But the cops didn’t appear to care about any of that. Their only focus appeared to be...me. Which meant things probably weren’t looking so good for the Burlesque Mayor of New York City.
I mentioned this to Filthy. She expressed the opinion that the police, as a matter of course, were probably looking into every appropriate suspect.
“You weren’t in that interrogation room,” I said. “They seemed pretty convinced they had their man. I think maybe I’d better look into—”
“Oh, great,” Filthy said. “Jonny Porkpie investigates.”
“What?”
Filthy put on her noir-est film noir voice. “I couldn’t get the dame out of my head,” she said. “That thieving brunette with gams up to her ears and a rear bumper that could activate any man’s turn signal. Sure, she was dead now, but who wasn’t? Well, me, for one, and that’s why I could spend all my time obsessing, instead of talking to the sizzling-hot redhead sitting next to me. She was dangerous, that redhead. If I didn’t do what she said, I’d have to suffer another beat-down at her perfectly self-manicured hands. But the image of that naked-ass corpse lying on the stage was burned into my brain with the force of a thousand raging footlights—”
Maybe I was obsessing, but at least I wasn’t getting quite so prolix about it.
“Look,” I started, but once Filthy gets going, she’s a hard woman to rein in.
“I decided it was time to make my move,” Filthy said. “To take to the streets, to pound the pavement, to hit the bricks, to flap my gums, to yank my chain. Because the police, with all their training and years of experience, couldn’t possibly do it as well as me, Jonny Porkpie, the burlesque detective of NYC, who never solved a mystery in his life. But if I can drop my drawers onstage, I can drop a dime on a murderer. So I grabbed my porkpie hat and pulled it down over my long, beautiful hair and oversized ears—”
“All right, enough,” I said. That was going too far; my ears are quite a nice size, for my face. Though it’s sometimes hard to tell, because they’re frequently covered by my long, beautiful hair.
“I get it,” I said. And she wasn’t wrong.
But here’s the thing: I was the one that killed Victoria. Not deliberately; I’m not saying that. I’m not that kind of guy, however much I disliked the woman. But I was the one who’d handed her that bottle and watched, along with an audience full of people, as she drank from it. And then watched, along with an audience full of people, as she died. However innocent I was in theory, I could hardly deny that in literal terms she had died by my hand, and that didn’t sit right. Neither did the prospect of spending time in jail—or worse—for the crime while a killer walked free.
Which brought up the question: Who was that killer?
I was starting to think that under one of the sequined pasties worn backstage tonight beat a heart trimmed with black lace; that one of those perfectly coiffed wigs hid a devious criminal mind; that one of those beautiful, naked women—maybe even one of those beautiful, naked women I thought was my friend—had made me an accessory to murder.
And I don’t particularly like being an accessory.
I don’t go well with your outfit.
So I had no other choice. It was up to me to—
“Murder, he stripped!” Filthy said.
“Filthy—”
“Let’s assume, for the sake of argument,” she said, “that this was in fact homicide, and not just some freak accident. Let’s also assume, for the moment, that you’re not the killer, because I honestly don’t think you’ve got it in you. If you go off and start trying to expose the murderer—and, given the list of suspects, I do mean expose—what do you suppose that murderer might do to you?”
“I don’t—”
“Murder you, maybe? It’s part of the job description, after all. Whereas the police, unlike you, are licensed to carry loaded firearms, and fully trained in the use thereof...”
“But if they’re carrying those loaded firearms,” I said, “as they attempt to gather more evidence against me, it doesn’t help get me off the hook, does it? If I leave it to the police, there’s an excellent chance I’ll end up in prison.”
“That’s better than being dead. If you’re dead, you don’t get conjugal visits. At least, not from me. I’m not into necrophilia.”
“What if I don’t go to prison—what if I get the death penalty?”
“You can’t. Not in New York State.”
“Are you sure?”
Filthy sighed. “Please, Jonny. Just let the damn cops do their damn job, okay?”
“Sure,” I lied.
CHAPTER 5
THURSDAY
So here’s how I wound up running at top speed across the Brooklyn Bridge, half-naked, in the middle of the night, pursued by all five members of a heavy metal band.
A full moon sparkled off the East River, its light shimmering on the midnight tide.
But I didn’t give a damn.
The bridge was floodlit in the dark, its stones sharp with shadows cast. Its gothic stanchions loomed dramatically ahead of me and above, pointed arches grey and bright against the clear black of the sky, supporting the cobweb of cables that in turn supports the bridge. But I didn’t give a damn.
Behind me, the Woolworth Building, for two short decades two turns of a century ago the tallest building in the world, towered still over City Hall, a single white cloud framing its spire—
But you get the point. It was all eerily, quietly beautiful, and I just didn’t give a damn.
When you’re running across the Brooklyn Bridge, and you look down, the gaps in the wooden slats of the pedestrian walkway run together—for you film nerds, it works on the same principle as the zoetrope—and the boards fade away under your feet, until you seem to be running on air with nothing to prevent you from falling down, down, to the streets of lower Manhattan, or the East River, or the streets of downtown Brooklyn, whichever of those three happens to be hundreds of feet below you at the time.
