“Oooooooo,” Tanya squealed like a little girl “Don’t think I’ve ever even heard you cuss, Ms. Grace! Girl is pissed!”
“I know some very nice whores, Grace, don’t group that heartless hag in with them.” Sam said.
Flustered, Grace continued, “You know what I mean. It’s just not fair that she’s skinny and pretty and makes a ton of money and she’s such a bitch! If I looked like that I’d be in such a good mood all the time, people’d think I was slow. I’d just be so happy to be alive.” Grace tossed her platinum hair away from the perfect symmetry of her face.
“A road apple in a Faberge egg is still a road apple”, Mary Jane observed.
Birdie twisted around in her seat, wiggling her arms out of the sleeves of her sweater. Winters in Atlanta ranged from pleasantly mild to the occasional dip below freezing. Tonight was in the mid-forties and as usual, the girls were underdressed for the weather at 4 a.m. Their sweatshirts, jeans and running shoes looked odd with their full-blown hair and make-up. After having her winter jacket stolen, Sam realized why no one bothered to dress for the weather when going to work at the Pussycat. The small coat-check behind the front desk was reserved for customers only. Once she got comfortable again, Birdie leaned in close under the pendant light dangling a few feet above the table.
“Well, I’m glad that geezer is doin’ something ’bout Lena. Makes me think better of him.” She said in a hushed tone. Birdie had never been a fan of Fedya’s.
Sam filled in the others about Gio’s unpleasant flu and her chat with Pietra. Grace sprayed coffee through pursed lips and tears of laughter streamed down Tanya’s cheeks. Birdie — nonplussed — fished her teabag from its steaming cup.
“So that leaves Nikki,” Sam said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“I don’t think it’s Nikki,” Grace said, mopping the coffee she’d spit on the table in front of her. “In fact,” she swallowed, “it can’t be.”
“What? Why’s that?” Sam turned toward her.
“I remember Nikki parading that photo of her and Fedya at some society event right after Lena was killed. Remember? She practically papered the dressing room with them!”
“Shit.” Birdie mumbled. “Was that the same night?”
Sam was dumbstruck. “I don’t remember that!”
“I think you were off. It stuck in my mind because I thought it was so tacky that she was going on and on about it and it was right after we found out about Lena. I’m almost positive it was from that Saturday night.”
“I can go back through the newspaper archives and find out.” Sam looked at the Formica tabletop and turned things over in her mind. Thinking out loud she said, “If it’s not Nikki, and it’s not Gio, and not combover, then who the hell could have done this?”
Tanya leaned in. “If ya’ll are talking about the Pediatric AIDS Foundation Ball, which was the same night Lena was killed, then I know Fedya and Nikki were there.” She cut her eyes back to Sam.
“How do you . . .” Sam studied Tanya.
“Cuz’ Shug was there too.” She dropped her head a bit. “I remember him mentioning he saw those two there. Nikki was fucked up as a football bat. Made a scene about getting her picture taken.”
“Damn. I’m at a loss.” Sam sighed, frustrated.
“I’d still double check it if I was you, darlin’. Tanya’s eyes drifted around her section.
“I will.” Sam replied, eyeing a dark, four-door sedan in the parking lot.
“ORDER UP.” Plates appeared under the hot lights in the service window, separating the wait station from the kitchen.
“Back in a flash girls.” Tanya sprang to her feet and sashayed off.
“How is it that facking nurse shoes with pantyhose look good on ‘er?” Birdie’s attention followed Tanya. “And he’s not even a her yet. They get narrow hips, high metabolisms, great legs. She looks better in our frocks than we do.”
“Am I paranoid, or is there someone just sitting in that car out there. I could swear they pulled up after Grace but nobody’s gotten out.” Sam was still watching the car out of the corner of her eye.
The other three turned in unison and stared out the window at the mystery vehicle. “Shit.” Sam muttered, “That was subtle.”
The car’s headlights came on just as Mary Jane, Birdie and Grace turned, making it impossible to tell who was in the darkened car.
