CHAPTER TEN
The new Gilmore’s, now widely recognized as FOOL’S PARADISE, was open for a year without incident. Incidents such as fights and shootings were not uncommon in many New York nightclubs, but Fool’s Paradise seemed to steer clear of this. The women came to work to make money. The men came to the club to get the attention of those same women. It was a perfect cycle.
After such an impeccable track record, Murphy stopped by and he brought his “anything that can go wrong”song with him. The incident involved an argument with a correctional officer, and resulted in him retrieving a pistol from his car. But what made the incident all the more significant was not only the intensity or the potential violence. Also, there were special visitors who came by the club on that night.
For a long time, Douglass had been coached and advised by his friend and neighbor, Steve—the same well-known and very successful club owner who represented a major source of support for Douglass. Not only did Steve give Douglass consultation and technical support, but on occasion (and off the record) he provided thousands in financial support. Meanwhile, the two shared industry secrets, always discussing who would and would not survive in New York radio, clubs or concert promotions. Whether it was Douglass who called Steve, or if Steve called Douglass, the two could rant and ramble on for hours. And coincidentally, the two became wise and experienced as a result of their conversations, forever affirming each other’s points of view.
As Douglass became his own man, building his own name in entertainment and spearheading the construction of Fool’s Paradise, he’d always update Steve on the club’s progress and development, always inviting him to stop by. Steve, on the other hand, was forced to comply with his own responsibilities with operating two heavily attended New York City nightclubs, spending time with his own family, as well as he managed various other business concerns. Besides that workload, Steve was also a tremendous help to his own father, owner of the world-famous Copacabana. All of these factors made it too difficult to just stop in and say hi, or to give hands-on advice at the drop of a dime. All the more reason why Steve’s first visit to Fool’s Paradise was both ironic and eventful. Finally, he’d get to meet Douglass’s father, as well as he would get to offer his own analysis of Douglass’s accomplishments. After all, it was with Steve’s help that Douglass summoned during the development of the new establishment; all those problems he was having obtaining a license to sell liquor and other necessary permits; not to mention all the hurdles and paranoia as a result of the Happy Land fire.
Douglass had, for a long time, testified, “The club is safe, Steve. The licenses are all legit—come on, man. Stop by just to take a peek. I would have never gotten this club open without your help.”
However, when Steve stepped though the entrance, with his girlfriend in tow, he may have well hit the lottery of circumstances. Douglass and his dad were already overwhelmed by the visit; but then, they were all dumbfounded to see the rush of activity. This angry correctional officer raced through the entrance, past the doorman, and he pointed his gun at everyone and no one in the center of the room. In the flurry of activity, a wave of patrons and staff opened up in a semicircle (or, maybe, something like the parting of the Red Sea) to keep their distance. Meanwhile, Douglass and his guests took quick leave through the side door leading to Gilmore’s messy office. Messy or not, the office had its own back door which led to the sidewalk outside. The incident, despite what it appeared to be, turned out to be a dud. The guy never fired a shot. But for sure, certain images were left to reckon with; and needless to say, security had to be reorganized.
And still, no security overhaul could have prevented the murder that took place in the parking lot.
Detective Walter Wade
The history of Fool’s Paradise was one of the factors which most intrigued Detective Walter Wade. A man in his 50’s, with some Ozzie Davis likeness, Wade was graying with wisdom enough to expect a topless establishment to carry burdens of trouble. Shootings, anarchy, robbery, fights, and rapes were usual occurrences with many of Gilmore’s competitors. How then did Fool’s Paradise beat the odds? What chemistry or method had the establishment mastered? Or were there payoffs, or better yet, was this just a big, perfect front for other things? It was too good to be true. Wade smelled a cover-up of sorts and was suspicious of the club and everyone responsible for its existence. Perhaps the wonder of it all simply overwhelmed Wade, with his modest job and his modest paycheck. But this was not the time to bring his personal life into the mix of thoughts that floated through his mind as he watched the blitz of activities before him.
This was officially a crime scene. The area outside the club, in the parking lot, at the side and rear, everything was brightly illuminated by two Hollywood-sized halogens. Sunrise was only hours away, but the details of a homicide were critical in police procedure. The moonlight, the daylight creeping in, and the dim spotlights that hung from high up on the wall wouldn’t be sufficient. Coroners from the Bronx City Morgue were now finished bagging the corpse. The zipper was pulled, sealing the long, dark, vinyl heap. Moet’s body was carried to a black station wagon at the driveway’s edge. Wade was casual about it all. Been here, done this at least a thousand times. And that was just his attitude as he sipped cautiously at his hot chocolate.
Another fickle thought now:
“How convenient; working a case next door to Dunkin’ Donuts. Mental note.” He juggled his cup while pulling out his short pad and Bic pen, and he wrote, “Interview Donut workers.”
