Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd.

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  Sebastian sighed. “Mother. Mom. I love you dearly, but you’re driving me insane and today is not the day to do it. Would you please go over and comfort the boys wearing their garters and corsets since two of them are now crying thanks to our homophobic officer Dugan who is doubtless accusing them of every crime from the Lindbergh kidnapping to starting a war in Tasmania or something. Do your mothering act. They’ll adore you and doubtless offer to accompany you back to Brooklyn to decorate the tree and our home.”

  Lorelei winked at me. “I’ll go so you two can chat in private. Don’t let him intimidate you, Bootsie. And come for dinner sometime over the holidays. We’d love to have you.”

  She left, singing “Y.M.C.A.”

  Sebastian stared at me. “I’m afraid to ask what’s churning in your mind.”

  “Not much. Just wondering if your mother would like to become a member of Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd. She’d make a marvelous addition to the business.”

  Chapter 15

  The fine and melodious sounds of “Carol of the Bells,” which had been issuing forth from the drag queens in leather and camelhair coats had shifted to another song. Still fine and melodious, the group was now rocking it through voice and choreography to “Y.M.C.A.” What had started as a solo moments before was now being conducted by an enthusiastic Lorelei Laramie who was using her hard-hat as a baton.

  By the end of the first verse, the two male hookers on the other side of the room, costumed as the original Village People, had picked up the song and were echoing notes and movements.

  By the end of the first chorus, Babs, Joey, Kam, Roger, Pilar and Chuck had completed the full cycle of choreographed letters.

  By the end of the second verse, drug dealers, pickpockets, assorted female hookers and two very drunk gentlemen sharing a reindeer suit were dancing and singing at full volume.

  By the end of the second chorus everyone in Manhattan’s 10th Precinct had jumped to his or her feet and was boisterously singing and shaping arms and bodies into Y’s, M’s, C’s and A’s. All but three people, that is. The first was a man who appeared to be about my age, who was frowning and was dressed like Fred Astaire in one of the early movies. Black top hat, tuxedo and a black cape. He was talking to Mr. Todd Kittredge, who remained stony-faced, silent and motionless in his chair next to the desk of some detective who seemed to be having problems with the motions for the C in YMCA. The third person who had stayed seated was a uniformed officer in a wheel chair who tried in vain to raise his plaster-cast left leg in an attempt to form the A with his other—presumably uninjured—leg. Didn’t effect his singing though. He was wailing out “It’s fun to stay at the YMCA” with gusto and pretty fair pitch.

  Sebastian Laramie had solemnly joined me at the start of the first chorus. The man obviously did not take after his mother musically because he possessed a very rich baritone that hit the notes squarely dead center and his timing with the hand choreography was spot on.

  The final chorus faded away. Felons and wannabe felons, suspects and police all exchanged group hugs, then settled back down to begin the business of determining what crimes had been committed that day and who needed to be sent to the slammer for those crimes.

  Sebastian nodded in the direction of Mr. Todd Kittredge, who’d remained grim and silent throughout the musical spectacular. “What the hell is this guy’s problem?” He asked.

  “Not interested in anything that doesn’t involve him as the center of attention—unless of course, the attention is a photo op in every major newspaper showing him in his garters lying next to some very cute boys and one dead phony shrewish psychic. I’ve also come to believe in the last fourteen years that his sense of humor doesn’t exactly match mine. Or that we matched in much else.” I paused. “Want to hear amazingly, ridiculously rude and tacky and totally off topic?”

  “Hit me.”

  “About five years ago I was directing and choreographing Hairspray at community theatre group over in Jersey City. It was a good show. The actors—all amateurs and mostly teenagers were just wonderful and didn’t throw diva fits and they came to rehearsals on time with their lines learned and full of enthusiasm and were lovely and really ended up doing a better job than I’ve seen on some Broadway stages. Anyway, the last night of the show, I’m sitting in the audience in the first row and Todd is next to me. The show ends and the audience jumps to its feet and applauds for minutes upon minutes. Everyone is up and yelling and tossing flowers on stage and the energy was truly awesome. One person remained with his ass glued to the chair. I’ll give you one guess and yes; he was sitting next to me. I was beyond humiliated.”