Plates clattered as Tanya arranged food in front of the four. She placed extra pats of butter, three kinds of syrup, jelly tubs and ketchup in the center of the table, then stepped back to make sure nothing had been forgotten. Flashing her perfect veneers she said “How ‘bout that my babies? Can mama get you anything else?”
Sam said “Okay, please don’t look right now . . . but we’d love to get an ID on whoever’s sitting in that sedan with its headlights on. He’s straight out the window on the far side of the lot.”
Tanya smiled again, and said “Lemme see what I can do for ya’ll.”
The girls dove into their food. After a long night of doing the equivalent of slow-motion Tae-Bo, in uncomfortable shoes, nothing was better than a big, hot, greasy breakfast before slipping between the sheets for a little shut-eye. Tomorrow they’d get up to do it all again. It took almost a solid year of working nights before Sam’s body adjusted. She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever get herself back on a regular daytime schedule.
There were benefits to working a night shift that Sam loved, like rarely waiting in line at the grocery store checkout. Rush hour was something talked about and avoided, but almost never experienced. There was something satisfying about being up and about while the world slept. All night-shift workers around the city knew each other and there was a level of courtesy extended to their fellow night owls. Everyone looked out for one another and took the time to know each other’s names. A strange society of daylight-outcasts.
A 1979 Lincoln Town car half a block long and painted metallic green pulled into the parking lot. It swung slowly into the space next to the sedan and went through a series of maneuvers involving undercarriage lighting and hydraulics like a space ship preparing for touchdown. Once the beast came to a stop, all four doors swung open, a dull glow emanating from within the car. Smoke curled out adding to the alien effect. Long legs clad in shiny silver pants, and shoes with silver monk-buckles extended from both front doors. Two identically outfitted black guys in full pimp-style regalia stepped from the car, straightening to almost seven feet tall. Four women tumbled from the other open doors. Sam lost track of conversation at the table while she watched the strange ballet unfold in the parking lot.
Leaving their dates in an undulating cluster of hair, breasts and legs by the back of the car, the two men glided to opposite doors of the sedan in question. Leaning down, they peered into the darkened car. Tapping on their respective windows with long, narrow, fingers they held their positions for what seemed like minutes, starring and waiting. The entire episode seemed like it was unfolding in slow motion.
Realizing conversation at the table had stopped, Sam glanced at Birdie and Grace.
“What the . . .?” Mary Jane muttered under her breath.
Tanya breezed by, topping off beverages and picking up empty plates. She glanced out the window.
“Close your mouths ladies. Ya’ll don’t know much about playin’ it cool do ya?” Her eyes never strayed to the window. She smiled, looking around the table “My cousins Tyrone and Tyrese. They’ll find out what’s goin’ on and let us know. You don’t know them. You don’t know me. Just talk to each other like regular and I’ll keep you posted. Anything else ya’ll need while I’m here?”
Amused, silent stares from all four answered her question.
CHAPTER 20
“Thanks for coming, ladies.”
“And gents!” One of the bouncers yelled from the back.
“And gents.” Gio sauntered around the main stage, microphone in hand addressing the groggy employees seated in groups on the club’s main floor. “You know we try to kee
p these Sunday afternoon meetings to a minimum but there are a few things we need to go over with you before the holidays and convention season hit us.”
Sam stared at her shoes while Gio dragged through the usual list of bullshit. Heavy fines for drugs. More girls needed to promote at concerts and athletic events. No hiding in the bathroom during full dress walkouts. Blah blah blah blah.
Digging a pen from her purse, Sam traced the treads on the bottom of her sneakers. The description of the sedan guy from last night didn’t match anyone she could think of. Wondering who he was, her mind lingered back to the list of suspects she’d already exhausted in Lena’s murder. She wondered about her brief conversation with Peter. Why had he been so eager for her to drop the subject? As her pen traced the endless maze on her shoe, her mind followed suit, with no satisfaction. The meeting droned on for too long.
“So before we close, we have a guest that would like to say a few words to you.” A muffled crackle. The microphone hissed as Gio stuck it into his armpit and gestured toward the edge of the stage.
