by Ellen Hart
Fannie Lou laughed. “Alfonse Jasper.”
“Ah.”
“Alfonse doesn’t really fit him.”
“Not really.”
“Thank you, Jane. Alf thinks the world of you. You probably already know that. I’ll wait for your call.”
Still dripping wet, Jane returned to the bathroom to dry off. Mouse followed her back down the hall, wagging his tail and sitting down on his haunches whenever she stood in one place for more than a few seconds.
Concern for Nolan filled her mind as she dressed in her most comfortable jeans and ski sweater, knowing she’d be spending most of the day at the hospital.
“Come on, boy,” she said, giving Mouse a scratch under his chin. “Time for breakfast.”
* * *
Jane stayed with Nolan until they wheeled him off to surgery, then moved to the waiting room. She’d brought a book, a novel she’d been wanting to read for several months, but no matter how many stabs she made at it, she was too keyed up to concentrate. She alternated between idly watching TV and pacing out in the hallway. The hours crawled by.
By two, she’d met with Dr. Schulman and had been given the report on the surgery. Sitting with her in a small, airless room, Schulman informed her that the operation had gone well; the bullet fragment had been removed successfully. Nolan was in recovery, where he would stay for the next three to four hours. His vital signs were all strong.
The big question for Jane had to do with the ultimate outcome. Here, Schulman hedged. He said it would take some time before they would know how much damage the bullet had caused. He encouraged her to stay positive, especially around Nolan, and emphasized that no matter how well the operation had gone, the recovery would have its difficult moments.
Feeling less than overjoyed by his final admonition, Jane left the hospital, needing some fresh air. On the way to her car, she gave Nolan’s sister a call. Instead of Fannie Lou, she got her voice mail, which was probably all for the good because Jane was tired and not in the best mood. She left a message, stressing that Nolan, or Alf as Fannie Lou called him, was in recovery and doing well. When he was feeling better, Jane promised, she would urge him to give Fannie Lou a call.
Home by three, Jane sat on the floor in the living room and played with Mouse. As she tossed the ball for him to fetch, her thoughts turned to her visit to GaudyLights last night. Before leaving, Avi, the “hot” bartender as Cordelia had called her, invited Jane back for happy hour tonight. She said the appetizer buffet was one of the best deals in town. Jane had pretty much decided that it was a no go, and yet after spending all day at the hospital, she realized she needed a break. The idea of actual food, not the unappealing hospital gruel, appealed. She was also still hoping to shake something loose and find information that would help her understand why DeAndre had come to Minneapolis. Then there was that other small matter: Jane was uncharacteristically eager to see Avi again. She didn’t quite understand how she could be so instantly attracted. It wasn’t her usual MO.
“I wish I didn’t have to leave you alone so much,” Jane said to Mouse as he burrowed his head against her chest. When she worked at the Lyme House, she could take him with her. Her office there had a couch, a small fireplace—all the comforts of home. The Xanadu Club was a different matter entirely, as was her work as a PI. “I know you like Evelyn Bratrude, but it’s not exactly what you want.”
Mouse sat down and lifted up his paw.
“Such a proper young pup,” she said, pumping his paw and smiling. “God, but I love you.” She stroked his fur with both hands. “Wish I could be two places at once. Or three or four.” They played fetch a while longer. Jane ended up on her back with Mouse dropping the ball on her head. “I should take you for a walk. Maybe when I get back later tonight we can do that.” She tugged gently on his ears. “You’re my boy. My best boy.”
Mouse nipped her nose and gave it a soft lick.
* * *
Shortly after four, Jane found herself inside GaudyLights, making her way to the long bar at the back. Exchanging the bright winter daylight for the perpetual darkness inside the club felt far more dramatic than her entrance had last night. Even with all the neon, Jane sensed a kind of chill creep inside her. She hadn’t been as repelled by the place as she figured she might be. Seminaked bodies were one thing. She’d never met an attractive seminaked body, male or female, that she wasn’t interested in looking at, but the blatant buying and selling struck her as gross. She assumed that the main floor was reserved primarily for heavy teasing and stripper camp. The more brazen sexual contact, the pretend—or not so pretend—grinding and stroking, went on upstairs in the VIP lounge.
