t forget to join the party when it gets going.”
“Would I have it any other way?” Gibby nods at me. “Later, you guys,” he says to Arson and Sterno with a wave of his arm as he enters his former place of employment.
Jack arrives. “Wait.”
“What Jack?”
He holds his hands to his ample stomach, “I feel a bit of food poisoning setting in.”
“How many of those avocado bacon wraps did you eat?”
“Let’s just say more than two.”
I remind him of his prey for the evening. “Invite him up as soon as you see him, okay?”
“You sure you know what you’re doing, Sherlock?”
“Of course I do,” I lie. Since Jack knows I’m lying, I don’t really consider it a lie.
Arson parts the rope and I amble up the path towards the main door of the club. I hear a voice from the line yell out, “You’re letting that guy in wearing that?”
“He’s in a scavenger hunt,” Sterno answers the critic.
My back is feeling a little looser. I’m able to walk and stand upright, although the flight of stairs to Mr. DeWitt’s skybox is a bit painful.
The moment I walk in the door, I see Tiffany has had her designer place taped outlines of dead bodies on the floor to give the party its murder mystery theme. There are streamers made of yellow crime tape hanging down, with canisters of gelled light illuminating an eerie film noir lighting scheme. The candies in the Waterford bowls are chocolates in the shape of bullets. There is a large poster on the back wall, which is actually a blow-up of the box cover of the Clue board game. Tiffany certainly knows how to set the party mood. But at this instant, Tiffany is hardly in a good mood. She and Alix are going at it like a couple of designer pit bulls.
“This party blows, big time,” Alix barks at Tiffany. “This group looks weirder than a Star Wars convention.”
“You go to Star Wars conventions?” Tiffany snaps back at her.
“No, but I’ve seen pictures.”
“Give the party time,” Tiffany suggests.
“An extra decade wouldn’t help this get together.”
“I’m telling you, it’s gonna be great,” Tiffany says. “Just you wait.”
“Sure, why not?” Alix says. “It’s not every day I get invited to the Ugly Bug Ball.”
Tiffany looks over at me with more blame in her eyes than George Winston has jewelry.
I survey the situation. D’Wayne DeWitt sits behind his desk as if it’s a barrier to keep him safe from social predators. Monroe and Oscar stand over against the wall, sipping Stoli and counting each other’s cuts which are easily seen since each wears a designer T-shirt two sizes too small. Massey stands with his arms folded across his chest. The Behemoth is next to him, his suit fitting much nicer since either Jack or “No-No” enforced my rule of having to check your Glock at the door before entering the party zone. Gibby Fearn sits across the room, sipping a cocktail and tossing darts with his eyes at Mr. DeWitt. The most outlandishly dressed of the evening has to be Lloyd Holler, who wears checkered, bell-bottoms, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and two strands of love beads; all that’s missing is an Afro wig. I guess the only way “No-No” could get him to come was to promise he could relive his days as a disco dervish. Guido chows down at the buffet table, not what I would do at a job interview. There’s an older man in a three-piece suit who I’ve never met, plus two dumpy, middle-aged guys who wear square-bottomed shirts outside their pants that end at their belt line. I wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those. I look over at “No-No,” who nods her head, telling me “these are the guys.”
I work my way over to the battling females. Tiffany grabs me by the arm, pulls me aside, and says in my ear. “What are you trying to do to me? This is the worst party ever.” She puts particular emphasis on ever.
“Relax, Tiffany. It may not look good now, but I promise you it’s going to get hotter very soon.”
“It better, Mr. Sherlock. My total reputation is on the line.”
“What’s he doing here?” Alix says to me, as she turns towards the other attendees.
“Who?”
“Him.” She points.
“Guido, the doorman?”
“Better keep him away from Monroe.”
“Why?” I ask.
“It could get rough,” Alix spits out.
“Why?”
“He’s the cock blocker.”
“What?”
“That’s him, no doubt about it.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m always sure,” she says. “And I’m also sure this party blows, big time.”
I take a long look at Guido. One round peg fills a very big round hole. In my head, another recipe card fits into place on The Original Carlo.
“I think I’ll go over and squeeze one of Monroe’s muscles,” Alix says. She cocks her head towards Tiffany. “Watch me make it bigger.” Alix walks away, smug as a gold bug in a Persian rug.
Tiffany starts to lunge at Alix, but I manage to hold her back. It’s all she can do to contain herself. “You got to do something, Mr. Sherlock. No amount of ‘Nice’ Tiffany being nice is going to save this party.”
Luckily, the Hispanic barback enters the room to pick up dirty dishes and glasses, just as Jack escorts Mr. Ponytail inside. Once all three are in the room, I signal Jack to stand guard at the door to deter any guest wanting to leave early.
I walk to the center of the room where I can easily see everyone. And it’s time to start the festivities.
“If you’d all like to get a drink or a snack and find a seat, we can get going,” I announce to the assembled.
“What the hell is this all about?” Mr. DeWitt asks from the other side of the room.
“It’s going to be a game of show and tell,” I say to Mr. DeWitt as well as the other guests. “I’m going to start off by doing the telling and then hopefully you all will join in with the showing.”
Mr. DeWitt stays at his desk. Massey and the Behemoth pull up chairs next to him. Alix, Monroe, and Oscar take the couch. Guido grabs a chair in front of the boarded up panel, with Tiffany not too far from him. Lloyd Holler sits smack dab in the middle of the room so no one can miss him. Gibby sits on the couch that faces Mr. DeWitt. “No-No” stands next to Jack, making a
formidable barrier to anyone or anything coming in or out. Mr. Ponytail positions himself close to the buffet, obviously very hungry. The barback finds the farthest corner in the room and sits on the floor. The others find a place to sit or they lean against a wall, not really knowing what the heck they are doing here.
“Thank you all for joining us. I thought that since this whole, silly magilla began in a party atmosphere, it is only right to have it end in one too.” I pause to smile, but get none in return. “It all started innocently enough when my young assistant Tiffany fell off a barstool.”
“I didn’t fall off, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany is quick to correct me.
“Why don’t we let all my Facebook friends be the judge of that,” Alix says to Tiffany. “I have pictures.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Tiffany screams back at her nemesis.
“Girls, girls. Let’s not squabble,” I say. “No, Tiffany didn’t fall off in the traditional sense. She sipped a cocktail which didn’t agree with her and she dropped to the floor like a sack of flour from a kitchen counter.”
“See,” Tiffany says to Alix.
“We can consider this action the inciting incident to our story,” I continue. “Tiffany’s unfortunate consumption of the wrong martini becomes the fly in the ointment, the bad cog in the gearshift, or the spanner in the works so to speak.” I pause to let this all sink in. “What happens to Tiffany screws up everything for everybody else. If any of you wants to blame anyone for the mess they’re in, she sits before you.”
“Oh, Mr. Sherlock, how can you say such a thing?”
“Bear with me, Tiffany. The story is just beginning.” I pace around the room and all eyes follow me. “When I arrived that night to investigate, nerves were already beginning to fray. I snoop around, watch the tapes, and talk to witnesses. I must have been learning more than I should because someone tried to scare me off by kidnapping me, driving me way across town to some dilapidated building that functions as the neighborhood pharmacy, and either by bad timing or perfect staging, I find myself in the middle of a shoot-out worthy of a Bruce Willis epic.
“I usually scare pretty easily, but I know that Tiffany’s dad either gets an answer to who drugged his daughter or yours truly is out of a job; even though getting fired may be a blessing, since I hate what I have to do to make a living.”