  He nodded. “I’m not surprised you two are divorced. Pleased, but not surprised.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Now, where were we before my mother took over my precinct and began conducting the impromptu rave?”

  “Not sure that qualified as a rave, Laramie.”

  “Don’t change the subject, Kittredge.”

  “What was the subject?” I inquired.

  “I hate to ask but I must. I’d like to know your exact whereabouts during the murder of Minerva Krempowsky,” he answered.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh.”

  “Well, I suppose first I’d have to ask how and when Minerva was killed,” I said.

  “Around four a.m. this morning. It appears that she was tossed off the roof at Chuck Willingham’s residence. I’m waiting for the medical examiner to give me an exact cause of death but there are rumors that Minerva was acting a bit crazy on top of the roof; implication being that she might have ingested something other than a variety of delicacies catered by Googies Gourmet Goodies.” He stared at me. “Would you happen to know anything about that?”

  “Googies! Great food. Really. I myself dove into the cheese logs which I liberally spread on top of garlic and herb crackers, then went a bit berserk with the chocolate Yule logs, followed by way too many cups of bourbon-laced eggnog.”

  Pause. “And did you use nutmeg in your eggnog?”

  Outwardly I smiled. “Of course. On top with whipped cream. It’s the only way to go.” Inwardly my entire cardio system was pumping too much blood too fast. My palms were sweating and I was having trouble breathing.

  “Did you know, Bootsie, that raw nutmeg can act as an hallucinogen if the person ingesting is susceptible?” Laramie asked a bit too casually.

  “Really? I think I’ve read something about that, Detective.”

  “You’ve not only read about it, you’ve researched it.”

  “What?” It was not really a question. It was a flat statement and an exclamation.

  “We have the email you sent to Babs Harrison detailing a scenario in which your ex-husband would ingest raw nutmeg, be lured to the roof of the Empire State Building and persuaded to try out his skills flying without a plane or a net. And while I must admit, after meeting him, I have more than a little sympathy concerning your feelings, you did pretty much step in deep doo-doo by emailing plans for murder.”

  “Ah. But Todd is very much alive,” I stated.

  “And Minerva Krempowsky very much dead.”

  “Apparently so.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “Would you like to tell me exactly what you remember happening at that party from the time you spoke to Madam Minerva until this morning when you were escorted here to the Tenth?”

  “No, she would not.”

  We both glanced up. A very short, very nattily dressed male, who appeared to be in his mid sixties had suddenly appeared just behind Sebastian’s chair. I couldn’t tell what color his hair was— or if he even had any—thanks to the very large Russian-styled broad brimmed hat that covered his entire head but since the enormous moustache that threatened to overtake his entire face was black I assumed any hair on the head would match. His eyes were onyx and they were blazing in anger.

  Sebastian sighed. “Ah shit. I did not need this today. First my mother. Now you.”

  I glanced
at Sebastian, then back up at the man. “Too young to be your father. Your brother?”

  Detective Laramie snorted. Audibly. “I’m not sure which would be worse. Bootsie, let me introduce you to the less-than-honorable attorney who makes the life of New York’s finest a living hell—Mr. Vertigo Valentine.”

  “Esquire,” immediately followed the ‘Valentine.’

  “Vertigo?” I asked.

  Sebastian growled, “Real name is Vincent. Vinny Valentine although I’m not sure the Valentine was on the birth certificate either. I believe the Vertigo was started back in law school during mock trials when his opponents claimed the man made them dizzy. And now that the niceties are done, I would like to know why he’s interrupting this—chat.”

  Vertigo bowed to me, then scowled at the detective. “Chat? This is not a chat, Laramie. This in an interrogation and it’s now cancelled because this woman is my client and I’m calling a halt to any and all questions you may have including what did you eat for breakfast?”