The club was busier today, with two dancers onstage doing a kind of woman-on-woman slow dance to Prince’s “Purple Rain.” Jane stood in the shadows at the edge of the room, mesmerized. Three minutes into the song, just like last night, the music changed to Journey’s “Any Way You Want It,” completely destroying the spell. As the women hopped onto their poles, Jane turned and walked back to the bar, sitting down as close to Avi as the crowd around her would allow.
“Business has picked up,” said Jane when Avi moved over to get her order.
“I was hoping you’d stop in. What can I get you?”
“Cola. Whatever you’ve got. I need a caffeine fix.”
“Long day?”
“A friend in the hospital. He had surgery this morning.”
Avi scooped ice into a glass and then hit it with one of the bar guns.
Feeling a tap on her shoulder, Jane turned to find her onetime sous chef, Shanice Williams, standing behind her. She still had her Whoopi Goldberg dreadlocks and tiny granny glasses. She’d also put on weight. Instead of a traditional double-breasted white chef’s coat, hers was red, with French cuffs and hand-rolled buttons. The last time Jane had seen her, her white coat had been stained with tomato sauce, and her hat had looked as if someone had stomped on it with a large pair of greasy shoes. Things were definitely looking up.
“I heard you came in last night,” Shanice said, pulling out one of the stools and sitting down.
Shanice was such a formal person, always so correct in her bearing and the way she spoke, that Jane couldn’t help but say, “Dude. How’s it going?”
She glowered.
Jane glanced at her name embroidered in black block letters, with the words EXECUTIVE CHEF, underneath.
“Slumming?” asked Shanice. “Or is this your thing?”
“Just checking out the competition,” said Jane, pulling her drink closer.
“Have you tried the food?”
“The appetizers. They were good.”
She puffed up at that. “You never struck me as the sex industry type.”
Jane borrowed a line from Cordelia. “I am inscrutably multifaceted.”
Shanice glanced at Avi, a smile touching her lips. “Oh, I get it. You’re hustling the hired help. Trolling for dykes.”
“Sounds like a TV game show,” said Avi, leaning her elbows on the bar. “You know. Bowling for Dollars.”
“More like Let’s Make a Deal,” said Shanice, smiling acidly.
“Now that you’re working here,” said Jane, forgetting for once to keep a lid on her snide comments, “maybe we should call it The Gong Show.”
Shanice stiffened.
“Anyway, I’m not a dyke,” said Avi. “I’m a lesbotarian.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Shanice.
Avi laughed at her credulity.
“I’m merely taking a look around,” said Jane. “I understand one of your dishwashers is responsible for that murder outside the club.”
Her eyes hardened. “It’s got nothing to do with me.”
“I never said it did. Then again, you hired him.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re snooping. When I was working at the Xanadu, someone told me you thought of yourself as Sam Spade. We all had a good laugh.”
“Is that so?”
“Someone will
cure you of that notion one day.”
“Why so touchy, Shanice? Makes me think you’ve got something to hide.” Besides stealing my recipes, she thought but didn’t say out loud.
The man Avi had pointed out as the owner of the club last night, Vince Bessetti, walked up and stood behind Shanice. “You’re wanted in the kitchen,” he said curtly. “When you’re done, we need to talk.”
Shanice’s right eye twitched. “Of course,” she said, getting up and quickly striding away.
Bessetti smoothed his goatee, studying Jane. “Have we met before?”
From a distance, he’d struck her as sophisticated, almost handsome. Close up, he looked more like a gangster. The skin on his square, rather flat face was mottled, most likely the residual effects from a bad case of teenage acne. The lizard-skin tassel loafers were the icing on the cake.