Wade flipped the pad closed and stuffed it back into his Army jacket. He looked back up to see Claudine, draped in a sheepskin coat and holding its flaps tight as if she’d just been pulled from the icy, murky Hudson River. So far, Claudine was the first and most important eyewitness, and she leaned back inclined against one of the seven patrol cars on the scene. An officer was standing a foot or two away, pad and pen connected as he interviewed her. In several other areas of the lot similar interviews were being conducted with staff members, patrons and the owner. Everyone exhaled their own levels of vapor into the cool air. A bright-yellow plastic strip with POLICE LINE printed in bold, black letters was tied across the edge of the driveway, keeping a crowd of 20 or so standing at the sidewalk.
The owner of the black Cherokee, the one by which Moet was lying stiff with a bullet in her forehead, was irate. He was Jamaican, with a rainbow-colored, Dr. Seuss-sized hat, arguing with another officer about his vehicle. He wanted to go, and the police were preventing him from doing so. The jeep was currently being dusted for fingerprints.
Forensic specialists were hovering over and about the truck with what looked like thick blush applicators, stroking that white dust all over the hood, doors, tires and windows. The Jamaican could be heard in the distance, something about “painting me jeep all white.” A few dancers were freezing their asses off, standing in a threesome huddle, legs bare, answering questions and chain-smoking.
Wade sipped again at his sweet and frothy hot chocolate, preparing to make his own rounds. First he’d get an update from the captain, then the officers. He wanted to re-address Gil and Claudine, because they were part of an obvious scene that took place inside the club earlier that night. It may mean something, so Wade had to know. Afterwards, he wanted to get back over to Dunkin’ Donuts. This time, if he applied himself in a more official capacity, maybe the second cup of cocoa would be free. Wade’s eyes passed back to Claudine. A fellow officer had mentioned something about her lying on the ground with the victim. Wade suddenly wanted to hear this one himself—directly from the source, if at all possible.
About 30 minutes later he spoke with Claudine.
“I don’t know . . . I . . . was, you know . . . drinkin’. Maaaan, do I have to go over this again? My head is killin’ me.”
Wade wasn’t yet growing impatient, but he had an urge; still he kept his composure.
“Listen, Claudine. I understand that you’ve got a headache and you’re probably dying for a nice, comfortable bed. But the fact is that if you don’t answer my questions here, you’ll have to go down to the precinct and answer them.” Claudine’s face expressed another level of dismay in resignation.
“Now, I need you to relax and to be honest with me. You were found laying half naked on top of the victim. I’m told that’s she’s been dead since one AM. But you left the club at something past two. Now think back, Claudine. What did you see and how did you come to be so . . . so intimate with Moet, not more than an hour after she was shot in the head?”
Claudine was visibly shaken as the realities of her predicament were explained to her. Detective Wade offered her a cigarette and Claudine eventually buckled down and gave in to his confidence. Once all of the physical evidence was accumulated and interviews were completed, Wade reached for his cell phone and called his ace, a doctor at St. Barnabas Hospital. He arranged for Claudine to be escorted there for a just-to-be-sure check-up. But of course, there was a hook.
“Hi, Wade. Thanks again for dinner the other night.” Diane was as perky and alive on the phone as her breasts and curves were in person. And she had that bit of daytime attitude to break through the overnight monotonies.
“No problem, baby. I hope we can do it again, soon.”
“You wouldn’t be tryin’ to push up on me now, would you, Detective Walter Wade?”
“Me? I don’t know what you mean.” The two chuckled slightly before buckling down to the business at hand.
“So what can I do you for this morning? You got a backache?” Diane asked facetiously.
“I’m sending over a young lady. Her name’s Claudine. We’ve got a homicide case over here at Fool’s Paradise.”
“Fool’s Paradise . . . hmmm. I know that place—wait a minute . . . you’re not going topless on me now, are you?” Wade smirked at the pun and continued to explain.
“I need you to do a check-up on her. I mean . . . a real check-up.”
“Okay. So . . . the usual; blood, hair samples, urine?”
“Yup. And check under her nails and even her panties . . .”
“Was she raped or something?”
“I don’t think so, but I have a few hunches. The only way I can follow up on them is to get this extra-personal data. Know-whadda mean?”
“You got it, boss. Does this mean I can go for a lobster next time?”
“Sure . . . and listen, Di. This isn’t pretty. She’s had a bit to drink. But take this seriously. Okay?”
“Always.”
Suspects and Developments
A few weeks after the homicide Detective Wade found himself swiveling, idle in his leather executive chair, bent back and staring at his cork bulletin board. This was where he strategized all of his cases. The monument of his glory. And not one of his cases ever went unsolved. Maybe that had to do with his choosing whether or not to take certain cases and to refuse others, maybe not. Wade was indeed a clever man, and it was well represented right there on that wall. Newspaper headlines, clippings and photos scattered about the wall. All of it organized in a disorganized way. Some were tacked to the board. Others were scotchtaped to the perimeter of the board. Either way, Wade was accomplished with or without fanfare. If not for his 18 years on the force and his consistent success, he probably would have resorted to opening his own firm as a private detective. But the resources and fringe benefits as a well-received New York City police officer were limitless. The donut breaks sustained his potbelly. He could talk as much as he wanted on the phone—on the city’s tab. He could walk into various city-run agencies and buildings without invite. All of this access to information on just about everything and everybody was nothing less than a pot of gold for a single man. Forget the badge. What about the women! How many gorgeous city workers did Wade know on a first-name basis? Such a resource was as good as having more money than he could count. It would never run out.