A highly decorated police officer in dress blues hiked up the narrow steps and onto the stage where Gio was standing.
“This is Lt. Hanover with the Atlanta P.D.”
Pressing her hips to the back of her chair, Sam straightened as if her posture would help her hearing. Fedya was propped in a chair against the far wall. She hadn’t noticed him until now.
“Thank you Giovanni. Yes, as he said, I’m Lt. Hanover, Special Investigator in the Homicide Division. I am responsible for running the inquiry into the death of one of your former co-workers, Alexandra Chandler. You probably knew her as Lena.”
Birdie’s elbow jabbed into Sam. The room was still. The fidgeting and coughing that filled the background during Gio’s diatribe, ceased.
“We are doing everything we can to track down those responsible for her senseless death.” His eyes wandered around the room. “I ask for your assistance in helping us with our investigation, though. We need for you to remain calm and refrain from talking about this unfortunate tragedy, even to each other.”
Low chatter.
Gio loudly cleared his throat to reestablish order.
“Please, people. Please. We ask for your cooperation because it may take us some time to get through interviewing all the suspects we are currently working on. You may be on our list of people to question, which doesn’t make you a suspect. It means you may have some information that might help lead us to the killer. We find the more something is discussed, the more diffused the information becomes. Pretty soon, it’s tough to remember what you experienced first hand and what you heard. If we can keep things quiet and only discuss them with myself or another detective, it would be a tremendous help.”
As quickly as he entered the stage, he was gone. Sam watched Fedya and the lieutenant head for the back staircase while Gio adjourned the meeting. The army of sweatpanted employees slowly rose and gathered their belongings. It was strange to see everyone fully dressed and make-up free. No one would have guessed that of the thousands of exotic dancers in the city of Atlanta, these were some of the most highly paid.
“What the fack was that?” Birdie mumbled to Sam.
“I don’t know, but I’ll tell you one thing, unless that was already planned by last night and Fedya didn’t mention it, then that boy works fast. To get the lieutenant who’s running the investigation here with less than a fifteen-hour notice? Bet that took some string pulling.”
Grace wandered up midway through the conversation. “I think what he’s saying makes sense. I mean the stuff about not getting it confused by talking about it.”
Sam resisted the urge to call Grace a Pollyanna.
“Let’s get outta heah and go to me flat.” Birdie suggested as she pushed toward the door.
Grace and Sam both nodded. “Let’s give Tanya and Mary Jane a ring.”
Sam was at the front door when she stopped. “I’ve gotta’ run to the dressing room and grab my shoes. My favorites need resoling and the rest need fumigating. I can’t believe I almost forgot them!”
“Meet cha’ there!” Birdie waved as she pushed the door open.
There were only a few employees left lingering around the main floor. The rest made the break for freedom the minute Gio left the stage. The room was dark, with only a few shafts of light filtering through the dusty hallway that led to the front door. The further Sam walked into the club, the deeper the darkness. Turning the corner into the dressing room, she fought a chill as she stepped into the inky coal mine of a room.
The stillness seemed unnatural. Sam was used to the club buzzing with life. A cold chill was all she felt in the abandoned space. Without conscious direction, her hands sprang into action, feeling along the walls for a switch.
Nothing.
Sam weighed the options in her mind, press on now or go to Bird’s and get the shoes later. An image flashed in her head. She remembered seeing a set of switches at the far end of the island of mirrors, next to Lucille’s perch. Sweeping and patting her way along the cool metal lockers, Sam edged toward the back of the room. With no ambient light for her eyes to adjust to, her progress was slow. Her right leg hit something that gave way, tangling her legs in metal stalks, Sam felt herself tumbling forward in a blind descent.
“SHIT!”
She crashed to the floor with a dull thud, skidding forward on the low-pile industrial carpet, no doubt crawling with nasty germs. Grains of dirt stuck to her palms as she felt through the darkness, trying to find the offending object. A chair. Of course, she thought. Some nitwit forgot to push all the chairs back under the counter. She could tell by the feel of the grit on the floor the cleaning crew hadn’t bothered vacuuming the dressing room. Running her fingers over her right knee, she brushed debris from the skinned spot.