If you have any fear of heights, the view as you run can be downright dizzying.
I hoped that some of the members of the heavy metal band chasing me were looking down.
I know what you’re thinking: Where did I find a heavy metal band to chase me across the Brooklyn Bridge—the 1970s? No, the truth is, just like they say, metal lives. Wherever you can find five guys with long hair and a grudge against the world, you’re going to find heavy metal. In most places, five is exactly the number of that kind of guy you’re going to be able to find, but those five will inevitably gravitate towards each other and form a musical experience guaranteed to drive you out of any open mic night.
But hey, who am I to judge? I work in burlesque, the top entertainment ticket of 1939.
And this is New York, where the rules are slightly different. In New York, you can find far more than five of that (or any) particular type of guy, and they don’t all conform to the cliché. In fact, one of the five guys chasing me right now didn’t even have long hair. She wasn’t even a guy. She was about 5’2” in boots, and sporting, of all things, a bright blue mohawk. Of the five, she was the one I was most afraid of.
A sudden breeze came up off the water, blowing my porkpie off my head. I made a grab for it and missed. The hat bounced back down the bridge, towards Manhattan, towards my pursuers.
I stopped. I turned around.
I like that hat.
“You hated her,” I was saying to Cherries, several hours earlier.
I had decided to make Cherries my first visit that Thursday because I figured I needed the practice. She was, after all, my closest friend at the Dreamland show that night. If I was going to question everybody about the murder (and it seemed like that was exactly what I was going to do, despite Filthy’s attempt to dissuade me), I might as well start with the person I was most comfortable talking to.
It wasn’t going well.
“Oh, I get it,” she said. “Cops suspect you of murder, and you want to share the joy with your
bestest buddies. Classy, Porkpie. Trés classy.”
“I’m just saying—” I said.
“Yes, I hated her,” Cherries said. “You hated her. Everyone hated her. She was hateful.”
“But you had a particular reason—”
“So did you. And what about Angelina, for crying out loud? Whose number was Victoria stealing when she bit it? Angelina isn’t exactly, you know, wellhinged in the first place.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” I said, and sat down on Cherries’ couch. Her apartment was...well, how shall I describe it? New York apartments, especially on the Upper East Side, are not designed with the active burlesque performer in mind, especially an active burlesque performer with the imagination of Cherries Jubilee. Where in a 600 square foot apartment does one store such things as a two-yard-tall replica of the Empire State Building or a wearable scale model of the Hindenburg? The answer is: everywhere. Two dozen different acts were dropped, dangled, or draped on every available surface, shelf, outcropping, and inch of floor in Cherries’ apartment. I’m sure there was some grand organizing principle behind the piles of stuff that filled the living room, but it wasn’t obvious to the casual observer. Her storage techniques were as innovative as her performances; for instance, the shoulder pads and helmet from her football number, when not in use, served as the antenna for her television. “I’m just gathering information,” I said. “As much as I can. Yes, fine, you’re right, I didn’t like her either. Which is why I know exactly how you feel. But come on, Cherries, you can’t deny that you had even more reason to hate that woman than I did. When Filthy and I told you we’d seen her do your football number at that convention, what did you do?”
“I got pissed. But—”
“And when we told you that she’d won the ‘Most Humorous’ award at the convention for that number, what did you do?”
“I got even more pissed.”
“And when we told you that we’d informed the organizers that the number had been plagiarized, and they said they couldn’t do anything because the judges could only base their decision on what they’d seen and none of them had seen you do the act, what did you do?”
“I wrote her an email.”
“Before that.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Yes you do. You lost it, is what you did. You lobbied the organizers to revoke the award, and when they refused you blew your freakin’ top. You remember? That night in the bar? The night you got the email from them saying their decision wasn’t going to change, and that if you kept harassing them about it they were going to take legal action against you?”
“I was pretty drunk that night. I don’t really remember everything I said.”
“You said you were going to strangle them all, starting with Victoria.”
“Well, I didn’t mean it literally, you jackass,” yelled Cherries.
“I’m not sure there’s such a thing as metaphorical strangulation.”
“Well, I didn’t strangle her. Or anyone else. Nobody got strangled. All I did was send Victoria an email telling her to stop doing my number. Which, as you know—and as I know you know because you mentioned it to me just last night—she agreed to do.”
“And you’re blonde, so you believe everything she says.” I got a certain perverse pleasure from throwing her words back at her. “And actually, now that you mention it, it occurs to me that I have only your word that you sent her an e-mail and she agreed to stop.”
“Oh, for— You want me to show you the damn email? I’ll show you the damn email.” She pulled her laptop from under a pile of papers and opened it. She logged into her email, scrolled down until she found the one she was looking for, and shoved the computer at me. “Here, look, there it is. Enjoy.”
