Old Bones

by Trudy Nan Boyce

  “Your dad and I joined the PD at the same time, right after we came home from Vietnam. We didn’t serve in country together, but we were both First Cav.”

  “This is kind of amazing.” Salt’s thoughts were a jumble. She was too surprised to begin asking questions.

  “Why?” He bent his head to one side.

  “Well, I’ve seen you around the department. Your name stands out. You’re got quite a reputation. But I didn’t know you knew my dad.”

  “Come on up.” He motioned her toward the wide stairs. She followed as he used the handrail to slowly hoist his weight up the rickety steps. At the landing he stopped to catch his breath. “You might also wonder why I’m still on the job and why I work this extra job.” Buddha-like, he posed questions.

  “If you want to tell me.” She loosened the belt of her coat and took off the fedora.

  “Always admired those hats,” he said, turning to go down the hallway that ran the length of the grand ballroom. Salt got a quick glimpse of the big red-and-black-tiled room as they passed.

  “You know this place goes back to my parents’ and grandparents’ day—when Auburn Avenue was one of the best places in America for black folks.” He opened a door marked OFFICE.

  “I know a little, but not much.” She was sure he wanted to tell her.

  “Nobody cares much, either,” he said as if he’d tried to tell the history before. He fell into a green leatherette couch and motioned her to the swivel chair behind the desk. “He didn’t care much about bullshit.”

  “My dad?”

  He nodded. “Me, either. How come you here tonight?”

  She got out the photo of the three girls. “I’m looking for her.” She pointed to JoJo. “I’m worried. The other two were shot and killed.”

  Harrison shook his head, took his time looking at the picture. “I guess I’ve been around too long—young girl like you on the trail of somebody who killed these babies. I’m old school. Now don’t take offense. I’m liable to say something chauvinistic. I am going to retire soon. Lemme look at these girls some more.” He shook his head again, slowly. “Maybe. Can I keep this?”

  “Yes, of course. I appreciate any help.”

  “There’s one of the managers here, a woman who knows the dance scene, knows quite a few of the girls, burlesque and strippers.”

  “I doubt these girls were real dancers, not like the professionals.” Salt pointed to the posters of elaborately costumed women on the office walls.

  “Yeah, it used to be something.” He looked around at the beautiful women. “Black was beautiful back then.”

  “You better be careful who hears you say that kind of thing.” She held back a grin until finally the corners of her mouth turned up.

  “Told you.” He laughed. “I see you’re just like your dad. He had that same good in his eyes.”

  Salt looked down.

  “I say something?” The couch crackled as he moved.

  “I have a lot of questions about him,” she said, looking at her hand minus Wills’ ring.

  “He was the real deal, born to be a poleese—an artist, a priest, a preacher, a rabbi. He was what they call a ‘savant.’ He knew way more about people than they knew about themselves. I saw him work. He and I were in a sector car together for a few years, then we were on the old STRIKE Team—we stayed in hot water.” He chuckled and wiped an eye.

  With barely enough air in her lungs, she asked, “Would you say you were close? Friends?”

  “You mean did we pal around outside of work? Naw.” Harrison’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Back then there was drinking after the shift. Guys would meet up somewhere and drink themselves stupid—fights, whores. You could get away with DUI. But your dad never did that. I didn’t much. He was a mystery to us—living so far out in that old house. Talk was his family had money, that the house was haunted. People say all kinds of things. You know cops love to gossip.”

  “I still have the house. I wish I’d known before now that you knew him.”

  “There were lots of times I meant to reach out to you. I thought a lot of your dad.”

  “Maybe I would have been a disappointment.”

  “Maybe. I mean you being a female. I’m a relic. I never believed in women on the job. I was wrong—slow to learn, I guess.” He hitched up his heavy shoulders and shrugged.

  “Did you know he was sick?”

  “You mean the PTSD or whatever they call it? I never saw that in him. He’d be out for a week or two sometimes, but then again”—Harrison shrugged—“it was the times. Men didn’t pry, or cry.” He rubbed his hands, fingering large, swollen knuckles.