And Wade wasn’t a user. However, he was a romantic. The abundance of police resources filled a tremendous void in His life. It was almost 25 years since he lost his dear wife Renee in a high-speed car accident on the Audubon in Germany. The two met while serving in the Army. They were so compatible, thinking and speaking alike. They were soulmates, and Wade always told himself that he’d never replace her. She was the poetry in his life. When she was whisked away, life just turned colorless and grey. Things were never the same after that loss. She was so young. So beautiful. Wade kept himself from every movie or song which Vanessa Williams was a part of. No more radio in his life, because he could never know when another of her songs would come on the air. And besides, the singer reminded him so much of Renee. They looked so much alike it was painful to see a Vanessa video or a movie.
Four years after her death, with a heart of stone, Wade left active duty with an Honorable Discharge, and he joined the police academy. He served his probation period walking the sidewalks as a flatfoot in the Bronx. White Plains Road. Gun Hill Road. Boston Post Road. He’d seen it all, walked in on robberies and delivered babies. He’d seen the same child who he delivered slain during an attempted car jacking as a teen. Yes, indeed, Wade had seen it all. And now, with close to two years until his retirement, and more than 50 solved homicide cases to his credit, Wade was suddenly stumped by the circumstances surrounding Fool’s Paradise and the murder of Nadine Butler, aka Moet. For sure, Wade had a lot of facts and suspects pinned to his strategy board. Too many. It was time to crunch. Time to whittle things down.
Wade had his own way of working a case. First, he would detail his own idea of what happened based on witness accounts and evidence. Then he’d draw up a list of class A suspects, class B and class C. In whittling things down, he’d ultimately eliminate C suspects and then B suspects. The New York Daily Post gave only brief accounts of what cases Wade was working. That’s the way he wanted it. That’s the way it was. News of Moet’s murder didn’t hit the papers until Monday morning. Saturday’s paper had already gone to press and any news blotter rarely made the Sunday paper, more or less designed for exclusives, Arts & Liesure, and (of course) The Week in Review. So Wade had his various contacts that won him a story here and there; it was his “edge” in crime fighting. But for this latest case he wanted enough attention to shine on the details so that any potential witness, customers from that fatal Friday night, might come forth. Ordinarily, a story like this would be lucky to get page 17, if it even made the obituary. But with Wade’s juice, he pulled off a banner announcement. Bold white print on a black bar across the top of the front page.
TOPLESS DANCER SLAIN
Details on page 2.
The story inside was column length and went into details about Moet, the club and the circumstances surrounding the tragedy. The papers always had a way of sensationalizing a murder. But Wade could always see right through the fat. Especially when the case was from his precinct. As Wade observed the board, he recalled the extended details of his investigation. He’d learned a lot from his class B list, so it provided a good starting point. At least Moet was no longer a mystery victim.
She began dancing at the old Gilmore’s when the club was in Mt. Vernon, operating out of a virtual hole in the wall. At the time she was 13 years old, she had left a home where her uncles, her father and her brother took their turns at sexually abusing her. She didn’t attend high school, but was very bright and witty, nonetheless. Her rough childhood led to her degree in hard knocks. But surviving and overcoming those horrors resulted in her ultimately using her God-givens to manipulate men and women alike.
True, Moet was viewed as a competitor for the dollars that came through the club’s entrance, but dancers still considered her a friend. Sadie was a close friend, and she didn’t mind letting Detective Wade in on some realities about Moet’s escapades with men. Or, at least, those she knew of. There was Bobby the fisherman. With him (so said Moet), it was purely money and sex. If Moet needed a piece of furniture, say a couch or an armoire, or help with her mortgage, Bobby easily dished out a wad of cash to subsidize her whims. In return (and this was in defiance of that “unwritten rule”), Moet would satiate his freaky desires. There was bondage and kinky sex. Moet even made a home video of an episode, according to Sadie. No, Bobby didn’t live with her. He was even married with children, Wade had later discovered. Bobby was married to a woman from Iowa, named Joy. They had two children and tucked themselves away, snug, in the village of Pelham Manor. Minutes away from Moet’s home and job. Too convenient? Or just convenient enough to commit murder? Wade wouldn’t so quickly scratch Bobby off of the list.
On the other hand, Moet was deep in love and steadily dating major league baseball pitcher Ken Stevens. He was living out a 68-million dollar contract with the New York Yankees. He was in and out of town, according to his busy schedule. A second generation player of major league ball, following in his father’s footsteps, Ken definitely had dough. But along with the wealth, he drove a player’s lifestyle. He wasn’t a one-woman man, but then, Moet wasn’t a one-man woman, either. According to a bat boy at the stadium, Ken was swinging a couple of relationships himself. Bi-coastal. While numerous men of various classes in life continuously kissed up to Moet at Fool’s Paradise, she pretty much did the same, kissing up to Ken. Maybe it was his money or the idea that he could claim any one of the thousands of female fans who pursued him.