I read Cherries’ original message, then Victoria’s response. There was something strangely familiar about the reply. I thought I knew what it was. But it wouldn’t hurt to check. I grabbed my phone.
Filthy picked up after one ring. “Where are you?” she said.
“I’m at Cherries’ apartment.”
“You’d better be having an affair with her, then. Because I swear, if you’re quote detecting end of quotation...”
“Did you save the email Victoria sent you when you wrote telling her to stop doing our number?”
“Why?”
“Read it to me.”
“Read it to you?”
“Please.”
Filthy sighed. “Hold on.” The sound of typing. “...here we go. ‘Dear Filthy,’ it says. ‘Oh, no! I had no idea you also did a number like that! I was inspired by one of my favorite movies...but I guess the acts really do sound similar. Weird! Now that I know that you do a number like this, too—’ ”
Reading from the screen in front of me, I joined Filthy for the last line.
“ ‘...I’ll totally stop doing mine out of respect for you. xoxoxo, Victoria,’ ” we read together.
“Yep, that’s what it says,” Filthy confirmed. “Did you hack into my email? If so, why the hell did you make me read it to you?”
“Actually, I was reading from the email she sent Cherries when Cherries told her to stop doing the football number.”
“You’re kidding me,” Filthy said.
“Nope. It’s word for word the same. She plagiarized her own reply.”
“I’m shocked. Shocked, I tell you,” Filthy said. “So Victoria had a form letter she used when accused of stealing numbers. Now that you’ve uncovered this vital piece of information, you’ll be coming home, yes?”
“Not just yet. First I need to—” but I stopped there, because Filthy had hung up. Cherries, who had been in the room for the whole conversation, was rereading the email over my shoulder.
“Unbelievable,” she said.
“So. You ready to talk about last night?”
Cherries snorted, took the computer away from me, and closed it. “What can I possibly tell you that you don’t already know? You and I were in spitting distance of each other every second from the moment I walked in until the moment the show started.”
“Not every second. I was out by the stage, talking to Casey, when Eva ran into the dressing room to say that she’d seen Victoria out in the bar. You were in the dressing room.”
“Okay, so we spent one tantalizing moment apart. So?”
“So I didn’t see how the others reacted. Did anyone seem less surprised than everyone else?”
“You know, it’s funny, I had my surprise-o-meter in my bag, but I didn’t think to take it out just then. How stupid of me.”
“Seriously.”
“I don’t know, Porkpie.”
“Did anyone’s reaction seem strange to you?”
“Brioche didn’t immediately do an interpretive dance about her feelings. I guess that’s pretty weird.”
“I meant—”
“Some might find it bizarre that we didn’t all rush out and kill her on the spot.”
“What about Victoria’s bag? Did you see anyone touch her bag at any point?”
“Porkpie, don’t ask questions you already know the answers to. You saw her. She had that bag clutched between her legs the whole time—at least, until she went onstage and left it with you.”
I didn’t much like the direction that remark was heading. I decided to try a different tack.
“When was the last time you saw her? Before last night?”
“Other than our weekly coffee date, and oh, every so often we’d take a nice trip to the spa, or a girls’ weekend up in the Catskills?”
“Seriously.”
“I don’t know. Not recently. Maybe a couple of months before she stole my number?” Cherries stood up. “Listen, Jonny,” she said. “It was great hanging out, and chatting, and all. But I’ve got a couple other close friends who are coming over to accuse me of murder later today, and I’d really like to shower before they get here. So if you don’t mind...?”
She opened the front door, and I made use of it. B
ut I wasn’t done with her quite yet. I knew Cherries pretty well, and the way she was hustling me out of the apartment gave me the sneaking suspicion that there were things she wasn’t telling me.
“Hey, wait a minute.” I put my foot in the way of the closing door, a trick I’d learned in the pages of countless detective novels.
Unfortunately, those books were from a bygone era of hard-boiled men and sturdier shoes.
I gritted my teeth through the pain and attempted a last question.
“You had no idea Victoria was in the show until she walked into the dressing room?”
“How could I possibly have known? Did you know?” Cherries’ fingers drummed impatiently on the door.
“It’s just interesting that you happened to be doing the number she stole from you on the night when she happened to be there. Now, if—hypothetically—you knew she was going to be there...why, knowing you as I do, I’d guess you’d have chosen that act just to prove a point.”
“If, hypothetically, I knew she was going to be there? I’d have found someone else to take the gig for me so I didn’t have to look at the thieving bitch, rest her soul.”
“So was there a particular reason you decided to do the football number?”
“Yeah.” Cherries pushed my foot out of the way with a gentle kick. “I felt like it,” she said, and shut the door in my face.
I limped the five flights from her apartment down to the street.
The first interview hasn’t gone quite as I had hoped. I was walking out with not much more information than I’d had when I walked in. The only thing Cherries had been able to definitively confirm was something I already knew: that once Victoria was backstage, there was no way anyone could have gotten into her suitcase to mess around with the prop bottle.
The Corpse Wore Pasties Page 5