Deadline

by K. A. Tracy

  Over the stage was a light grid filled with strobes spinning small spotlights of color on the walkway near the black curtains. The curtains opened and a blowzy, big-breasted bottle blonde click-clacked down the stage in pink stilettos, twirling the belt of her silk, pink robe. Sam wondered what the woman’s stage name was. Underneath the ton of make-up…Pink Lady?….had to be well into her forties. But her legs were solid, and when she spun out of her robe, huge silicon-inflated breasts guaranteed few men would spend much time looking at her crow’s feet and frown lines.

  Sam thought anyone doubting we were descended from apes only had to take a look at the hooting horde watching the show to be convinced. She had to admit, though, it was some show. Blondie?…now clad only in those life-threatening shoes and a pink G-string, pulled the robe through her tightly closed thighs. Sam assumed her expression was supposed to depict erotic pleasure, but it looked more like she was giving herself a nasty cloth burn.

  “Can I help you?” asked a cheerful waitress who looked young enough to be in high school. Her name tag said September. Like the other waitresses and bartender, she was modestly dressed in jeans and a Crazy Girls T-shirt. “I hope so. Is Alison here?”

  “Uh, we don’t have an Alison here.”

  “You don’t have a bartender named Alison who used to work over at Tracks?”

  “Why do you want to know?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I’m visiting from out of town and thought I’d surprise her,” Sam said, which in and of itself was true.

  “Oh, so you a friend of hers?”

  Sam thought it better not to complicate the issue with the truth. “I’m so stupid because I don’t have her phone number with me. Last I heard she was at Tracks, but the bartender there told me I could find her here. I guess I misunderstood, or he was just blowing me off.”

  “Oh, no, he told you right,” September told her. “I just had to be sure. Hang on; let me see if anyone knows when she’s coming in.”

  Sam perched on a stool to wait. The stage lights dimmed and the mirror ball spun into action. Lady Godiva?…caressed her breasts, which looked as supple as over-inflated tires, then risked injury doing a shoulder shimmy. Next…Gypsy Rose Wannabe?…climbed three feet up the pole, flung her arms out like a debauched trapeze artist and flipped upside down, held in place by vice-like thighs. Sam could see she was still smiling like a pro despite the hair hanging in front of her face.

  Defying all laws of gravity, her breasts sagged nary an inch.

  Realizing she was sitting there with her mouth open, Sam snapped her jaws shut and saw September walking briskly toward her.

  “I’m sorry, Alison isn’t working tonight. She won’t be on until after six on Thursday.”

  “Damn,” Sam said under her breath. “Well, thanks anyway. By the way, is September your real name?”

  “No way!” she laughed. “All the girls here use aliases. Alison goes by Kona. That’s why I figured you must of been a friend ‘cause you knew her real name. This place gets a lot of horny guys, and you don’t want them to know who you really are. Want a drink anyway?”

  “No, I’d better be going, but thanks again.”

  Disgruntled, Sam exited through the red curtains. The story was due Thursday afternoon. She’d just have to find Alison today.

  Sam checked in with the office first, realizing she hadn’t told anybody where she was going—a beginner’s stupid mistake.

  “Any calls?” she asked when Monica picked up the phone.

  Sam heard the rustle of the message book. “Let’s see, your crazy friend Joe called. He said something about re-styling your dogs…Nate called back, said he needs to talk to you…and Rose called. That’s it. I called Mike Lewis, and he’ll email you the information by 6:00 tonight, and I finished comparing those phone numbers. None of them match.”

  “Of course not, that would be too easy. Okay, would you tell Marlene that I’m in Indio trying to track down someone who might know Rydell? If she needs me, I’m on my cell.”

  Sam decided to call Joe later, dreading to think what her dogs might look like when she got home. She punched in Nate’s number.

  “Hi, Nate, it’s Sam.”