“The intrigue or the jock status?” Sadie couldn’t call that one, because she didn’t sell ass. She said, “I can’t even imagine what that’s like.” But she was informed enough to be of help to Wade.
As a top money maker at Gilmore’s, as well as at the all-new Fool’s Paradise, as well as hundreds of private bachelor parties through the years, Moet had accumulated true wealth, experience and money. She not only had her own two-level home, the Mercedes and a gold Toyota Land Cruiser that was used seasonally, but she kept mucho cash on hand.
The night of her murder, she still had $2,300 in her purse along with her house and car keys. At her house, there was a stack of Maxwell House Coffee cans lined up in a kitchen cabinet, air-tight with one hundred-dollar bills. Over $120,000 in total. So Wade had no doubts about the motive not being robbery. Remaining were those usual motives of jealousy, spite or revenge. Under jealousy, Wade considered boyfriends and customers. Under spite, there were dancers to question. Then there was revenge. Was there someone that Moet ticked off or hurt? Could be an ex-boyfriend or even a dancer if Moet stole another woman’s man. The idea of outright, cold blooded, reasonless murder was out of the question.
“Murder has a reason every time.” That was a quote that Wade’s father shared with him before he died. All of those years of writing mystery and suspense novels rubbed off, finally put to actual use a generation later. But ultimately, it was up to Wade to choose the most likely motive. Even if it was one with the broadest possibilities. He leaned towards revenge. The bullethole at the center of her head made it clear that the suspect wanted her dead. D.E.A.D.—dead. And to want someone dead that bad (in Wade’s 18 years of experience) added up to nothing more than revenge.
There seemed to be a month’s worth of investigation squeezed into 3 weeks, with Wade following dancers, staff members and a few regular customers to their homes. He verified employment of those girls who were only moonlighting at Fool’s Paradise. He accessed records from the Department of Social Services, and he surveyed bank accounts of the owner and some of his employees. He traced license plates from three consecutive Friday night crowds. He even had an opportunity to see . . . or investigate Moet’s private library of video tapes. He removed them from her house before officers had an opportunity to collect evidence. And in the three weeks he’d been on the case, he was able to devote an hour each night to her videos. Still—and this surely had something to do with the content of the tapes—so far, he had only completed 2 of them.
Sadie
The dancers that Detective Wade decided to tail were the top-shelf girls from the club. Laurie Hill, aka Sadie, was very helpful with her insights on Moet’s relationships. Wade realized that they were close friends. Regardless of whether she was involved or not, Wade could only become familiar with a dancer’s habits and routines by observing Sadie and others for a period of time. Sadie had a 20th-floor apartment on 134th Street in Harlem. During his interview with her, Wade was blown away by her living arrangements. Sadie lived in the lap of luxury. Walls of mirrors increased the depth of so many lavish possessions filling her spacious rooms. A monster aquarium was built into a wall which separated the living room and dining area. A cabinet full of crystal, china and silver was sandwiched between 2 tall and plentiful wine racks. The carpet was a deep, lime green. Thick enough to hide a dancer’s overworked toes. An arrangement of plush couches were positioned against the walls. Wallpaper was fabric and textured with soft, contemporary designs. A 6-foot television screen was positioned beside a rack of 10 various stereo components, including compact disc players, AM/FM receiver, amplifier, 2 VCRs and other electronic accommodations. A 2-foot high, 5-foot wide, oval coffee table sat in front of the couch, while the surface of the table was a massive, polished ivory slab of the marble with off-white swirls. On top, a weaved basket was stuffed with dried flowers, providing a pleasant fragrance for the room. Attracting the most attention was a life-sized statue of an exotic dancer. It was sculpted of iron and held a black, glossy luster.
Amazing how at 22 Sadie was childless, but not without companionship. She was the driving force behind a threesome; a relationship with a man and another woman. The three lovers lived together and slept together.
Wade also discovered that Sadie’s bank account didn’t reflect her lifestyle, but it was a comfortable safety net. $10,550 in savings, $6,100 in checking. There were no out of the ordinary expenditures, so far as Wade could see. Tailing her, he noted her daily routine, how she took her cherry red Puget on various errands. The cleaners. The supermarket. A stop at a local lingerie shop now and then. Twice a week Sadie visited the video store and disappeared into the back room labeled “ADULT.” Wade guessed that Sadie’s life was full of passion and security. She was living life to the top and didn’t seem to be in a position to be jealous or vengeful. If anybody was jealous, it would be another dancer jealous of Sadie. Or any of the dozens of customers whom she had to reject weekly. Wade made his mental notes.
It must be nice.
Juicy
The next dancer on Wade’s list was Erica Miller. Her stage name was Juicy, and she more or less served as a lure for the old timers who had been devoted customers for over 15 years. Juicy was 42. However, she was fit enough to appear as though she was 20-something. On stage, she wasn’t daring or exciting like the younger dancers. She moved slow and unconcerned, a slithery vixen. At her own pace, she was attractive enough for men age 40 and over. Some customers came specifically to see Juicy. Part of her following.