  I spoke without thinking. “I didn’t get breakfast. I got rousted.” Then I blinked. “You’re my attorney? How did that happen since I didn’t call one and I don’t have the funds to pay for one unless you’re Legal Aid and somehow I don’t see those kids wearing Rolexes and no offense but you’re no kid and do I need one?”

  Vertigo Valentine motioned toward the desk where Chuck, Joey, Pilar, Kam, and Roger all sat silently glaring at the detective who was busy jotting notes. “Him.”

  “Him who? Chuck?”

  Valentine shook his head. “No. Joey Carmichael.”

  I could feel both of my eyebrows shoot into my bangs (which needed cutting) and my jaw drop. “Joey? He’s a stage manager currently as out of work as the rest of us. How the hell?”

  The lawyer smiled at me. “I work for his father.”

  Sebastian groaned. “Oh no.”

  “What? What am I missing here?” I demanded.

  “Joey Carmichael. It’s been driving me crazy but I’m a Manhattan detective—not Staten Island, so I haven't memorized the aliases of the family members of every crime boss within fifty miles of the city.”

  “What?”

  “Joey must be Joe Junior. And it’s not Carmichael. It’s Carmosina. Dad is—well, let’s just say that Dad has graced the courts of Staten Island on more than one occasion throughout his life as a—an—entrepreneur.”

  “Holy shit! Joey’s dad is a mobster?”

  Vertigo wagged his finger at Sebastian. “Giuseppe Carmosina is a businessman. Doesn’t even have a parking ticket on his record. Not a single conviction in the face of twenty arrests.”

  Sebastian murmured under his breath, “He’s got a good lawyer.”

  Valentine preened. “He does at that. And he loves his son even if Joey chose not to follow in his father’s footsteps professionally and decided to change his name when he started working in show business. Mr. C called me this morning after he heard that Joey and his little friends had been dragged into theTenth Precinct on trumped-up charges to take of them. All of them.”

  “Little friends? What are we? In pre-school?” I muttered.

  “Sorry. I’ve known Joey since he was a child so I tend to think of him as still being in school and his friends the same way even though I realize at least two of those little friends are my age. Doesn't matter." Valentine nodded to Sebastian. “Now, then, Detective, unless you or your minions intend on charging this lovely lady or any of the folks now camped around Detective O Hara‘s desk, I am taking them all home before we’re all snowed in for the rest of the weekend. Oh. Merry Christmas.”

  Chapter 16

  “I cannot believe the man sent his hired mouthpiece to haul us out of jail,” Joey groaned for the fifth time.

  “Joey. It’s okay. Really. Your dad was simply doing the good parental thing and helping everyone out of jam that could have lasted for days the way things were going,” Babs said in her best soothing-my-sweetheart voice.

  Joey sighed. “I know. Really, I do. But it’s still humiliating to be in a jam that requires one’s less-than-desirable parent to jump in and scoop the seeds from the jelly so to speak. Aside from the fact that it appeared we’d all have been let go in another hour or so anyway.”

  Chuck shook his head. “I’m not so sure. Bootsie looked fairly comfortable with Detective Laramie but Detective O’Hara was not exactly acting calm, cool or collected every time he dragged one of us into that nasty little interrogation room.”

  My eyes popped open. “What? I didn’t know that was happening.”

  Kam nodded. “Oh yeah. O’Hara had such a crowd of us at his desk it was hard for anyone in that precinct to notice when he’d point accusingly to one or the other of us vicious felonious types and take off for the other room for questioning. And Chuck’s right. That room is nasty. At least it was a few hours ago. I doubt they ever have the janitorial staff come in and clean after the perfumed hookers and the puking drunks use the place.”

  I shuddered. “Oh my God. I was having such a good time at Laramie’s desk I had no idea you guys were going through hell.”

  “Well, fortunately it was just Chuck, Joey and me. O’Hara hadn’t gotten to Babs, Pilar, or Roger, before Mr. Valentine showed up, although that was clearly his intention.”