  “So here’s what I found on your guy. First off, he’s got bad credit. Not that he’d ever had a lot, but over the past two and a half years what few cards he had, he bailed on. They are all closed now, and he has no current cards, nor does it look like he’s applied for any credit in the past year. There were a couple of judgments against him, one for a bum check to a grocery store.”

  “Sounds like he fell on hard times.”

  “Yeah, easy to do. Now here’s the best part. I got a former address in some backwater place called Cattle Hill, Tennessee.”

  “Great work, Nate. Do me a favor and email the address to my home account.”

  “You want me to send the other stuff on him at the same time?”

  “Just hang on to that in your files,” Sam said. The Weekender’s in-house attorney would implode if he caught her with a credit report, even if Rydell was dead. “Nate, could you do one other thing for me?”

  “It’ll have to be tomorrow. I’ve got tickets to the Mets-Braves game. Just email me what you need, and I’ll get on it first thing. I should have the other information you wanted by tomorrow, too.”

  She thanked him, hung up, and called Rose. “Hi, Rose, it’s Sam.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been cleaning out Jeff’s apartment. It’s so sad, seeing all his things scattered all over. It’s just…you know.”

  “I do know.” Sam reclined her seat until it was almost flat and closed her eyes. This could take a while.

  “He was such a nice young man. I didn’t really know him, but he seemed so nice. But then again, if he really was that nice, why would someone want to kill him? I mean, it wasn’t like he was killed by accident, know what I mean? Who really knows what he was up to, right? Anyway, I spent most of the day trying to make the place presentable again to rent. The police said it was okay. I mean, I told them I couldn’t afford to have an empty apartment just sitting around.”

  “No, that wouldn’t be fair to you.” Sam felt herself almost drifting off. If she ran out of gas and the engine died while she slept, she’d roast in minutes.

  “Anyway, I called Goodwill to take the furniture and put his clothes in a box, but I’ll probably just leave those on the curb in case somebody in the neighborhood wants them. I didn’t know what to do with his computer, but I was thinking maybe it was time I learned QuickBooks if nobody claims it. But I’m really not sure what to do with all these papers of his.”

  Sam’s eyes opened. “What kind of papers?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It just looks like business papers, receipts, and things like that, a few pictures.”

  “Where’d you find them?”

  “A couple of envelopes fell out when the Goodwill men were moving out the bed. I guess they’d fallen behind the headboard and got stuck.”

  Sam released the seat and was bounced upright. Not stuck; more like hidden behind the headboard. “Rose, just hang onto those papers and I’ll stop by later today, okay?”

  “I’m not going anywhere, so you can come over whenever you want.”

  Sam ended the call and placed the phone in her console cup holder. At the very least, maybe the papers would lead to his family. She’d make Joe come with her to run interference with Rose to make up for whatever he’d done to her dogs.

  She stopped at a 7-11 for some water and a bathroom break then called directory assistance. There was no Alison Peters listed, but there were two A. Peters. She wrote down the numbers and called the first. Voicemail clicked on, playing dialogue recorded from Valley of the Dolls. Sam listened to Patty Duke having a drug-induced breakdown.

  “And you think you’re having a bad day, what about poor Nellie?” a flamboyant male voice said. “So dolls, Adam and I aren’t home, but leave your number, and one of us will get back to you.”

>   “Joe would so appreciate that,” Sam smiled, dialing the next number.

  “Hello?” This voice was young and feminine.

  “Hi, is this Alison?”

  “Who is this?” The voice turned wary and suspicious.

  “My name is Samantha Perry. I’m looking for the Alison Peters who used to work at Tracks.”

  A pause. “Why?”

  “Jim at Tracks thought you might be able to help me.”

  “You’re a friend of Jim’s?”

  “Friend of a friend. I’m a reporter in Palm Springs and need help with a story I’m working on. I’d really appreciate it if I could talk to you in person for a few minutes. I won’t be offended if you want to call Jim and check me out.”

  “That’s okay, I’m not that paranoid,” Alison sounded sheepish. “You just can’t be too careful these days.”

  “So I keep hearing.”

