by Skye Knizley
The Fender with a starburst pattern looked as good in the gloom as if it were new. Smoak wasn’t an expert, but she guessed it was at least thirty years old and had been played by someone who loved it. The frets looked worn as was the paint on the back, but it was clean and the strings looked new. She had a feeling it sounded fantastic in the right hands.
She put it back and turned away from the living area, shining her light back toward the kitchen and the narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms and bathrooms. One of the doors was closed. The other two were open, but she couldn’t see anything inside. She left the main room and pushed the first door open all the way. The space beyond was a full bathroom with cracked white tile, a white porcelain tub and a single sink vanity. Though everything showed its age in cracked paint, chipped porcelain and faded wallpaper, the room was sparkling clean and smelled of bleach. Two pink towels hung on the single chrome rack, and a makeup kit big enough for a top model sat on the counter.
A quick check showed the cosmetic case held nothing of interest, and Smoak moved on to the next room, which turned out to be a bedroom decorated with a collection of band posters with such names as Aerosmith, Pop Evil and Hinder. Two guitars, a Gibson and an Ibanez, sat on stands against the far wall next to an old Crate amplifier and a microphone stand. In the middle of the room was a full sized bed with a pink coverlet and a stuffed unicorn that looked as if it had survived the last World War. A small writing desk sat next to the bed, a laptop resting in the middle. Smoak opened the lid to see a popular music-writing program had been left running. The song displayed was a tune entitled ‘Smoke and Flame’ written by Blaze Nightingale.
Smoak read the music, feeling a little flutter in her stomach. It was a love song, and it was beautiful, with a guitar solo Eddie Van Halen would drool over.
She sighed and closed the lid. She needed to focus on the job and not her growing puppy-crush on someone she didn’t even know.
She patted the laptop and moved to the room’s small armoire. The drawers were stuffed full of clothing, folded neatly but arranged with no rhyme or reason. In the bottom drawer was a white envelope that contained photographs of Blaze and a dark-haired young woman, who Smoak could only assume was Rayne. Smoak took one of the more recent pictures and slipped it into her pocket. She then put the photos and envelope back in the drawer and returned everything to the way she’d found it.
The other side of the armoire was stuffed with jeans, tee shirts and a handful of cheap stripper-wear hanging above a small collection of shoes and boots. In a zipper bag at the back hung an expensive pair of leather pants and a tee shirt with a skull and crossbones and the name “Asphyxia” on the front.
Smoak took a picture of the tee shirt and closed the armoire. She took one last look at the room and left, moving back down the hall. The room at the end was the apartment’s master bedroom. A large bath set next to the door was very similar to the main bathroom, except it had a double sink and a built-in linen closet. The pink towels had been replaced with two purple ones, and the makeup case was even more expensive than the one next door—otherwise there was little of interest.
The bedroom itself, however, was far different from the one belonging to Blaze. In the middle of the room was a queen-sized bed covered with a purple-flowered comforter and purple satin sheets. The walls were almost devoid of decorations except for an eleven by seventeen photograph of Rayne in her graduation gown, standing next to Blaze in front of the Christian Academy high school.
Next to the bed was a nightstand with an alarm clock that connected to an MP3 player. A notepad and a pen from Diamonds sat next to the clock. Smoak tore off the top sheet of paper and slipped it into another pocket before pulling open the drawer. Inside was a box of tissue, some dog-eared romance novels and a small pink ‘massager of the intimate kind.’
In the very bottom of the drawer, hidden beneath everything, was a long narrow box made of black velvet. Smoak pulled the box out and popped open the lid. Inside were two rows of gold coins, placed like a line of poker chips in a sleeve. One sleeve was perhaps half empty and the amount of dust in the slots indicated they’d been taken out one at a time over a span of at least a year; one slot was thick with dust, the newest was dust free.
She pulled one out and ran a finger over the face of a polished Krugerrand.
Damn…where did she get these? The Brats and Sam’s don’t frequent Diamonds, that’s King territory.