  Babs echoed my shudder. “I, for one, am very glad Vertigo Valentine did get us all released. No matter who put him up to it.” She snuggled against Joey’s side, which produced the first smile I’d seen on his face since we’d all trooped out of the police station an hour ago.

  Our entire less-than-merry band of actors, stage manager and agent had landed at Kam’s place since it was the closest to the station. The snowfall had indeed turned into a blizzard, so none of us had had any desire to go any further than the five blocks Kam had assured us would result in a cozy, warm space to camp out and discuss the morning’s events. Now, with coffee made and bagels distributed (a tiny deli had bravely stayed open just around the corner to Kam’s building and we’d practically bought them out along with varying genres of cheese) we were all chewing and slurping and discussing the implications of being sprung from the slammer by anyone named Vinny Vertigo Valentine.

  “That’s not his real name you know,” Joey stated.

  “I didn’t think it was,” I laughed. “What is it—Vincent Valentino?”

  “Oh no. He’s not even Italian. The Vincent is right but his last name is Horschak, which everyone over the age of ten associates with the nerdy character on the old Welcome Back Kotter show. I suppose Vertigo figured a short mob lawyer needed more moxie and punch and swagger, at least on Staten Island, he took on the whole Vertigo Valentine persona, complete with pinkie ring. Did you guys see that?”

  Chuck ignored the question. “Mob lawyer. So you’re telling us that your father really is the real deal?’

  Joey winced. “Let’s merely say that he allowed me to stay away from anything to do with business and I’m honestly not sure if that was to keep me safe or keep me from ratting out his buddies at the Bella Calabria Social Club before I would have then been forced to enter witness protection. I truly know nothing and I don’t want to know. It’s clichéd enough as it all sounds. My parent, Giuseppe Carmosina, now age seventy-one, who refused to Americanize his name to Joseph but blessedly allowed my mom to do so with junior here, is a first generation Italian immigrant who’s in the construction business, whose best friend owns twenty Italian restaurants—ten in Bayonne and ten on Staten Island, who hired a very young Vertigo Valentine three years after I was born to handle his legal affairs, and who gets hauled in by the Feds every couple of years or so—well, it’s embarrassing and after all the math is done, let’s simply say I’m very glad I decided to go into the theatrical profession and become Joey Carmichael which of course my father believes is entering the gates of hell. Theatre people you know. All crazy and immoral.”

  Babs grabbed his face and planted a firm kiss on his mouth. “Well, I’m personally very pleased you did
what you did. I’d never have met you if you’d been put in witness protection out in Idaho or someplace planting potatoes.”

  I grinned. “Of course, if you hadn’t met him, he wouldn’t have been hauled down, practically in cuffs, to be questioned by the cops on a snowy day in December either.”

  She wrinkled her nose at me. “There is that, isn’t there? Dang, guys. I really was starting to feel we were all going to end up behind bars before the day was out.”

  “I wonder if Todd is still down there in his cute little outfit and if the cops really do suspect him? I hope so,” I stated with more than a hint of hostility mixed with amusement.

  Roger smeared some cream cheese on what appeared to be an onion bagel, took a bite then stated, “Sadly, Bootsie, I don’t see anyway your ex could have done this.”

  We all turned and stared at him. “Why not?”

  “Because from what I understand, the cop who got the anonymous tip about strange doin’s down on Christopher Street said Todd was pretty much wasted when that photo was taken—as in out cold—and Madam Minerva was still warm and apparently had only died a few moments before that tip came in.”

  Pilar shivered. So did I. “That’s just—gruesome.”

  “Sorry. I guess it is. But what I want to know is —who called? Actually, that’s what the cop asked me too.”

  “Who was the cop, Roger?” I asked. “I mean, why was he so forthcoming with all this info?”

  Roger turned three shades of red. “Oh. I know him from a little pub I go to in the neighborhood. He’s pretty nice for someone who’s generally spending his time hunting down criminals.”