“I hope in me next life I come back one of ‘em cuz ‘ats the happiest bunch o’ bastards I’ve evah seen.” Birdie flipped the rubber band holding her money to her wrist and peeled bills from the roll.
The Bettie Page clerk nodded, “So I hear.” She smiled at Birdie and slid a small brown paper bag into the larger plastic one. “Here ya go, Birdie. Free drugs with every two-hundred dollar purchase.” she winked conspiratorially.
Birdie slid the black curly wig off her head and across the counter, “Thanks, hen. Will ya add this as well, por favor?”
Bettie Page added the wig to her bag and finished totaling the damage. Birdie grinned as she pushed her sunglasses into place and headed out into the January sun. She slid her hand into the recesses of her bag, feeling the smooth vial through the brown paper wrapper.
CHAPTER 40
Denny’s was great for after-hours, but there was nothing like a Sunday evening dinner at their favorite Thai place in the Highlands. The lighting was low, the booths were private and the Thai was hot.
Mary Jane, Grace and Sam were studying their menus when Birdie came through the door.
The three grinned as she made her way to the table.
Their regular waitress appeared with miniature kettles of green tea.
“Hi, gurls. Wha’ you havin’?”
“Hey Mae,” Mary Jane smiled up at the petite woman who wore rhinestone-studded reading glasses on a beaded chain, and a loud floral frock.
“Pad Thai Chickens all around.” Grace said, glancing at her compadres.
“No, I want a curry.” Birdie said decidedly, “Make it hot and no damn tofu, please.”
Mae scratched the orders on her pad and mumbled, “Hot damn curry, no tofu.” Looking up through her spectacles she said, “Okay, be out in minute.” She turned and was off as quickly as she’d appeared.
“Is everyone on track?” Sam wasted no time.
The group nodded as Birdie buried her face in her napkin. She seemed about to sneeze.
“Birdie?”
“Yup.” Birdie looked up, moving the napkin away. Large brown moles made a dot-to-dot on the lower half of her face.
The girls squealed with laughter. Birdie sat staring vacantly. Grace squirmed in her seat and pushed Mary Jane out of the booth with both hands.
“Lemme out! I think I just pee’d a little!”
“Oh GOD, GRACE!” Mary Jane guffawed as she jumped out of her seat.
Grace slid from the booth and high-tailed it to the bathroom.
Sam and Mary Jane continued to giggle, watching patrons sneak looks at Birdie, trying to figure out if she had an unfortunate birth defect.
“Ok, well, I guess we know Birdie ran her errand.” Sam said into her cup of hot green tea.
“Were you dropped on your head?” Mary Jane stared wide-eyed as she swatted Birdie with her menu.
The three laughed and exchanged updates until Grace returned from the back.
“False alarm, but Birdie, I can’t look at you until you get those things off your face!”
“You’re mad! I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” Birdie said, maintaining an innocent look.
Grace slid back into the booth, keeping her eyes away from Birdie.
“All Right! Damn you people, you’re no fun.” Birdie smirked as she peeled the mole collection off her skin.
Grace slipped a stack of eight-by-ten photos from her bag and scooted them to the center of the table.
“Sorry for the delay. I’ve had Kyle drama. Here are the shots from Lena’s funeral.”
Sam grabbed half the stack and began flipping through it while Birdie and Mary Jane took the rest.
“Wow, were you using a wide-angle? You managed to get the whole crowd. Good goin lady!”
“What’s that nitwit Kyle doing now?”
“You know, the usual. I swear he’s the moodiest guy I’ve ever met. I think he’s on the rag this week.”
“Bloody lazy, that’s wha’ he is. All that grief and he couldn’t ask for a better husband than you. You need to find yourself another trouble.”
“He is trouble.”
“No, hen. ‘Trouble’ is short for ‘trouble and strife’, means ‘wife’ in Cockney rhyme slang.”
“Why do I feel like I need a translator just to have a conversation with you?” Grace shook her head and smiled.