She pulled out her phone and took a picture of both sides of the coin before putting it and the box back in the drawer. She was turning to leave when her light reflected off something on the floor. Something shiny. She knelt and picked up the golden end of a cigarette.
Sobranie Black. Russian cigarettes in an American girl’s bedroom…. Rayne, what the hell did you get yourself into? Smoak wondered.
She pulled a small evidence bag from a pouch on her belt and dropped the cigarette butt inside, then put the bag in her pocket with the other items she’d found. When she was done, she took a last look around and left through the kitchen, pausing to flip through the pile of mail. It consisted of bills, junk mail and a letter from the university. Curious, Smoak used one of her knives to open the message.
The letter was Rayne’s grades. Straight A’s for the previous semester and a place on the Dean’s List for her achievement.
Smoak frowned at the letter and put it back in the envelope. South African gold, probably dropped at a club by the Russians, and Russian cigarettes didn’t add up to a straight A student. They added up to someone in over their head.
Smoak slipped the letter back into the pile of mail and headed for the exit. When she opened the door, she could hear the elevator whining to a stop but couldn’t see anyone. She closed and locked the door and turned toward the stairs only a few yards away. She put her hands in her jacket pockets and strolled toward the exit as if she was going out for some air, not a care in the world. Her jaw almost dropped when the door opened and Blaze stepped through, her eyes locked on her cell phone.
Smoak stepped back, but Blaze still walked into her, squealing in surprise.
“Oh, God! I’m so sorry!” Blaze said. “I didn’t expect anyone to be up this late.”
Smoak smiled and started past. “No harm done. Excuse me.”
“Wait… Do I know you?” Blaze asked.
Smoak stopped. “No, I don’t think so. I was just visiting a friend down the hall.”
“Maybe I know them then. I swear I’ve seen you before.”
“Could be,” Smoak said. “I come and go a lot. I’m sorry for bumping into you. Maybe I’ll see you later.”
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Blaze asked. “It’s late. Or early. Or something.”
Smoak laughed again. “I was going to grab some early breakfast, then head home.”
Blaze smiled and pointed back the way Smoak had come. “My apartment is right back there. Can I make you something? I feel so bad for walking into you like that. Now I know what they mean about texting and walking not going together. I’m lucky I didn’t end up in the pool.”
Smoak paused and looked at Blaze. The woman’s green eyes twinkled with excitement and her soft, red-tinted lips were twisted into the most innocent smile Smoak had ever seen. They were lips that begged to be kissed.
“That sounds great,” Smoak said, her conscience kicking her.
“Come on in,” Blaze said, turning away. “My name’s Blaze.”
“Kamryn,” Smoak replied. “Kamryn MacKenna.”
Twenty minutes later, Smoak sat on one of the sofas, a chipped coffee mug in her hands and a plate of toast and honey on the table in front of her. Blaze sat on the opposite sofa, sipping from her own mug of fresh black brew. The coffee was far better than Ashley’s.
“So who were you visiting?” Blaze asked around a mouth full of toast.
“Just a friend,” Smoak replied.
“At three in the morning? They must be some kind of friend.”
“Not that k
ind of visit,” Smoak said, sipping from her coffee. “They’re just a friend, friend. He has a bad cold.”
“Mm… just a friend. And you bailed on them before dawn?”
Smoak set her mug down and tore off a piece of toast. “Yeah. I need to get a few hours of sleep before I go to work.”
Blaze nodded in understanding. “I’m a musician. I was supposed to have a gig tonight, but the bar was closed by the health department. Something about illegal gator meat.”
“Let me guess. They make gator bite hors d'oeuvres.”
“Yeah,” Blaze said with a smile. “Not very good ones.”
Smoak smiled back and took another bite of toast.
“Are you going to tell me what you do? Or do I have to guess?” Blaze pressed.
Smoak paused and raised her eyes to meet Blaze’s. “I’m a dancer at Lollipops.”