Wade had techniques for catching the individuals on his “hit list;” his, so to speak, covert operational approach. He’d simply follow them home from work and knock (conveniently) a moment after they closed their front door—as if he was the cab driver returning something left in his car. Most dancers took cabs to work. Juicy was one of those who did, so Wade played taxi cab driver to gain entry. Then the badge.
“Juicy? Detective Walter Wade. Mind if I come in and ask you a few questions?”
“Listen, man . . . I’m tired. My feets is tired. I ain’t eat donuts and count traffic tickets all night—I worked.”
“Whoa, there, lil lady. I’m not here to make a scene. I just need a couple of minutes of your time. Nothin’ but a few questions, if you’ll just give me—”
“Come in, man. And keep your own business.”
The detective was apprehensive about this invite into Juicy’s basement apartment. Her place was part of a 4-story walkup on Hamilton Terrace in Harlem. The outside of the dwelling looked as authentic and classy as the rest of Hamilton Terrace. Wrought iron gate. Clean, limestone facade with 18thcentury style carvings and moldings. But once Wade stepped through the entrance, at first sight his mind was thrown for a spin. The place was an atrocity. Ransacked and corroded. Compared to the elite appearances of the brownstones that lined the immediate area, with cobble stone accuracy and impeccable stained-wood entryways, Juicy was living in a pigsty. The basement was unfinished with encrusted plaster and paint on the walls and ceilings. The floors were untiled, unclean cement. Wires and pipes ran a maze along the ceilings and floors. Three steps past the front door led Wade through a dark hallway. A room to his immediate left was where the interview was held. Wade could have smacked himself for his so-called “covert actions,” and for assuming that every topless dancer lived lavishly and organized. He wondered why he didn’t just interview Juicy at the club. He cursed himself and reconciled that he’d be as quick as possible with this conversation. Wade had no choice but to record the surroundings with his four senses. His fifth sense was being challenged with every passing second as he stifled his breathing as best he could. While asking questions, his tongue even became preoccupied with the odor from the piles of spoiled clothing—a thick aroma that provoked a tart taste in his mouth.
A makeshift stand supported an outdated TV set which flickered between viewable and fuzzy. It looked as if Juicy kept it on all day as a form of security. Two milk crates were stacked with a slice of plywood placed on top as a flat surface.
Her dining room table? There on the wood were jars of peanut butter and jelly. The jelly jar was opened, with the lid just next to it. Fruit flies buzzed over and around the jelly, unchallenged. A half loaf of bread was also opened, with a few slices exposed to the murky absence of ventilation in the room. A mattress in a corner on the floor lay adjacent to the TV, and that shameless variety of feminine articles threatening to break a fragile, plastic shelf. Observing all of this, Wade remained still in an antique armchair while Juicy went along with the session. She appeared to be aggravated by Wade’s timing, and in protest she remained busy as they spoke. She undressed as if he wasn’t even there, took a damp washcloth from a shelf and wiped her underarms and vaginal area. Then she threw an oversized t-shirt over her head—apparently ready for bed. Wade almost wanted to barf as he breathed in the mix of her body odor along with the spoiled jelly, airborne asbestos and dust, as well as the soiled laundry scents. As if by clockwork, Juicy casually proceeded to count her singles on top of that same soiled mattress.
“So, this is it, huh? This is what dancing at Gilmore’s gets you? After what—” Wade looked at his pad and produced a disbelieving expression. “—I hear you’ve been dancing there for twelve years?”
“What’s it to ya, Pops? You got all the questions—you got answers, too? You ain’t ever walked in my shoes, you come in my house like some super cop—probably ain’t got no warrant—and you wanna cast judgment on me? For your information, I’m happy. I been there, done that. Been around the world wit all you men, and y’all ain’t nothin’ but the same. If you put on a good act, ya might hide what’s in your minds; but I can see through all that there.”
“Oh, really. And what is it that you see?”
“See, I been with more men than you can count on an army’s fingers and toes. I know your lies, your insecurities, your fears and your denials. I know what makes you weak, and what sends your egos through the roof. So, you can’t come in here judgin’ me, Kojak. Cuz, I already know y’all ain’t nothin’ but some swingin’ dicks lookin’ to bust off down some poor girl’s throat. Some of you ain’t neva had it that good, so you’ll settle for creamin’ our tits or ass. And the percent a y’all that did have some type a real love in your life, well . . . y’all might wanna fuck us the right way, the way the Lord meant it to be.”
Wade froze for a time, even disgusted at himself for digging down the wrong path. I asked for that, he told himself as he tried to block out a lot of the dancer’s comments from his mind. And as Wade completed his interview, having endured more discoveries than he would have liked to, Juicy didn’t even bother to see him to the door. She actually dozed off right in front of him, soaking into the pattern and impression left in her mattress.
And to think that Wade tailed Juicy for two days subsequent to this eventful interview. All that just to get to this latest decision to remove her from his list of suspects. Not only didn’t Moet have an impact on Juicy’s cash flow, but they had worked alongside one another for years. The younger and older woman actually complemented one another—part of the “old school” of Gilmore’s stable of dancers. Meanwhile, Wade qualified Juicy’s alibi for the time of the murder. She left the club at 1AM in a cab. The driver confirmed the same.