  “You’re the only person on the job I’ve ever talked to who said they knew him—except Lieutenant Shepherd, and she said she only talked to him once.”

  Harrison passed his hand over the top of his close-cut gray hair. “Let me think—I guess there’s hardly anyone on the job longer than me. I’ll give it some thought.” He looked again at the photo of Mary and the girls. “Tell me about her.”

  “It’s a long story, long story. I’ve known her family almost since I came on the job twelve years ago.”

  “Has it been that long? You worked The Homes? Right?”

  “I did, almost ten years.”

  “You know that was our, his, sector? Back when there were only sectors, not yet broken up into beats.”

  “I knew just about that much. There’s an old woman—”

  “Sister Connelly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She still around? She was old when I worked there.”

  “She’s going strong.”

  “Well, I’ll be. Give her my regards.” Harrison stood. “Come on, let me give you the five-cent tour.” He led her out and down the hall. “Auburn Avenue—we’re so used to saying it we don’t think about the meaning. Auburn is a reddish-brown color and white people named it that before it was black, a black neighborhood. Strikes me as funny.”

  They stood in the entrance to the main ballroom. “If, as they say, these walls could talk.” The room was from another era: royal red walls north and south, red brick east and west, red-and-black highly polished tile floors, red-carpeted stage, red Naugahyde booths and eight support columns, red on two sides, burnished metal on the other sides.

  “What happened to the peacock?” she asked.

  “Peacocks went out of fashion. But this place in its time helped to start the careers of a lot of the greats: Little Richard, Jerry Butler, Otis, Sam Cooke, Howlin’ Wolf, Fats, Muddy, B.B. I could give you a list a mile long. Now look at it—empty.”

  It wasn’t exactly true: there was the bartender at the long bar along one wall, a couple in a booth, and a DJ sorting records at a spin table to the left of the stage.

  “Dancers don’t dress up in feathers. No money in that sort of thing. Now they twerk, shake, and show everything. Where’s the romance, the anticipation? I remember a time when there was more passion in a little kiss than in all this shake-your-booty stuff.” He took out the photo Salt had given him. “These young ladies will never know the sweetness of a little kiss.” The old cop wiped his red-rimmed eyes. “Damn shame.”

  Harrison again held on to the handrail as they went down the rubber-matted wide stairs. The wall of the building across the street was crumbling, taking with it the mosaic mural of what looked like it once might have been the city’s symbol, the phoenix, having risen but now literally falling into actual rubble, or it could have been a depiction of another of the peacocks, plumage molting. Salt gave Harrison one of her city-issued business cards, which itself had a tiny phoenix rising from the ashes.

  • • •

  She was making people in the Magic Girls Club uncomfortable, harshing their high. Like a chaperone at the prom, in her trench coat and fedora she stood out like she’d just stepped out of the 1
940s. The tables were packed with high rollers around which swarmed the wannabes, strivers looking to catch a ride on the glitter train. Lights arced, glinting off gold and diamond rings, watches, teeth, and oiled bodies. Money fluttered everywhere, thrown into the air toward the women.

  Onstage the dancers cut their eyes in her direction, modifying their most ardent displays. They danced but without enthusiasm. Most of the dancers were beautiful, some thick, some slim, but all had significant hip-to-waist ratios. Their skin glowed with youth, sweat, and lotions, all washed in pink light, swinging their expensive hair as they mounted the poles with unbelievable athleticism. There was minimal costuming. Tattoos proliferated, decorating almost every strong thigh. Loose bills, mostly ones, littered the stage.

  Wondering if she was strong enough to do those moves, Salt tried to imagine what it would feel like to put her body on display like that. It might be affirming—for a minute. Then she thought about what that would have been like at Mary’s age, selling a caricature of sex, just playing. A manager came over. “You crushing the brothers’ dreams here, Detective. Can I assist you so you can leave ASAP?” He spread his manicured hands, rings twinkling on every finger.

  The music’s beat transmitted vibrations through the floor. The walls pulsed. She leaned close. “I’d like to go backstage.”

  “We don’t do that. You’ll have to make an appointment.”