Hooking her fingers under the wood lip on the underside of the counter, she pulled herself back up. She found her way along the island and swept her foot forward as she went to make sure the path was clear. Her hands felt the end of the bar. Sliding them down the side, she hit pay dirt. Flipping one of the switches, she was momentarily blinded by the rays from the frosted vanity bulbs above the mirrors.
Sam dialed the combination and popped her locker open. Still feeling a chilly fear, she glanced toward the corners of the dark room. A tangled mess from her locker fell to the floor. She plucked shoes from it and dumped them in her oversized shoulder bag, then crammed the costumes back into the metal coffin and snapped the lock shut. She hurried from the dressing room without bothering to dim the lights.
As she stepped back into the main room of the club, she heard voices above her on the balcony.
“Thank you for coming, Ben. I did no expect this would be necessary.”
“No problem. I guess it’s better safe than sorry, huh? So, who is it that’s nosing around, anyway? Do you want us to keep an eye on them?”
Sam froze. Pressing herself against the wall outside the dressing room, she listened to the voices and footsteps walking slowly along the balcony above her toward the front staircase.
“Let me think on that. I don know how much problem she is. I will let you know if is something we need to contain.”
Contain? Sam thought. An acrid darkness bloomed in her thoughts. Could she have misjudged Fedya? Her heart dropped. She traveled along the wall, keeping herself below their position on the balcony. As she turned the corner of the back wall she realized that if they glanced in the main stage mirror, she would be seen. She dropped to her knees, grimacing as she moved her skinned knee along the floor in a low crawl.
“Well, hopefully we can let this whole thing blow over. The task force has their instructions and they’ll follow them. Nobody is gonna crack this case on my watch.” Lieutenant Hanover chuckled as if he’d said something funny. Fedya joined in.
“We don’t need any bad publicity, you know? These people see what we do and don’t understand what we bring to community. Bad press, and this cash cow, as you say, w
ill die.”
“Well, Fedya, the Atlanta P.D. certainly appreciates all that you do for them. We want to keep our good relationship going.” He paused, “Speaking of, I thought I could pick up our December donation now, if that’s alright with you.”
“But of course, Lieutenant.” Fedya’s voice dripped with a cunning, evil tone Sam hadn’t heard before.
They were almost to the top of the staircase when she realized she’d better run if she wanted to make it out undetected. Her heart pounded as she broke for the front entrance, going from a crouched run to a casual jog as she neared the double glass doors and the bouncers just beyond. Pushing the metal release bar, the late November wind hit her face. Not stopping to talk to the lingering co-workers, Sam jogged across the parking lot to her car, hoping she’d make it there before Fedya and his guest emerged.
Throwing her bag into the passenger seat and sliding behind the wheel, Sam wondered if her actions seemed like a natural reaction to the cold or a scared rabbit on the run. Smacking her knee against the hard plastic of the console under the steering wheel, she slammed the door and let it all go. She shrieked like a banshee, gripped her knee and rocked, trying to soothe the pain.
Composing herself, a quick look over her shoulder told her Fedya and Lt. Hanover had just come through the front doors. She could see Fedya’s eyes on her car as the two huddled together and talked. Sam steered her car away from the front entrance and out a side access.
Her head, heart and knee pounded in time. Turning on to Piedmont Avenue, she sped toward Birdie’s house.
CHAPTER 21
“Are you okay? You look terrible!” Mary Jane set her bagel on the counter and walked toward Sam.
Sam was out of breath and feeling dizzy. It was the information crowding her brain rather than the sprint from the parking lot that had her panting for air. She had so much to say but the words stuck in her mouth. Where to begin? What to say? Feeling desperate and more than a little crazy, she let the words fall as they may.
“Fedya’s covering it up. I heard it from him, well, not directly from him but I overheard him saying it. He’s getting the cops to bungle the investigation. What the hell are we gonna do? Why is he doing this? I thought he was on our side!” Tears of frustration burned a path down her cheeks. She growled, “WHY?”
Tea Leafing: A Novel Page 9