Claudine
Claudine was a simple subject to measure. She was a young and very naive 19-year-old who had been dancing for just a year at Fool’s Paradise. She was attending the College of New Rochelle in an attempt to major in communications. She maintained part-time hours as a receptionist from a local entrepreneur, but even her boss treated her like the wannabe that she was. At the time of the murder, Claudine was but an underpaid intern, whose rationale for working for free was:
“I just wanna be part of somethin’ legitimate,” because—Detective Wade guessed—nothing else in her life was. Upon further discovery, Wade saw that she wasn’t even keeping good grades in school. One of two siblings who came from a broken family, Claudine’s father had died and her mother became a schizophrenic and unbearable to live with. Homeless for a while, even sleeping on the floor of her campus dorm, Claudine eventually shacked up with a young boy and his mother in a Bronx apartment.
Wade had noted that (if Claudine was the murderer—and he already guessed she wasn’t) she might’ve been jealous of Moet, thought Wade, but it would’ve been more envy than anything else. If anything, Claudine was in awe of all the top-shelf dancers.
“She thinks they’re fascinating,” one dancer told the detective. “She’s always aspiring to be like one of them. But she never could quite cut it. She’s just Claudine. Plain Jane Claudine. She don’t even have a stage name. Too naive to think one up, I guess.”
Wade also found that she drank excessively at times, escaping the realities of her failures. Two abortions in 6 months. Forced to sex her boyfriend for lack of a place to stay. And besides (quiet as she tried to keep it) she couldn’t succeed at the various jobs she applied for. Even the average Joe could get a job at McDonald’s at the local mall or as an on-campus librarian. But not Claudine. She was a miserable failure. She felt hopeless, trapped and lacked direction and self esteem. Very often her boyfriend was in attendance at Fool’s Paradise to monitor her activity, and likely helping with that esteem issue. But was he the jealous type? Or was he merely practicing to be a pimp mandating that she bring her earnings home only to hand it all over to him? Questions to be answered as Detective Wade dug more and more behind the scenes of the topless industry’s activities.
On the night of the murder, Claudine’s boyfriend was nowhere to be found. That could’ve meant a lot of things that evening. Wade assumed that, in Claudine’s dizzy state that night, she was the first to stumble on Moet’s corpse. Yet, she may not have known that Moet was dead. At St. Barnabas Hospital, the physical performed by Wade’s friend Diane came up with some hard revelations. Claudine had blood in her mouth. Moet’s blood. Moet’s blood was also soaked into Claudine’s clothing. In taking samples from under Claudine’s fingernails, Diane found that the girl had had her fingers in and around Moet’s vagina.
Was she finger fucking the dead body as well? Wade wondered.
“Walter, the blood shows a nine percent alcohol content in her system. Her blood also revealed traces of marijuana. In all, the girl was toasted and high as a kite,” said Diane following that fatal Friday. Wade concluded that there was no way Claudine could have killed Moet. Not only was she inside the club most of the night, even getting into an altercation with the boss; but she was also seen leaving the club an hour past the estimated time of death. The Dodo bird didn’t even have sense enough to distinguish interactive sex from sucking on a corpse.
Cinnamon
Sheryl Moore took on the name Cinnamon once she came to appreciate the constant compliments from her customers.
“You sure do have fine skin, baby.”
“Woman, just let me touch your skin. How much do you want?” Even dancers commented about Sheryl’s alluring skin that was proclaimed as “butter soft” and “good enough to eat.” So, she adopted the name Cinnamon and it caught on like fire. Even her friends outside of the topless world called her by her stage name. Cinnamon was an adventurous dancer. Much of what Wade learned about her, he picked up from her stage performances and comments from co-workers. Besides being a hit on the main stage, Cinnamon was well known for her girl-on-girl shows at Fool’s Paradise. Although body-to-body contact was not permissible by law, certain entertainment at the club went on (despite rules) and became standards. Cinnamon did a lot of girl-on-girl stuff on Friday and Saturday nights, at the busiest hours. And mostly on a whim, she would put on her show with exclusive partners Sadie or Moet.
“You know, basically, just sixty-nine stuff. We used bananas, whipped cream and even cherries. You’ve never seen one?” Cinnamon answered Wade’s curiosity as if it was normal for a man to have witnessed such an event.
“No,” he emphasized, “I haven’t .”
“Well then . . . you don’t know what you’re missing.” Cinnamon widened her eyes as though she had a passion for the subject. Wade had been on the case long enough to expect certain things, but he didn’t expect this conversation. Nor did he expect the arousal that went with it. He expected that he was stronger than anything this case could bring his way. But Cinnamon was a trip. Her abrupt, salacious expressions and impulsive responses cut through Wade’s demeanor. Cinnamon went on to discuss her enterprises; the bachelor parties, the private parties, the newsletter that she founded, and the lesbian pilgrimages that she spearheaded every year.