  “I don’t do that, Mr. Stokes. So could I get a seltzer water while you make arrangements?”

  “Ah, so you remember my name.” He sat down, smiling, folding his hands on the table. He held up a finger for a sequined waitress.

  “You beat a woman to death. Not a thing I’d forget.” Five years ago Salt had arrested Stokes on a homicide warrant. The detectives had asked her to keep an eye out for him. He’d resisted.

  The DJ segued into another rhythm and two more dancers advanced to the front-stage positions.

  “Self-defense.”

  “Jury got you on manslaughter only and here you are.” She smiled, scanning the room. They grinned at each other as the waitress took the order for Salt’s water.

  After the waitress had gone, Stokes asked, “What is it you need to talk to my ladies about?”

  Salt handed him a copy of the photo. “I’m looking for these women, dancers.” She nodded at the stage. “They may have information about a murder.”

  In the low light he made a show of squinting at the picture, but not for long. “Hard to tell.” He folded it and stuck it inside his jacket.

  “You’re welcome to keep it,” she said.

  “For the boss. Maybe he’ll know them.”

  “Which boss? He got a name? Does he know many of the employees?”

  “Not really.”

  The waitress delivered Salt’s water to Stokes, whispered in his ear, and left. The tables around them had emptied. He nodded at someone across the room. “I’ll see about getting you backstage. Call first next time.” He smoothed his cornrows, turned, and made his way through the crowd.

  A few minutes later a young woman, hobbled by high-heel boots, stood teetering at Salt’s table. “I’m supposed to take you back.”

  Salt left her drink untouched and followed the wobbly woman along the wall to a door to the right of the stage. Her escort only went so far as the door. “You on you own.” From the dark, neon-splashed main room a short alcove provided an abrupt transition through to the dressing room, causing Salt to feel a little disoriented. The room bustled with women lit by bright, harsh overhead lights that tore away illusions. The walls were a light, sickly beige, as were the hard-plastic lockers across from more lights, ones that lit the mirrors in front of dressing tables where dancers affixed lashes that resembled mustaches, where sequins were being glued to eyelids and brows, where makeup the viscosity of oil paint was applied to their faces, mouths were outlined in black and filled in with glossy colors. She tried not to stare, but who could not? All large in some way, even the smallest had a thickness of muscle that drew her skin taut and smooth. Some had thighs like Olympic weight lifters. They were fearsome and vivid, most in their twenties, a few thirtysomethings. Their lush bodies covered in tattoos, they must have become accustomed to being stared at.

  Two dancers roughly swept by Salt, G-strings shining between enormous butt cheeks. She had to step back to avoid contact. All the women in the room seemed to be transmitting aggression with their hypersexualized bodies and bold movements. Pretending not to notice or care, they pointedly ignored her. Maybe they thought she’d be intimidated as she stood there—a tall white woman in a trench coat, holding a fedora.

  They bent toward the mirrors, applying another layer, buttocks bared in her direction. Salt sat down on a couch, part of a conversation area, in the center of the room and waited.

  “Honey, you smell something funny in here?” said a large light-skinned woman to the smaller bronzed colleague sharing her dressing table.

  “You mean that smell like a white girl?” her friend responded.

  Salt, having been acknowledged, smiled at their reflections in their mirror.

  Over her shoulder the first woman said, “Like what you see?”

  Salt got out some flyers, stood and walked over to the women, and laid them on the dressing table. “I may not be in your club, but I’m on your side,” she said.

  Both of the dancers at the mirror, now seated, took a flyer, looked at the photo closely, then at each other. The pulsing bass of the music rattled the mirror in front of them, their images quivering. “They ain’t work here,” said the smaller girl, checking her friend’s reflection.

  “Why you axin’ here? They wearin’ Toy Doll shirts.” She pointed to the logos on the shirts of the girls in the photo.

  “They haven’t shown up at Toy Dolls in a while, at least not when I’ve been there. I was hoping to find someone who knows how to get in touch with them. The little girl in the middle is dead. I’m trying to find out who killed her,” Salt told them. She kept Glory’s death out of it.

