Authors: Ginger Simpson
“You sure?” Siamese cupped Michelle’s chin. “Bet you’ve never had one like I can give you.”
The need to giggle at such a ridiculous name for someone who looked more like a basset hound welled in her throat. Mustered tolerance kicked in. “Never had anyone dance on my lap. No offense but I don’t want you to be the first. I’m sure you can find someone in here desperate for your attention. Like I said, I appreciate the offer, but no thanks.”
Siamese jerked upright like someone had slapped her. “Well, I just assumed….”
The same offense displayed on the dancer’s face mirrored what Michelle felt, but the last thing she wanted to do was piss the woman off. Making enemies wasn’t a good start to a positive investigation. Michelle motioned to the adjoining chair. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Won’t you please sit a minute and help me calm my nerves. I’ve never been in a place like this and I certainly didn’t expect another woman to offer me a lap dance. I guess my reaction was a somewhat over the top. Actually—” She swallowed her words before revealing too much. No one wanted to talk to the cops. Perhaps a little role-playing was called for and what a nice way to resort to out-and-out lying. The thought caused a genuine smile to form. “Pretty please?”
She patted the chair, and Siamese edged her near naked bottom onto it.
Thoughts raced through Michelle’s mind:
Relative, neighborhood watch, PI? What was her new identity? She assumed a business-like posture. “I’m a new private investigator, and I’ve been hired to do a little poking around for facts in the death of one of your co-workers. I believe she went by Kitten or something like that.” Michelle swallowed, preparing herself for a bigger lie to come. “I recognized you right away as someone savvy enough to know what goes on around here…smart, informed, not afraid to…”
Siamese’s eyes widened as she grasped the crinkled skin of her throat. “What?
Kitten is dead? How? When?”
Was she kidding?
The death was all over the news and in all the papers. Who would ever suspect a mature woman like Siamese of putting on an act: someone who should be crocheting for her grandchildren or playing bingo instead of parading around in a feathered g-string with a bikini top struggling to hold up bosoms that had gone from around a 38D to a 40 long? Really, if she hadn’t gotten the news in a place like this, then the Pope definitely wasn’t Catholic.
Tamping down the urge to outright laugh in the woman’s face, Michelle resumed her fake role. “I’m so sorry to tell you in such a callous way. I felt certain you would know by now…TV, newspapers, customers…boss?
Surely your employer would know if something happened to one of her dancers.”
Siamese knuckled at dry eyes and sniffed. Michelle offered a tissue from her purse, noting some of the black from the woman’s overdone eye make-up transferred to the Kleenex, leaving a smudged mess behind. Siamese really resembled her stage name now, especially the way she mewed in sorrow and quivered like a purring cat. Not quite an Oscar-winning performance, but close.
Summoning fake remorse for what she considered feigned emotions, Michelle rested a consoling hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Evidently you were close?”
“N…
not really. Kitten hadn’t been here very long. What happened? And why aren’t the police snooping around instead of a private dick?”
“I-I….” Now it was Michelle’s turn to stutter. Why not the police? And private dick?
Insulting but still a good question, and from someone who surprisingly grew composed so quickly. “I didn’t ask when her father hired me. This job means good money to me, and I’m not walking away from a paying assignment. Besides, I’m guessing the cops aren’t moving fast enough to suit him. You know, it doesn’t take long for a case to grow cold with so many crimes being committed. Who’s going to make a stripper’s murder a priority?”
Michelle never dreamed she could think so fast. Pleased with her answer, she eyed the drinks the cocktail waitress finally placed before her. Realizing the woman’s subtle delay was her ploy for a tip, Michelle passed the dollar to the upturned palm and got rid of the extra pair of ears. God, she wished she’d ordered water. Her throat was dry as dust.
“So, have you found out anything yet?” Siamese summoned her attention away from the frothy mug, shot glass and small bowl with two lime slices.
“Uh, no. This is my first stop. I figured where Kitten worked was the best place to start…you know, gal pals sharing secrets, knowing more about one another because you share the same…uh...career.”
The woman laughed. “This ain’t no career, honey. Do you think I’d be here dressed like this if I could find a different job? I have a daughter and two grandkids to support. My kid’s asshole boyfriend ran off and left her with another brat in the oven.”
Michelle’s previous assumptions turned to cloaking guilt. Hadn’t she learned not to judge people by now?
And why was her mouth so dry? God, even the beer was starting to look good, but she was on duty. She considered summoning the waitress back, but jumped when Siamese’s arm brushed hers.
“Ain’t you gonna drink that?”
The stripper pointed to the shot glass.
“I’m suddenly not in the mood for tequila. In fact, I think I’ll order a glass of water.”
Quicker than a lightning bolt, Siamese moved the shot closer to her. She reached for a saltshaker on an adjoining table and sprinkled some in the cradled V between her thumb and forefinger. Michelle watched the process, feeling like a beginner, as Siamese licked the salt, bit into the lime, and then downed the liquor. Her creased lips drew into a pucker. “Whew.”
“Well, like I said,” she continued, “I didn’t know Kitten very well. She hadn’t really been here long enough to get close to anyone. Maybe you should talk to the person who hired her.”
“Oh, you mean Kitty Kat? Where can I find her?”
“You mean
him
. Carlo Costanzo is the owner of this joint. I don’t know if he bought the name or just thought it would be clever to have everyone assume a feline role, but he’s usually in his office.” She stood. “It’s my turn on the pole, and the bartender’s been giving me some pretty nasty looks for sitting on the job. I wish I could have been more help.” She turned and walked away, then stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, and catch the bastard who killed Kitten. She seemed like a nice gal.”
Michelle hadn’t wanted to look, but as the woman made her way toward the stage, there was no denying, the older dancer did have a nice ass for someone her age.