“I never heard of that . . . what all does that involve?” Again Wade was going beyond his detective questions, back to that predictable, horny-man status.
“Well, there’s about four or five hundred of us that go out to camp grounds upstate . . . Bear Mountain.”
Wade interjected with his silent humor, “You mean more like Beaver Mountain,” he thought.
“There’s three days of picnics, games, seminars and other fun activities.” As Cinnamon explained all, Wade wandered off thinking, envisioning what “other fun activities” might mean. Adventurous was an understatement with respect to Cinnamon. Just as was the case with Sadie, she also lived with two companions—two female companions. Foxy and Monifah were a part of her permanent entourage. Within some of the most lavish standards of living, the ladies were lovers in a Brooklyn brownstone. Each of them fine, young and sensual, they all danced for a living, sometimes for club bookings, but mostly for the very best bachelor parties. Cinnamon was the ringleader of the trio, maintaining a simple yet warm atmosphere at home. The walls were kept in their original state, genuine red brick, while the floors were finished wood with modest oriental throw rugs in a couple places. On the floor there were only necessary furnishings; a long and sumptuous soft-black-leather couch. An expensive sound system. A 50-inch television; and about seven fine art paintings of African images at various areas along the walls and in the hallways. The art seemed to defy conformity, how it stood out, unfazed and purposeful, under tall, arched stucco ceilings and ceiling fans. There was a generous picture window that offered an ultimate, elevated view of the Great Lawn, the playground and clusters of blacks and Latinos in Fort Green Park. Wade figured that with three or four thousand dollars, the combined income which the three women took home weekly, it was easy to see how the three dancing dolls lived so well. Secure. Complete. Comfortable. Wade left Cinnamon harboring the same feelings he took from his visit with Sadie. Her bank account was just shy of $8000. However, Cinnamon kept credit cards. Her credit report showed she had 10 altogether—the gold and platinum plaques of her success. Cinnamon and her housemates also shared twin Volkswagen Rabbits and were close to paying them both off in full. Their cellphones were legal and they each had their share of man problems. But, according to their three’s-company living, they managed to keep them at a distance. If anything, Cinnamon was endeared to Moet. Maybe the two even took it to another level. But she definitely didn’t . . . wouldn’t kill her. Just another attractive, sexy vixen relationship. And another dead end.
Wade shook himself from the stupor he was caught up in for at least a half hour. He didn’t feel the need to doze off or rest, he just kind of gazed into the cork of his bulletin board and focused on his case. Reviewing. Deciphering. Contemplating. He decided to play more of the field. His class-A suspects. The first character was Debbie, since most of those he interviewed brought up her name as one of Moet’s closest friends. Others said the two were lovers. Based on the various accounts, it wasn’t unusual to see Moet and Debbie side by side for up to a month before the murder. But now, she was nowhere to be found. Wade had a vague description of Debbie. She had only been around Fool’s Paradise for a month or so, and Claudine remembered seeing her with a guy named David. Claudine knew even more about this guy David and was apparently holding something back. Wade figured immediately that the two (Claudine and David) took their roll in the sack and that there were those inevitable issues between them. But as for Debbie, nobody knew much about her, which posed a problem for Wade. Almost a month into the case and all of the class-A suspects were accounted for except Debbie. Why else would she just vanish like that, unless she had something more to do with this. That was more than suspicious. How could someone who was that intimate with Moet just disappear? Surely she’d have been at the funeral, or at least the wake. These were concerns of Wade’s as he headed home to view more of Moet’s videotapes.
The first two tapes were exciting to watch. Candid footage of Moet’s stage show, Moet in the dressing room with other dancers and Moet in her car. But there were at least nine other tapes to go through. None of them had dates or times or labels. So it was anybody’s guess as to when they were shot. However enticing the subject matter, Wade focused for clues of dates. Maybe someone was wearing a watch or perhaps there might be a newspaper laying around. Whatever. Wade just knew that some serious investigative work was ahead of him. For certain, he had to find Debbie.
Video Voyeur
Wade lived a cluttered single life. Cluttered because of his many interests. First, he had an insatiable appetite for videos and books galore. There were his three dogs with accessories to complement their every whimper. And then there was his shitload of tools. Wade loved serving the public and solving crimes; however, to fill the void, instead of the sports or cars or the club hopping that other officers engaged in, he became a mister-fix-it at heart. Fixing and inventing things were the activities that consumed Wade’s so-called leisure time; especially after Renee’s death. This is where he devoted hours of patience and concentration until a particular problem was solved. But there was no future in trying to be Inspector Gadget. After all, that was just a cartoon. So the next best thing was creating push-button devices for his car and convenient gadgets for his fifth-floor apartment.
Wade cursed the elevator again as he finally reached the fourth case of stairs, wishing down deep that he’d kept up with Kiara’s physical fitness show on ESPN. Dogs from various apartments always blew Wade’s cover when he used the stairs. It was the same for the various buildings that he had to enter through the day, trekking up case after case of stairs . . . alerting dogs. It made him wonder if he carried a scent that called out to them, making them bark no matter what the hour.