“Jane Lawless,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Lawless. Familiar name. Any relation to Raymond Lawless, that defense lawyer who ran for governor a few years back?”
“He’s my father.”
“Your dad ran for governor?” asked Avi.
“He lost,” said Jane.
“I liked some of his positions,” offered Bessetti, slipping a hand casually into his coat pocket, “but in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to vote for him.”
“I forgive you.” It was her standard response. She figured one unnecessary comment deserved another.
“Have you been in before?”
“My second visit.”
He tapped a finger against his lips. “Seems to me I remember reading something about you owning a couple of restaurants in town.”
“That’s right.”
He studied her for another second. “Ever thought of investing in a gentlemen’s club?”
“Not really.”
“Might be just what you’re looking for.” Nodding to Avi, he said, “Comp all her drinks.” Extending his hand again, he said, “Take a good look around. Next time you’re in, if you’d like, we could sit down and talk.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Jane. Talking to Bessetti might prove interesting.
For the next hour, Jane sipped her drink, ate from a plate of standard happy hour fare, and talked to Avi as she set up drink orders.
“So you’re gay,” said Jane at one point.
“Card-carrying,” said Avi with a grin.
She talked easily on just about any subject, no doubt one of the things that made her a good bartender. Jane wondered why she was working in a place like GaudyLights. At one point during the conversation, Avi pressed her about her unusual interest in the murder. Jane explained her connection to DeAndre Moore’s uncle and her hope that she could help him find out why his nephew had been knifed—since Elvio wasn’t talking.
“Elvio always seemed like a private guy to me,” said Avi, scooping up another bowl of pub mix and pushing it across to Jane. “I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. If I learn anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks,” said Jane, glad to have some inside help. She found herself smiling at Avi for no particular reason.
“Another Coke?”
Wanting to stay, but knowing she needed to get back to the hospital, Jane said, “I better get going.” She began to gather up her coat and car keys.
“You better come back soon for more of our on-the-house drinks,” said Avi with a wink. “Can’t beat the price.”
On Jane’s way to the door, the blonde Jane had met last night—Georgia—stepped into her path.
“Hi,” she said, her eyes crinkling in amusement.
“Hi,” said Jane, buttoning her navy peacoat.
“You remember me?” She was dressed in a black leather bustier and miniskirt, with matching thigh-high boots.
“Of course I remember you.”
“Looked like you and Avi were having one hell of a great time, laughing, talking, making merry.”
“She’s good at her job.”
“Knows how to make the drinks strong when she wants something.”
“I had a Coke.”
“Is that right.” Georgia guided her over to a quiet corner. “You like strip bars?” she asked, her eyes drifting down Jane’s body.
“I came mainly to find some answers.”
“Meaning what?”
“I’m trying to find out why that man was murdered outside the club on Sunday night.”
Her expression grew wary. “You’re a cop and a restaurant owner?”
“Just a concerned citizen.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Did you ever talk to DeAndre Moore?”
“We all hustled him. That’s our job.”
“What did you think of him? What was he like?”
“He wasn’t interested in a lap dance. Once I figured that out, I didn’t spend another second on him. Nobody did.”
“He say anything about Elvio Ramos?”
“You may not be a cop, but you sure act like one.”
“Sorry, but this is important to me.”
“Then why don’t you go ask Elvio?”
“He’s not talking. He admitted to the murder but refused to say why he’d done it.”
“And you care because?”
Jane knew she had to offer something. “I’m a friend of the dead man’s uncle.”
“Ah. The light dawns.”
“Look, if you think of anything that might help me—” She pulled a business card out of her billfold. “That’s a number where you can reach me.”
Without looking at the card, Georgia stuffed it into her bustier. “Since you’re here, why don’t I reach you now. I’m a lot more fun than Avi.” She brushed a lock of Jane’s long brown hair away from her face. “Come over to a table and have a real conversation.”