  “What kind of story are you writing?”

  “The kind I’d rather not talk about on the phone. I am that paranoid,” Sam joked.

  Alison gave it a couple seconds thought. “Okay. Let me tell you how to get here.”

  Ten minutes later Sam parked in front of the small duplex where Alison lived. A black cat with white paws sat in the driveway and fell in step behind her as she passed, mewing softly. Alison opened the door as Sam climbed the steps. “Hi, come on in. You too, Mitts.” Once inside, the cat wound in and around Alison’s legs. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, picking up Mitts.

  “No, I’m fine.” Sam sat in the nearest chair and pulled a copy of Rydell’s driver’s license photo from her notebook. “Do you know this guy? I was told he hung out at the Crazy Girl.”

  “Yeah, I recognize him.” Alison settled on the couch with Mitts. “That’s Jeff. He’s tight with Money.”

  “Who’s Money?”

  “One of the girls. He’s always following her around. She’s really into him, too.”

  “Do you know anything else about her?”

  “I think she’s a bit of a cokehead or something. She’s got those crazy eyes, know what I mean?”

  “I do, actually. Are they dating?” Sam asked, wondering if dating was perhaps dignifying the relationship more than was warranted.

  Alison shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Technically it’s against the rules for the girls to date the customers, but they do it anyway. You know, hoping to find someone to take them away from that place and take care of them. Same old story. And then there’s those guys who think they’re some white knight who’s gonna save some girl from a life of lap dancing,” Alison gestured towards Rydell’s photo. “That’s the way Jeff seems, like he’s looking for somebody to save.”

  “What’s Money’s real name?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not real talkative about her life outside of work. So what’s this all about, anyway?”

  “Jeff was murdered over the weekend. They found his body on Sunday.”

  “Oh, God.” Alison put her cat on the floor and sat on the edge of the cushion. “What happened?”

  “He was bludgeoned. Was Jeff at the club this weekend?”

  “Saturday night. This is just so bizarre,” Alison sat forward, hugging her knees. “I’ve never known anyone who got murdered before. Do you think it was someone from the club?” Fear pinched her face.

  “I have no idea. That’s for the police to figure out. I’m just trying to find people who knew him. The authorities haven’t been able to locate any family members. Is there anyone else you can think of who might know Jeff personally?”

  “Anyone else? Sorry, I’m just blown away.”

  “Don’t be nervous. This is just between you and me,” Sam promised. “Did anything happen out of the ordinary Saturday?”

  Alison bit her lip. “It’s probably nothing, but I was working the bar and Jeff was there with some other guy. I didn’t recognize him, and it was obvious he was uncomfortable being in the place.”

  “Obvious in what way?”

  “His body language and just his vibe. Plus, he hardly ever glanced up at the girls. This guy and Jeff got into an argument. It’s real loud in there, especially at night, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the guy kept poking his finger in Jeff’s chest.”

  “What did Jeff do?”

  “Nothing. He tried to walk away, but the guy grabbed Jeff’s collar, said something right in his face, then stormed out.”

  “What did this guy look like?”

  “I didn’t really get a good look at his face because he was at Argo’s end of the bar and was wearing a baseball cap pulled pretty low.”

  “Who’s Argo?”

  “The other bartender. But I do remember he was tall and slender. His clothes looked expensive.”

  “How tall?”

  “Tall, like over six feet.”

  That eliminated George Manuel, who had been eye level with Sam. “What did Jeff do after the guy left?”

  “He went into the lap dance room.”

  “What time was this?”

  “It was probably around 10:30 or 11:00.”

  “Did you see Jeff leave?”

  Alison shook her head, twisting her hair. “Do you think this guy killed Jeff?”

  Sam gave a noncommittal shrug. “What did Money have to say?”

  “About what?”

  “About the argument.”

  Alison put her hands up, as if to ward off any more questions. “Look, I don’t really want to get involved in this.”