Before he put his key in the door, Wade pressed his door bell 7 times, abruptly. Another clever invention of his, the 7th consecutive impression of the buzzer turned the peephole on the door into a visitor-friendly device. Now, the peephole made a 180-degree turn, giving a telescopic view of a mirror that was strategically positioned at the rear of the short hallway inside his apartment. Simultaneously, as the device on the door rotated, the house lights glared on, giving Wade a full, well-lit panoramic view of his apartment before even entering. Obviously, his dogs exploded with that routine, ruckus reaction. So the apartment was clear of threat and he could enter carefree.
Wade frequently asked himself what all the security was for. A covert peephole. Lights on. Dogs. And 3 guns?
Well, he reasoned, someday you dogs won’t be around anymore. But Wade also knew, deep down in his heart, that one day all of his voids wouldn’t be voids anymore.
Bells and Whistle were the names of Wade’s 2 prized Japanese poodles. They were harmless; one black and one white. The 3rd dog was an English bulldog named Bones. Bones had an unusually long, sluggish figure. He moved like everything was a burden. More bark than bite—all three of them. And this was his so-called security.
After a brief walk, feeding, checking his answering machine, and his own relief at the toilet, Wade poured himself a tall glass of orange juice and sunk himself comfortably into his oversized, futon ottoman. To his side was a table and lamp. He swigged at the OJ, placed the glass on the table and switched on the lamp, instantly flooding 2 stacks of Moet’s videotapes with more light. The poodles were now flat on the floor, pressed up against the door to the bedroom. Eventually Bones swaggered in; he posted himself in the middle of the room and observed Wade picking out one of the video cassettes. As if to be familiar with the sights and sounds about to play on the TV screen. Bones then made a semicircle, more or less chasing his tail before he spiraled to the floor, conveniently facing the television.
“All-knowing bastard,” Wade huffed at Bones sarcastically before he fed a video into the VCR. His video system was set to go, with a cable running from the unit, down to the floor and under a Persian rug until it connected with a 35” television set across the room. On a handy remote control, Wade pressed the power button and awaited the next episode to be shown on the television.
Before he could see an image on his screen, there was music playing, accompanied by a few feminine giggles. This went on for a minute or so until Bones nonchalantly turned towards Wade behind him. With half opened eyes, the dog yawned and repositioned his head on the floor, his big nostrils contracting slightly after an expansive exhale.
Just then light appeared on the screen, as if a door had just opened to a tunnel. Wade was quick to realize that a camera’s lens cap had been removed, as the TV screen came to life with light and color, unveiling the unfolding events in Moet’s bedroom. The camera angle was unstable at first as someone tried to hold it steady, pointing it at a king-sized bed covered with pillows, a few teddy bears and a visibly soft comforter. Tossing about in the thicket of blankets were two women, with their brown curves and limbs in motion and harmony. They were holding, embracing, caressing and tongue kissing each other in a frenzy. A third female joined them after placing the video camera on a flat surface of some sort. The video was now steady and pitched perfectly to record the action.
Wade silently inhaled the imagery on his TV screen. Somehow, this was equivalent to closing his eyes, holding his nose, taking a deep breath and then jumping head-first into Moet’s superfluous sex files. Bones was still as a statue, his head still flat on the floor, and his eyes still holding a glossy gaze. Wade adjusted his thinking, recalling the gruesome vision of Moet’s dead body. He remembered the happy expressions she brandished in the various photos in her photo album. He couldn’t immediately make out who the other two women were on the bed. One was somewhat familiar. She looked like she could’ve been one of the dancers at Fool’s Paradise. A dark almondtoned woman with Caribbean features. The other woman had a caramel complexion. In his mind he assumed that perhaps this was Debbie. Considering Debbie’s stage name was Caramel. Of the three, she was the light (yet tanned) adventurous girl in the video. Wade’s intent on keeping business and pleasure separate was challenged by moans, laughter and cries on the screen. Bones raised his head after one of those passionate expressions. And he kept his head up in an interested manner. The dog’s face couldn’t change, however; still with that permanent frown weighed down by the layers of skin pulling at his jaw. Meanwhile, the poodles cared less about the TV and instead let their eyes volley from Bones to Wade and back.
Despite the attitudes of his dogs, Wade was becoming obviously excited. The three women entertained each other with what Wade imagined to be soft licks, tender caresses and light spanking. They inevitably built upon their involvement by creating that never-ending circle, connected only by their tongues inside of each other. They alternated positions. They alternated partners.
Click.
It was just as easy to turn off the excitement as it was to be absorbed in it. Thoughts of Renee were what moved him through his days and nights. She was the spirit now—the only spirit that made him smile and then cry, all within the space of a few moments. Wade knew deep down that she was the reason why he couldn’t keep a love interest or a steady girl. Being single wasn’t just convenient, it kept the spooks out.
Wade lowered his head and stared at the remote. Sure, shutting down the amateur porn was part of his personal issues, but it wasn’t something that he couldn’t get over. Apparently, it was the same for Bones, as he hopped up on the couch to comfort his master.