  “Aw.” They studied the photos more intently, looked at each other, and nodded. The bigger girl leaned close to Salt and said softly, “Them two”—she pointed at JoJo and Glory—“come in with Flash Daddy couple of times; been a while though.”

  Four dancers came back from the stage, glancing at Salt as they went to their lockers.

  “Look, we all kinda look out for each other—to a point. We get hired and fired by whoever, men. We don’t know who owns the clubs—just ‘somebody’ in the business. There’s all kinds of talk going ’round. One day this producer own the club, next day some Japanese guy owns it. Word always that Flash Daddy own a big piece of the businesses all over town.”

  “I get it,” Salt said.

  They handed the flyers back.

  “I’m going to leave some of these out on the table.” Salt motioned toward the conversation area. “My number’s on them.”

  • • •

  Back at the office she fired up the desktop computer, and as the monitor woke up, Salt hung up her coat, which smelled of cigar smoke.

  A couple of hours later, having tried every database she could access, she’d been unable to peel back enough layers to find out who the actual owners of any of the clubs were. They were all listed under limited liability corporations with names similar to numerous national and international conglomerates. Her search for information on Flash Daddy Jones, though, yielded addresses of record for his driver’s license and vehicle registration and photos of the mogul with the mayor at a ribbon cutting for a music studio in the city’s underdeveloped south side. Tax incentives had facilitated the project. In the photo the mayor beamed at Flash Daddy, both of them wearing identical black suits, Mr. Jones basking in the glow of legitimacy, while Mr. Mayor seemed to be enjoying the cachet of cool.

  FLASH

  Flash Daddy lived in the southernmost sprawl of t
he city. Salt’s appointment with him was for three p.m. Atlanta, a city of hills and trees, is more akin to Appalachia than the shaking earth of the Okefenokee at the bottom of the state. But the land begins to flatten almost right at the southern city limits. Scrub pines start to creep in and strangle the hardwoods, and the topsoil of fecund black earth thins to baked, cracked red clay. Even when rain is plentiful, the counties south of the city still have a parched feel. On the same interstate she usually took for her own home, she passed her exit, once again reminded that the city was coming ever closer to what had been country. A flutter in her stomach reminded her that she was entering unfamiliar territory. She could have waited until Felton was able to go with her but was too anxious about JoJo. Time was precious and she didn’t know when she’d be back on the protest detail.

  Farther south she turned off at the exit for a two-lane highway. Fences and driveways for new, large houses with acres of lawn lined the road. The architecture of many of these new homes seemed ill defined. Brass numbers on one of the red brick columns, into which was set a security gate, confirmed the address. She turned off the road and pulled up to a call box. When she pushed the button, a voice answered, “Yo.”

  “Detective Alt to see Mr. Jones.”

  The gate began a jerky, halting retraction, opening to a black-asphalt single-lane drive through a field of brown grass that had been mown too close to survive. Tall, skinny, fast-growing cypress bordered the perimeter of chain-link fencing that surrounded the property. The house, on a slight rise, was made of angled sections, each having a façade in a different shade of rock. She drove up and stopped beneath an arched portico, where a very tall man who looked familiar—maybe a former athlete—wearing a warm-up suit stood in the doorway of the house. “He’s at the pool house. I’ll take you. Just leave your car here,” he said, his voice a match for the one answering the gate box.

  The ballroom-size foyer was all brass and glass and mirrors. Salt followed the tall man past a fountain, scaled for a large bank, trickling into a pool of intense blue water, and out the other side of the house, where they got into a golf cart. Another asphalt drive half circled the back of the house. At the farthest end they stopped in front of a tall arch-windowed indoor poolroom. Palm trees on the inside of the windows blocked the view. Her escort waited while she got out and went to a set of French doors and turned the lever handle. But the glass-paned doors stuck. “Push on the top,” her driver said. “Here, let me.” He got out and pounded his fist at the top of the double doors. When they popped open, Flash Daddy Jones, large cigar in his mouth, stood facing them, frowning. “I told Maya to get that thing fixed.” Mr. NBA shrugged and went back to the cart.