The Corpse Wore Pasties

by Jonny Porkpie

  Ow.

  LuLu yanked the blade out of my arm and raised it over her head to try again. I grabbed her wrist.

  The stage lights flashed in time with the music. Red. Green. Blue. The vicious grimace on LuLu’s face was especially disturbing in the green. I don’t know why they even have green lights at burlesque venues —that color doesn’t make anyone look good.

  I held her arm away from me with every bit of strength I had.

  LuLu thrashed back and forth, trying to twist out of my grip. I felt a drop of something hit my forehead. As the light changed from red to blue, I could see there was blood dripping down my arm where the knife had sliced my wrist.

  Ow, again.

  LuLu felt me weakening, and grinned. I looked into her eyes, and saw nothing of the woman who was once my friend. She wrenched her hand away from mine and raised the knife again for one last fatal plunge.

  The ones who saved my life were, of all people, Officers Brooklyn and Bronx.

  You didn’t think that they were going to let me leave that station house all by myself, did you?

  No matter how convincing my story was, no matter how urgent the theoretical need to prevent a second murder, I was still their main suspect.

  The disco ball on the ceiling of the Gilded Heel threw tiny sparkles over the two detectives as they came barreling through the crowd like two very short trucks, knocking over glasses, bottles, and a bachelorette or two. They were yelling something. I couldn’t hear it.

  But for the first time since we’d met, I was glad to see them.

  The cops jumped onto the stage just as LuLu was about to carve herself a tasty slice of Porkpie. Bronx grabbed LuLu’s arm in mid-stab and twisted until she dropped the weapon. Brooklyn took her other arm and together they stood her up.

  “He was trying to kill me,” LuLu yelled. “He was trying to kill me!”

  Bronx took a set of handcuffs from her belt and locked them around LuLu’s wrists.

  As the queen of Dreamland Burlesque stood on the stage for the last time, the lights flashed green, red, blue over her naked body.

  The sirens of the cop cars pulling up outside weren’t loud enough to drown out the music.

  The DJ reached for the rope to close the curtains.

  The crowd loved it. LuLu’s final performance got a standing ovation.

  CHAPTER 22

  “So,” I said. “As requested, I didn’t get myself killed.”

  “Barely,” Filthy said.

  “And I stayed out of jail, too. A kiss, I believe, was promised?”

  “Gosh, I’d love to,” said Filthy. “But now that your lurid tale of death and revenge is over, I should remind you that we’re supposed to be debuting a new number in two days, and because you’ve been gallivanting about with all your sexy murder suspect pals, we haven’t rehearsed it once.”

  “Ah, but the story’s not over yet,” I replied. “Of course, if you think rehearsing is more important than a few more minutes of my exciting adventures...” I sighed, and stood up.

  “Okay, fine.” She pushed me back down onto the couch. “Have your fun. I guess you’ve earned it. The cops saved your ass, and then what happened?”

  “No kiss?”

  “Like you said, story’s not over yet. I don’t know how it ends. Maybe you don’t survive.”

  “Cute,” I said. “Officer Bronx led me and LuLu out of the Gilded Heel, which, as you know, isn’t easy when the place is packed. At the door, we ran into Angelina and Krash, who had arrived just in time to see my brave, valiant and entirely sexy life-and-death struggle...”

  Officer Brooklyn asked Angelina to join us on the trip to the Ninth Precinct. Angelina turned him down with her usual grace and poise, which is to say, not very much. But when he explained that he needed her, as the intended murder victim, to make a statement about her relationship with LuLu, she changed her tune pretty damn quick.

  “Intended murder victim?” Angelina said, her voice cracking. Krash grabbed her elbow. Officer Brooklyn brought them up to date on the situation, making a particular point (and very nice of him, too) of the fact that by coming here tonight, I had probably saved Angelina from a second attempt on her life.