Blaze grinned. “I had a feeling. My sister is, too. She worked…works at Diamonds.”
Smoak saw sadness drift across Blaze’s face, and she reached out with one hand. “Did something happen to your sister?”
It was Blaze’s turn to pause. She bit her lip, not quite meeting Smoak’s eyes.
“She went missing a few days ago. She didn’t come home from work one night.”
“Oh no…. Have the police got any idea what happened?” Smoak asked.
Blaze shook her head angrily. “No. The fucking detective won’t do anything to help because she’s a dancer. She works in ‘the trade’ and isn’t worth a shit, according to Murphy.”
“Is there someone else you can talk to? A supervisor or something?”
Blaze calmed herself and sat back, letting Smoak’s hand slip from hers. “I contacted some friends, some private detectives who have taken the case and are looking for her right now.”
Smoak picked up her coffee. “That’s good. I’m sure they’ll find her before long.”
Blaze looked away again. “I hope so. This isn’t like Rayne, she never stays out after work and always comes home as soon as she can. I’m sure something has happened to her. She’s my best friend and the only family I’ve got.”
“Have faith, Blaze. I’m sure these friends of yours will turn up something soon,” Smoak said.
Blaze picked up her empty mug and toast. “From what I’ve heard, they’re good at what they do, so that’s what I’m hoping. Look, Kamryn, it’s been great meeting you, but I should get some z’s. I have class in a few hours.”
“Sure, I could use some sleep too,” Smoak replied.
She picked up the rest of her own dishes and followed Blaze to the kitchen, where they both silently tossed away their toast and put empty dishes in the sink. When they were finished, Blaze plucked a sticky note from the pad on the fridge and wrote her number on it.
“Call me later,” she said. “I’d love to hang out some more when my eyelids aren’t heavier than cartoon anvils.”
Smoak took the paper and slipped it into the inside pocket of her jacket. “I will.”
She turned toward the door, and her fingers were closing on the knob when she stopped.
“I do believe your sister will be found soon, Blaze. I do.”
Blaze smiled. “That makes two of us. Go, and don’t forget to call me later.”
Smoak smiled back and ducked out the door.
Five minutes later, she was sitting on the back of her bike, sweating in the night air. She was finding it difficult to push Blaze from her mind. The woman was pretty, smart and had a vulnerable quality that made Smoak want to hug her and tell her everything was going to be just fine.
But it wasn’t going to be just fine if she didn’t get off her ass, focus and find Rayne. Dawn was fast approaching, and she had some work to do before the clubs closed for the day.
She started the Classified Moto custom bike, zipped up her jacket and pulled onto the street, still feeling Blaze’s hand on hers.
Diamonds, another of Miami’s famous gentleman’s clubs, sat on a dead end street next to an abandoned building and the pillars of a bridge that had never been completed. The structure was two stories of polished black concrete with a discrete sign in the shape of a diamond in front of the building. Though it was nearly five, there were still a handful of cars and bikes in the lot, and Smoak could hear the bump of dance music even as she parked her bike. Why did no one ever build a club with decent soundproofing?
She strode across the lot and trotted up the stairs to the main entrance. She pulled the door open and stepped through, grimacing at the too loud dance music pounding through the speakers and the bright spotlights that crisscrossed the floor. She put her sunglasses on against the glare of the lights and walked down the corridor to where the doorman was half-dozing on a stool. He looked up when she approached and ran a hand though his silver hair.
“Good morning, ma’am. The sunrise cover is five bucks,” he said.
Smoak pulled a wad of cash out of her pocket and offered the man a folded bill.
“Do you know a girl named Trinity?”
The man nodded and folded his arms across his chest. “I know her, who is asking?”
“My name isn’t important,” Smoak replied. “Her sister hired my partner and me to find her, and she said you might be able to help.”
The man shook his head. “Not me, you’re looking for the night bouncer, Jon-Tom. He’s off today.”
Smoak frowned and filed that away for later. “Thank you, can you point me at Bryce then? I think he’s still the managing partner here.