“That’s him.” Mary Jane pointed at the glossy photo she held in her hand.
“Kyle?”
“No, the guy that was up in the Skybox that night. He’s the one that was hanging around with Fedya’s entourage.”
“Well that clears that up. What about the other two guys?”
“Can’t say I recognize them from anywhere.”
“Gimme,” Birdie handed her stack across the table to Mary Jane and held out her hand for the swap. She examined the images from the new pile.
“I just can’t see them very clearly.” Birdie squinted at one of the images showing the two men standing twenty yards or so behind the mourners.
Grace dove into her purse and after a few moments of shuffling produced a loupe. “Maybe this will help.”
Birdie took the magnifier and placed it over the photo looking down. “It’s too dark. I still can’t see.”
“Hold it up to the light Bird, so it’s behind the image. Your head is blocking the light right now.” Grace directed, pointing to the lamp over the table.
“Ahhh, world of difference. Yup. The one on the left is one of the blokes from the sedan, but I can’t say as I know who the cute one next to him is.”
Grace produced a Sharpie and circled the twosome on one of the shots and the lone photographer on the other. “Ok, so two outta three ain’t bad.”
“Guess we are safe with the educated guess that the two guys are cops or FBI or something.”
“What do you think the chances are that they could be private investigators hired by Lena’s family?” Sam looked off into the gathering crowd by the door.
“Hadn’t even considered that possibility, really. Do you think Amanda would know?” Mary Jane asked.
“I get the sense Amanda’s folks still speak freely in front of her, like she’s a kid who can’t understand what they’re saying. We should call her and check it out.”
Sam pulled a phone from her pocket and started dialing as the three continued their speculation.
“Let me see that other guy in the photo.” Grace took the photo and loupe.
“He is hot. DAMN.” She moved the loupe away from her eye. “Maybe he’s a movie star who was secretly in love with Lena.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Birdie said dryly.
“Okay, thanks babe.” Sam snapped the phone shut.
“Well?”
“Nope. No P.I.s that she knows of. She’s gonna sneak a peek at her dad’s checkbook tonight and call us back if there’s an entry that looks suspicious.”
Mae glided up, balancing a tray as wide as she was tall and snapped what looked like a tall luggage rack open next to her. She squatted down, shifting the weight of the tray onto the stand and began doling out small dishes of aromatic, steaming goodness.
The foursome thanked Mae with smiles and nods as they tucked into the Sunday night treats.
“So, we know you got the moles Birdie, what about the other stuff?” Sam asked through her mouthful of noodles.
Birdie grinned, “Mmmhmm.”
CHAPTER 41
“Ms. Ursula Amoureuse! Oh my God! Look at ‘cha! We heard you’d become a feature but had no idea you were the one here this week!” Sam grinned from ear to ear and hugged her old friend. “Wait ‘til Grace sees you. She’s gonna freak. Look at your boobs — they’re huge! And you’re BLONDE! You look amazing.”
Sam and Grace were living in Savannah when they met Ursula. She came into the club they worked at for amateur night. She won, got hired, and a few short weeks later, after seeing her first feature stripper, declared that was the life for her. The other dancers as
sumed she’d become disenchanted with the process and burn out. She worked like crazy, investing all her spare time and money into her goal, and she succeeded. Ursula had climbed to the top of the profession and had become one of the most sought-after performers in the business.
There are two types of dancers: house girls and feature acts. House girls are the ones who work the same club every night, maybe traveling a little and occasionally working at other clubs, but basically hung their g-string in one place. Feature girls are the headliners who travel from club to club, sometimes internationally. They get paid a flat rate just to show up and perform for a week, then they move on. When a feature is on the main stage the other satellite stages are empty, and no table dances are allowed. These ladies don’t just show up and strip, they put on a show in the truest sense of the word. They do fire shows, shower shows, floorshows, body paint shows, and any kind of show you can imagine. They’ve got props for days and custom-tailored costumes that run into the thousands. Some have ridiculously large boobs and some are straight from the pages of a men’s magazine. Feature acts make most of their money from their promotional items, which they sell between sets. Guys can have their picture taken with the nude beauties, buy their posters, hats, tee shirts, and a host of other merchandise. Shrewd businesswomen that they are, they do their best to franchise the name they’ve made for themselves.