  Angelina looked at me. Then, all of a sudden, she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. Never in a million years (and especially in the last few days) would I have expected to be on the receiving end of an affectionate hug from Angelina Blood. She and I have been good pals ever since, by the way. Some of the best friendships start with a healthy dose of antagonism, I suppose. (Oh, and Krash’s band isn’t all that bad either, for heavy metal. But if you go see them play, bring earplugs.)

  Krash thanked me too, in her own way. “You’re all right,” she said, and gave me a friendly punch in the arm. The one in which I’d just been stabbed. Ow.

  At the station, Officer Bronx put LuLu behind bars —they had her, if nothing else, on the attempted murder of yours truly. She was still protesting that she was the victim, that I was trying to frame her for Victoria’s murder, but the police weren’t buying. They took a statement from Angelina. They also insisted on a full account of my own activities for the past few days, which took longer, because Officer Brooklyn had to stop me periodically to laugh at my detective skills.

  “Still, for an amateur...” he didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he stood up and held out his hand. I shook it. “All right, buddy,” he said. “You’re off the hook. We might have a couple more questions for you, and you’ll probably need to testify at some point, but you’re a free man.”

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Officer.”

  I donned my hat and made my way to the door.

  “Ay, Senator,” Officer Brooklyn yelled after me. “Good luck with the strippin’, right?”

  I pulled a postcard out of my pocket and handed it to him. “Give me a call if you want to come see a show,” I said. “It’s on me.”

  “Nah, I couldn’t,” he said. “Wife would kill me.”

  “Bring her,” I said. “She’ll enjoy it, too.”

  “So here I am, baby,” I said. “The cops are off my tail and that means there’s room on it for a knockout like you. You’re looking at a mug who was under the rough thumb of John Q. Law and managed to wriggle out using only his porkpie-clad noggin and a pair of rough fists. I looked down the dark tunnel of forever, baby, and I came back alive to collect my smooch—”

  “And LuLu?” Filthy interrupted.

  “Well, gee, given the fact that she tried to kill me and frame me for murder in the same week, I think I can write off that particular friendship. Plus there’s the fact that she’s a homicidal maniac who’s going to spend the rest of her life in jail. That might get in the way, too.”

  “Still,” Filthy said. “It’s too bad. She was a great performer.”

  “So she’ll be a big hit in the prison talent show.”

  “Ooh, tacky.”

  “I was thinking, it’s kind of ironic. About Victoria, I mean. She was a plagiarist to the end. She even stole someone else’s death.”

  “Tackier still.”

  “I’ve been called worse,” I said. “Oh, here’s another juicy bit of gossip: Officer Brooklyn told me they’re shutting down Topkapi. You wouldn’t believe the fire and health code violations they found when they searched it. Apparently, the place was a deathtrap.”

  “So to speak,” said Filthy.

  “And there we are. That’s the end of the story, and I remain miraculously alive. Where, then, is the aforementioned kiss?”

  “Fine.” She gave me a quick peck on the lips. “Now can we rehearse?”

  I sighed. “I suppose.”

  Filthy unbuttoned my pants and unzipped my fly. Then she pulled down her skirt. No underpants, of course.

  She left her shirt on, though. A nice red shirt, though not as bright as her hair.

  Button-down.

  She started the music, and shoved me onto the floor.

  “He
y, detective...” she said. “How’d you like to dive into another case?”

  Actually, we didn’t end up rehearsing at all.

  Shamus Award Winner for

  Best Original Paperback Novel of the Year

  SONGS of

  INNOCENCE

  by RICHARD ALEAS

  Three years ago, detective John Blake solved a mystery that changed his life forever—and left a woman he loved dead. Now Blake is back, to investigate the apparent suicide of Dorothy Louise Burke, a beautiful college student with a double life. The secrets Blake uncovers could blow the lid off New York City’s sex trade...if they don’t kill him first.

  Richard Aleas’ first novel, LITTLE GIRL LOST, was among the most celebrated crime novels of the year, nominated for both the Edgar and Shamus Awards. But nothing in John Blake’s first case could prepare you for the shocking conclusion of his second...

  RAVES FOR SONGS OF INNOCENCE:

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  — Publishers Weekly

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