“Can’t. I’ve got a friend in the hospital. Need to go see him.”
She made a pouting face. “That’s a drag. Well, whatever. As long as you come back real soon.” She touched a finger to her lips, then pressed it to Jane’s. “Be sweet.”
14
The next morning, Jane’s eyes swept up and down the snowy, car-lined street as she made her way to a run-down fourplex. North Minneapolis was one of the most violent, troubled neighborhoods in the state. Many residents lived in the area out of necessity, not choice.
At one time, the fourplex had had a security system. The rudiments were still visible, though it probably hadn’t worked in decades. Jane trotted up the steps to the second floor and knocked on number 209. The door opened a crack, and a young boy with soft eyes and straight dark hair looked up at her curiously.
“Is your mom home?” she asked.
Behind the boy, a woman shouted in Spanish.
“Just a minute,” he said, shutting the door with a scrape and a click.
Jane waited, hearing several voices speaking Spanish. Finally the door opened again, and a woman in brown cords and a pink hoodie stood before her.
“Mrs. Ramos?”
“Sí?”
Jane explained who she was and asked if she could come in.
“What is this about?” asked the woman in heavily accented English.
“I was hoping I could talk to you about your husband.”
“Elvio?”
“About his arrest.”
“Are you … la policía?”
“No,” said Jane. She knew this would be tricky. The woman had every right to tell her to take a hike. “I’m a friend. I want to help.”
The woman seemed skeptical. “How you help?”
“Can I come in? Just for a few seconds.”
Opening the door with clear reluctance, Mrs. Ramos stepped back.
As Jane entered, she saw three children sitting on a beat-up overstuffed couch. The boy who’d answered the door was the oldest, around ten, she guessed. The other two were girls, one maybe six and the other a toddler. Across the room, an old TV was tuned to a news show. Morning sunlight flooded in through handmade flowered curtains, yellow, blue,
red—vibrant, cheerful colors. It was a pleasant room, clean and organized, but sparsely furnished with what looked like garage-sale leftovers. There was no artwork on any of the walls, no photos or paintings, only a large wood crucifix hanging above a card table.
Mrs. Ramos motioned Jane to a chair.
Before she sat down, a young man holding a scrub brush came out of the bathroom, a cleaning cloth tossed over one shoulder. He scowled at Jane, concentrating the full weight of his attention on her, a challenge in his eyes.
Shifting in her chair, Jane tried to get comfortable. “I’m investigating the murder of DeAndre Moore.”
“Investigating?” asked Mrs. Ramos.
“Just a couple of questions. Did your husband ever discuss Mr. Moore with you?”
“No kill,” said Mrs. Ramos, shaking her head vigorously. “He no kill.”
“Then why did he tell the police he did?”
“Elvio a good man. Kind man. Family man, you know? He love us, never hurt.”
“Then I don’t understand,” said Jane. “He told the police he knifed Mr. Moore. If he didn’t do it, why did he tell them he did?”
“He love us. He say, um, he … need to protect.”
“Protect who?”
“Us. His family.”
“From what?”
“Bad things.”
“Did he get money from someone for doing it?”
“We have no money.”
All the forensics pointed to Elvio. With an admission of guilt, he’d sealed his fate. This didn’t make any sense.
“Have you talked to Elvio since he turned himself in?”
“On phone. He tell me no worry.”
Jane didn’t like to be flip, but it seemed to her that if his family truly believed they shouldn’t worry, they were living on Mars.
“He will be home for the new baby. He promise.”
“You’re pregnant?”
She nodded, smiling faintly.
“How will you pay your bills while Elvio’s in jail? Do you have a job?”
“No job,” said Mrs. Ramos, eyes cast down.
Jane wondered if they were undocumented. If so, she was surprised immigration hadn’t already come knocking on their door. Looking around at each of the faces, she wanted to help.