The older man nodded.
“Yes, ma’am. You’ll find him in his office at the top of the back stairs. Don’t tell him I sent you if he’s got guests.”
“Of course not,” Smoak said, pushing through the curtains. “I don’t even know your name.”
The club beyond the curtain was massive, one of the largest in the Miami area. A central stage held three poles and five dancers, while two outlying stages held two dancers and a single pole each. Nine sleepy looking dancers went through the motions for perhaps two dozen men sucking down Mimosa’s before work.
Smoak ignored the scene and headed straight for the back stairs. She took them two at a time and pushed through the door at the top. Beyond was a dark, dank-smelling corridor with threadbare carpet and stained wallpaper. Four doors emptied into offices on either side of the corridor; the first was lettered in gold: Bryce Martine.
Smoak opened the door without knocking and rolled her eyes at the scene inside the battered old office. Bryce, a middle-aged Latino man with black hair and dark eyes, sat behind the desk, his white linen shirt unbuttoned to show off a collection of chains and tattoos. A dark-skinned woman sat on the desk gyrating for his pleasure, while another girl’s paler legs stuck out from beneath the old wood. It wasn’t hard to tell what she was doing.
“Oi! You ladies take five, I need to talk to Bryce,” Smoak said, holding the door open.
The two girls turned to look at Smoak and glanced at Bryce, who was trying to stuff his manhood back in his pants.
“Yeah, yeah, you two take a break while I talk to my old friend Smoak,” he said.
“Whatever you say, Bry,” the dark-skinned girl said. “Come on, Shanna.”
The two girls left, and Smoak closed the door behind them.
“Really, Bryce? Those girls should be home getting ready for school not sucking you off. I know it’s hard, but do you think you could have any less class?”
Bryce held up his hands in surrender. “Naw naw, Smoak, you got it all wrong! They asked me for a little extra green. I was happy to oblige, and we all get what we want.”
“You’re a repulsive human being,” Smoak said. “I’m sending them home after you answer some questions for me.”
Bryce frowned. “But, Smoak, baby, I’ll go blue…”
Smoak glared at Bryce and gripped one of her knives.
“The girls go home. You can deal with your little problem yourself when I’m gone.”
Bryce sighed and rubbed hi
s neck. “Sure, fine, sure just keep those blades away from me. What do you want, besides to ruin my social life?”
“I need to know if you’re in bed with anyone besides the help,” Smoak said. “Like maybe the Brats?”
“The who? The Russians? Naw girl, Diamonds is under the protection of the Kings. You know that,” Bryce replied. “They’d have my nuts if I did business with the Russians.”
Smoak nodded. “That’s what I thought. What about a dancer named Trinity, do you remember her?”
Bryce nodded. “Course I do, I fired her ass tonight. She ain’t been to work in two days.”
“Then how did you fire her?” Smoak asked.
Bryce shrugged. “I left her a message.”
“You fired her voicemail instead of checking on her? Good job, those are some great management skills you have. Do you know if she was working anywhere else?”
“I don’t allow no moonlighting! If she was working another club, I’d have fired her before now.” Why are you asking all this? What do you care?”
“She’s missing. I’m going to find her. What about friends? Did you see her hanging out with anyone?”
“She’s missing? Damn… she was a good earner. Look, Smoak, I don’t know nothing. She came to work, did her job and went home. No friends, no regulars, just twelve hours a week grinding a pole.”
Smoak frowned. “Twelve hours? That’s it?”
“Yeah. She was a part timer, filling in during the evening rush. She was out by six or seven every night.”
Smoak opened the door. “Then she had another gig somewhere. Thanks, Bryce.”
“Another gig? Where? I’ll fire her ass!” Bryce yelled.
“You already fired her machine, idiot,” Smoak said over her shoulder. She closed the door and looked at the two girls leaning against the wall. “You two go home,” she said, holding out a pair of twenties. “Don’t let me catch you in that idiot’s office again. He isn’t worth the effort or the clinic visit.”