It’s a grueling life of constant travel and little privacy, but it’s incredibly lucrative if you’ve got the drive. One of the features Sam and Grace met years before had her M.B.A. from Brown and was a year away from retiring at thirty-three. She’d set her goals, stuck to her investments, and had made a comfortable life for herself. Sam remembered asking her what the first thing she was going to do after she retired was. Without skipping a beat she said, “Take these friggin’ implants out and lay on the beach for the rest of my life.”
Ursula was the same sweet, bubbly person Sam remembered from so many years ago. She was relieved to see that the stress of the job hadn’t changed her.
Gio glided up behind Ursula and put his arm around her waist.
“Hey, Sexy, are you ready for a packed house tonight?” He said, leering at her through imitation Dolce & Gabbana glasses intended to make him look smarter or something.
“The question is, are you ready, Gio?” Ursula gave him a shy smile and casually uncoiled herself from his grip. She hiccupped a small giggle and tossed her blonde locks over her shoulder.
Gio was hooked. He stood, mesmerized by the beautiful creature before him. Sam was sure he was going to drool down his linen shirt.
“Excuse me!” Nikki stood before Gio. Her face was an unattractive shade of pink. “Can I pay my tip out or are you too busy?”
“Yeah, just a minute, Nikki.”
“NOW.”
She turned and huffed toward the office.
“I’ll talk to you aftah the show, Ursula.” He gave her a longing coup d’ oeil and scowled at Sam before falling into step behind Nikki.
Ursula raised her eyebrows, “Office politics?”
“You know it.”
“UUUURSSUUUULAAAA!!” Grace came screaming across the floor.
The two collided in a hug, shrieking with joy. Sam hoped the force of the collision wouldn’t burst anyone’s implants.
The three nattered on in an animated fashion until a waitress interrupted.
“Sorry, but Sam and Grace, you’re wanted in VIP 12.”
The three agreed to meet after the show. Sam and Grace headed for the elevator.
“Shit, we haven’t even talked to anyone yet and we got a VIP? I wonder if it’s one of our regulars.”
“Who knows? Frankly, who cares? What luck!”
The two walked along the second floor balcony and stared down at the growing crowd below. They strutted in time with the heavy rap music, doing little dance moves as they went. The room was already pulsing with energy, and smoke wound its lazy way toward the high ceilings. The colored lights flashed, and the music thundered on as the two turned into the doorway of VIP 12.
Sitting forward on the cheap leather couch was none other than “Hot Guy” from Lena’s funeral.
“Evening, ladies. Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”
CHAPTER 42
On paper, Fedya was a successful business entrepreneur and an upstanding citizen. He donated large sums of money to charities, and several political funds. Fedya was a shining example of what democracy and free trade had to offer the average hard-working man. Starting young and staying focused, he was able to establish himself as a successful player in the global import-export market. To pave the way for bigger things, Fedya had purchased a small chain of banks in Yekaterinburg some years back. This had grown into one of the largest banking enterprises in Russia, in spite of the fact that your average Russian citizen would have burned their rubles before entrusting them to a bank. Fedya’s grand plan had nothing to do with helping the masses build a nest egg. Instead, it provided convenient cover for his many shell and holding companies and gave him easy access to the transfer of large sums of money into numbered offshore accounts without detection.
Fedya was smart with numbers, but even smarter when it came to devising ingenious ways to navigate around international law. His little strip club in Atlanta was nothing more than a place for him to relax and run cash through from some of his smaller ventures. His schemes were complicated and well planned. Fedya saw himself as the conductor of the underworld orchestra of organized crime. He connected several of the world’s most dangerous criminals. And he loved every minute of it.