  “I have no intention of involving you,” Sam assured her. “Nobody, including the police, can make me reveal your identity. This stays between us, and you’re being more helpful than you know. So, please…did you talk to Money about what happened?”

  “When Money came to the bar for a drink I told her I had seen that guy getting all over Jeff and asked if everything was okay,” Alison recounted reluctantly. “She said they were fighting over money and laughed, as if it was some big joke. She said the guy who left was jealous because Jeff was coming into a lot of cash, and when it happened, they were going to go away together.”

  Sam wondered just how many people Rydell borrowed money from. “What time did you have this exchange with Money?”

  “It had to be before midnight because Lavender had just gone on.”

  “Lavender’s another dancer?”

  Alison nodded. “She’s real popular and makes a mint in tips. Lavender and Money don’t get along. When Jeff first started coming to the club, he was really into Lavender, buying her drinks and some table dances.”

  “The dancers are allowed to drink while working?”

  “Most of the time we just pour them a plain soft drink, but the guy still pays full price,” she explained. “But if a dancer says to ‘make it strong’ that lets the bartenders know they really do want alcohol in it. The club doesn’t mind as long as they don’t drink too much.”

  “I imagine falling off the table wouldn’t be good for business,” Sam joked, trying to ease Alison’s discomfort. “So Jeff spent a lot of time with Lavender?”

  “At first but then he started paying total attention to Money. It’s funny, though; he never bought Money drinks. And I never saw him take a lap dance with her. The few times I had to go back there, he’d be standing off to the side. But some guys get off by watching, you know?”

  “What’s Lavender’s real name?”

  “I don’t know. She stays to herself. On stage she’s all energy and is really outgoing with the customers but off, she’s a totally different person. Kind of weird to turn it on and off like that.”

  “How long have Money and Lavender been working at the Crazy Girl?”

  “Lavender’s been there a couple of years from what I hear. Money’s the new girl. She’s only been dancing for the last four or five months. That’s another reason she’s popular; she’s something new for the guys to watch, plus she can get really wild. I hear they line up ten deep for her lap dances. The dances a
re done at private booths and it’s real dark in there. But you can still tell what’s going on, and believe me, she’s doing a lot more than just dancing. She’s totally full contact. She supposedly goes through a box of condoms a night.”

  “Nobody worries about losing their liquor license over dancers turning tricks in the club?”

  Alison snorted, “Like any of the guys are going to complain to the manger? And as long as they’re spending hundreds of dollars a night, the owners are happy to look the other way.”

  Sam put the picture in her notebook and stood. “I better get going. I really do appreciate your help. I’ll let you know what happens.”

  Alison walked her to the door. “You’re not going to tell Money I talked to you are, you?”

  “I don’t plan on it. Why?”

  “You don’t know her. She’s crazy. If you come in, just pretend you don’t know me, okay?”

  Sam finally understood. It wasn’t the cops Alison was afraid of. It was Money.

  Chapter Seven

  It was after 5:00 when Sam sat down at her desk, but the newsroom was still busy with layout people working on the upcoming issue. Her eyes felt gritty, so she tossed her old lenses and put in a fresh pair. As she blinked to settle the lenses in place, Steve Leon sauntered over.

  “So how’s it going, kiddo?”

  “Just fine,” Sam glanced up briefly but avoided eye contact, not wanting to invite conversation.

  Steve was a one-time Philadelphia Inquirer columnist who settled in the desert after an escalating drinking problem and a run-in with an underage female source caused him to take an abrupt hiatus from big city journalism. The incident had not left a lasting ethical impression. He’d been caught at the Weekender going through notebooks left unattended, so his efforts to insinuate himself in the Rydell story made Sam even more territorial than usual.

  “How’s that murder story coming along? I have a couple of cop buddies I could call.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’m okay.” She stood up. “I’ve got to go talk to Marlene before she leaves.”

  Steve blocked her way. “I worked the police beat here for a long time and know a lot more people than you do. It’s not like LA. You need to work it from the inside. Some slick spiel won’t cut it down here.”