So, Kitty Kat was a guy! For some reason, Michelle recognized the name, Carlo Costanzo, but from where escaped her. She’d run his name as soon as she got back to the office to find out more. Regardless, she was here and it was time to have a chat with
Miss Kitty
. Where was Marshall Dillon when you needed him? She laughed at her reference to the old TV show, Gunsmoke, long gone along with all the actors. Sad, really sad. She’d loved James Arness’ sexy swagger, broad shoulders and the way he carried himself. Almost like Tony. She shook the comparison. “Get a grip, Shell.”
Purse on her shoulder, she walked back to the bouncer at the front of the bar.
Her throat even drier, she cleared it. “Ah, excuse me, can you tell me where I can find Mr. Costanzo?”
The fellow guarding the door straightened from leaning against the wall, his muscles flexed and the veins in his neck bulged. “Who wants to know?”
Intimidation overpowered thirst, choking off her words.
“Ah…” She hadn’t come up with a fake name, and she sure didn’t want to give her real one. “Alicia Keys.” She assumed the identity of her favorite singer in a snap. “He won’t know me, but I’ve been hired by Cara Austin’s father to investigate her death. I believe you call her Kitten.”
“Kitten’s dead?”
His square jaw cocked to the side.
Obviously no one in the place talked to one another…or so they wanted her to think.
Michelle nodded, her patience faltering. “Murdered.”
“Oh, wow, I’m sorry to hear that.
She was a nice gal.”
So far, the only thing Michelle knew about Cara was she was a ‘nice gal.’
“Mr. Costanzo?” She pushed ahead.
“Ah, I’ll have to check and see if he’s available.”
The bouncer picked up the receiver from the wall phone next to him. “Hey, boss. There’s some chick here who wants to see you about Kitten.” He hung up and fixed his gaze on her. “He told me to send you back.” He pointed at an entrance behind the bar. “Through that door, follow the hall to the left, and you’ll see his office at the end.”
“Thanks.”
She followed his instruction, passing closed doors on both sides of the corridor and headed for Costanzo’s office. Her detective side surfaced in curiosity about what went on inside the myriad of rooms she passed. She could only imagine, and she didn’t like what crept into her mind. Was that an erotic moan she heard as she passed the last door?
At the end of the worn carpeting, she paused outside Costanzo’s door and took a deep breath.
“Alicia Keys,” she muttered, reminding herself of her alias. Oh, if only she sang like her fave. She wouldn’t be in this dive facing who knew what on the other side of the gaudy red portal.
She raised her hand to knock, but the door swung open and a short, stocky man in a pinstriped suit gestured her inside.
Only a smidge of hair fringed his bald pate, and his bulbous nose was much redder than the rest of his bloated face. A looker, he wasn’t.
“Please come in, Ms…?”
“Keys.” Michelle gaped at the cluttered room. A large picture of cats playing poker hung on the wall behind a massive desk littered with papers; how clever, felines replacing the well-known dogs in the popular artwork. On an adjacent wall hung tons of pictures of Carlos shaking hands with a myriad of people. Some she recognized, some she didn’t. One in particular, Clint Eastwood, caught her attention. Too bad such a handsome man was now a wrinkled and aged version of Rowdy Yates, the cowboy she loved to watch in Rawhide on TV as a kid. She drew her attention back to her suspect, chastising herself for letting her mind wander.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Costanzo.
I promise I won’t take much of your time.”
He motioned to a visitor’s chair as he took a seat in one that dwarfed him.
He resembled a baseball nestled in a catcher’s mitt.
Sitting, she bit back a chuckle.
What was making her think such stupid things? Nerves?
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.
You know my name and enough about me, but I have no idea why you’re here.” The owner steepled his fingers atop his protruding stomach.
“Let me make a proper introduction.
I’m Alicia Keys, a private investigator hired by the Austin family to gather facts about the death of their daughter, Cara. I believe she went by the name, Kitten, here at work.” She retrieved a notepad from her purse.
He clicked his tongue against his teeth.
“Such a shame. I haven’t had the opportunity to share the bad news with the rest of the staff, but I did read about her demise in the paper.”
“Can you tell me a little about Cara…uh, Kitten?”
“She only worked for me for a few months. She mentioned something about needing money to help pay college expenses, but I never asked what she studied or which school. She was a looker, right for the job, and willing to dance, so I hired her on the spot.”
“Do you do background checks on your employees?”
Michelle wanted to roll her eyes, but blinked instead while making notes. Why would he care about someone’s life as long as they were padding his pockets?
“Uh, no.”
At least he answered truthfully.
“I just expect the people I hire to do their jobs while
they’re here. Their life history doesn’t concern me.” He bent forward and retrieved a bottle and two glasses from a drawer. “Care for drink?”
“No thank you…unless you have some water.
"
He put away the second glass and produced her liquid of choice.
She accepted the small plastic container and drained it.
She placed the empty on the desk and focused back on Costanzo.
“Did you ever notice Cara having a problem with a particular customer?”
“Oh, all the girls have problems from time to time.
Men drink, wanna touch, make it more personal than it should be, and faces get slapped. Cara had her share of guys pawing at her, but none in particular stand out. I have a hard and fast rule. Touch the girls and you’re outta here.” He smiled. “You met my bouncer, didn’t you?”
Michelle nodded.
“Yes, I did. I imagine he wouldn’t have much trouble ejecting anyone.” She jotted another note. “So, since you don’t recall Cara having any specific problems with her customers, would you mind if I talk to some of your staff? Perhaps someone noticed something you missed.”
“It’s a little late to ask, don’t you think?
Especially since you already spent quite a bit of time with Siamese.”
Michelle’s puzzlement must have displayed on her face.
“Cameras.” He pointed behind her. “There isn’t much that goes on in here that I don’t see.”