Easing back into his favorite overstuffed leather chair, he slipped his loafers off and stretched his size thirteen feet onto an ottoman in front of the massive, stacked river stone fireplace that took up a large portion of one wall in his library. Getting the permits and approvals required to build such a thing in his penthouse had been a daunting task, but now that everything was in place he was pleased that he’d stuck to his guns.
The leather creaked as he scooted his hips deeper into the chair and drew on his cigar. His mind ran through the litany of transfers and exchanges scheduled for this week. He was quietly pleased with himself. There was no one who could outsmart him. Keeping a close eye on his businesses while juggling those close to him was something Fedya enjoyed. It calmed him to think about punishing traitors. He was paranoid, or perhaps realistic in his belief that people were out to get him. When he caught someone in the act, he felt as though his wisdom had protected him — yet again.
The cell phone sitting next to him on a mahogany Louis XVI side table played the 1812 Overture. He rested his chin on his chest, smiling, and picked up the call.
“Hello, my love.”
“Hello, Fedya, I miss you.”
The two spoke Russian in voices that made the otherwise guttural language sound like a soft, romantic song.
“I miss you too. I’ll be home next week and I’ll stay for a while with you and the girls. Maybe we can go to Sochi and relax, or to the Alps and do some skiing?”
“Yes, yes, the girls will be delighted, Fedya.” The voice paused. “You remember Galina’s birthday is next week? She turns sixteen, dear. She would love to have her father here for the celebration.”
“I will be there. I wouldn’t miss it for anything, Nastya. I’ll see you next week.”
The line disconnected and Fedya thought of his birds in their gilded cage. He wasn’t capable of loving anyone but himself, but his Russian wife and daughters held a fond place in his heart. He thought of them as one would think of a favorite sweater, with appreciation but nothing more. Fedya had married Anastasiya, or Nastya as he affectionately called her, when they were both young. She understood his wild moods and brooding, calculating mind. And she gave him the space he needed. Nastya was under no illusions about where Fedya spent his nights, but she loved him anyway. Staying in Russia, close to her family, was the life she preferred and it gave Fedya a home base from which to operate.
Replacing the phone to its position on the table, he slid a manila envelope from the drawer beneath. He flipped the clasp on the back and unsheathed the large glossy photos from their sleeve. He flipped through the images with only a half-hearted interest. Glad Nikki had made the decision easy for him, he placed the photos of her and Gio on the tabletop. Using them as a trivet for his vodka, he turned his attention back to the crackling fire.
CHAPTER 43
“So me mum had a her colon checked last time I was home and she was LOOPED! Thought I was a mind reader, she did. In recovery she kept asking me what we was havin’ for lunch. Aftah about the third time I asked her what she wanted. Shepherd’s Pie, she said. I waited a few more minutes until she asked again and I told her I was thinkin’ we’d all have a bit of pie and chips. She was delighted. Stumped her I could name the very thing she was hungry for.” Birdie flashed her innocent smile and picked up her Scotch.
Her customer laughed, “Yeah, they usually give a drug called Versed for a colonoscopy. It causes short-term amnesia and alleviates anxiety. I bet your mom didn’t remember a thing did she?”
“Not a nibble.”
One of Birdie’s regular Monday night customers was a nurse anesthetist. He’d obviously forgotten that she’d gotten him drunk, with another short-term amnesia drug called tequila, a few weeks ago and managed to extract the same information. Dosage was what she was after tonight.
“Is all that really safe, Brian?”
“It’s like anything else, you have to make sure it’s administered correctly or the results can be lethal. It’s what’s called a benzodiazepine, like Rohypnol, the date-rape drug.”
“So those geezers coulda’ messed ‘round with me mum and she wouldn’t have remembered?”
“I don’t think they did anything inappropriate, Birdie. I’m sure she was in excellent hands. She came out of it just fine, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, a couple hours later she’d returned to her tired, cranky old self. I hated to see it since she’d been so happy on the . . . whatever you call it.”
Tea Leafing: A Novel Page 15
