The Irresistible Muse of Jack Kidd

by Chris D. Dodson

  “Why have you been breaking your rule and drinking before 5pm?”

  Without answering, I continued my below-the-waist lead.

  “It’s on your breath, dear,” she said.

  “It’s on your breath, too, dear…physician heal thyself?”

  “You know how many heads I’ve shrunk? I deserve an occasional stiff one.”

  “Yeah? Let’s keep our stiffies to ourselves then, huh?”

  Brenda smiled. Actually, she never stopped smiling that damn smile of hers. “After all our sessions, tomcat, and you’re still moping and effacing yourself with every rich pussy that comes your way.”

  I held her still for a moment in Apilado, a leaning position. I said close to her, “I serve a purpose.”

  “It’s been almost a week since our last purpose.”

  Ignoring the barren look in her eyes, I lifted us both into stiffy positions and plodded on.

  “Remember when we talked about how you murdered Michelle Brigham? When you confessed that you didn’t believe in anything?”

  I glanced around the crowded room, hoping no one heard Brenda’s big mouth over the shrilling music. But I did remember, thought about it every day, in fact, and tried with fairly good success to continue my sick and unbelieving ways.

  “You look old for your age, Jack, when you carry the weight of murder on your shoulders.”

  Ignoring Brenda’s cigarette-raspy voice, I watched Lena lurk away into a back room.

  Brenda zeroed in, “Square peg in a round hole, aren’t you, sweetie? Everything handed to you all your life, your looks, your inheritance, even women. You touch, but never truly feel. It’s a dance step you know quite well.”

  I released her abruptly, then retreated across the room—a dance step I knew quite well. I stopped at the water cooler inside a dimly lit hallway in the back of the studio. I filled a paper cup and swallowed the numbness of cold water. I looked back at the floor and noticed how Brenda was unaffected by my retreat, how she mixed easily into the crowd. She knew how to call it all right, head shrinking all my shit into that damn bottle of hers and critiquing it as if it were a flawed piece of art.

  I opened a door inside the hallway to a room, the one with the futon that for some reason those staffed with this studio enjoyed hanging out in to smoke, gossip, or have dirty dance lessons. As I began through the door, a nice-smelling, shadowy figure walked into me.

  “Oh, Jay...pardon me,” Angela said. “I didn’t see you.” Behind her in the center of the room stood Catherine Fleming and lurking Lena. I had caught them in a snippet of conversation, it seemed. No favor of expression was cast my way, only two cold stares. At least they weren’t on the futon.

  “Excuse me,” I said. The cold stares continued. Angela slipped past me and walked through the corridor and onto the dance floor. Feeling the way a person should when they’ve just barged through a private door, I exited the room nice and easy. I waited for a moment, speculating what she and the other one were talking about: a takeover of the studio, an inadequate student, or, and this is where my hound-dog instincts kicked in, the bloodletting of more front-page news. But I knew at any moment Catherine would have to come out, and if I had any cojones, any thrust in my hips, I’d pounce on her in mid-flight.

  The door opened. Catherine strolled by my frozen readiness. She paused in the doorway, waiting, it seemed, for me to spring to action. But I couldn't, not yet. She continued to the dance floor.

  In the corner of my eye stood a shadowy figure, William Cooper, one of Brenda’s dance instructors. Donning his usual Fred Astaire-skinny black slacks and black button-up shirt, William leaned against the wall with his legs and arms crossed.

  “William,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Mr. Kiddy Jack Kidd. What’s up with you?” William’s tone of voice and delicate posture carried the expected effeminacy from a man obsessed with teaching feather steps and promenades, yet there was a gruff edge to his voice today. “You’re quite the ladies’ man, Kiddy Jack Kidd.”

  “And you’re quite the choir boy, Willie. What can I do for you?”

  “You can do me a deal.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A deal. I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

  “I don’t go that way, Willie.” I began to move away.

  He giggled and said, “If I wanted you on that futon, Kiddy Jack, I’d kink that straight line of you pronto with you on your tummy squealing in high octave, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  I locked my eyes on William and said, “And if I wanted you on that futon, Willie, you’d be on your tummy pronto with a rough-sawn fudge packer shoved up your ass.”

  “Homophobia is not your better suit, Mr. Kiddy Jack.”

  “Don’t call me Kiddy Jack, Willie. What do you want?”

  “I want out of this shit-hole studio, that’s what I want. I’ve been here for two years, and all I’ve got to show for it is sore feet and a meaningless résumé. I want a piece of the big life on Broadway, New York—that’s where I’m headed. I have the kind of panache that should dazzle audiences on the big stage.”

  “Gee, that’s really swell, Willie, but what the hell does that have to do with me?” I sensed where this was going, another connecting piece, another pawn to advance in the firing line. But damn it, why this guy?

  William uncrossed his arms and legs and shuffled closer. “These walls have ears and there’s no tittle-tattle in this place I don’t know about, so if I bone up certain recorded conversations, then it’s only fair you bone up something for me.”

  Aside from the gauche overtone to his syntax, William’s shadowy demeanor suggested not only aspirations of prancing on Broadway but also a potential lowdown on some local dirt I’d been sniffing out. “Recorded conversations?” I said.

  “Oh, yes, both audio and video. You see, I’m a videophile, a spy, a—”

  “An eavesdropper or what the police would call a blackmailer.”

  “Well, before you go running off to the police, Mr. Kiddy Jack, I’ve got dirt on everyone here, including you and Brenda that day on that futon. I also have titillating tête-à-têtes with you and other married women here in the studio of certain secret rendezvous that I’m sure a jealous husband would be very interested in, Mr. Kiddy Jack Kidd, or should I call you, Kiddy Jack Gigolo?”

  “What do you want, William?”

  “Ah, but wait, this plot thickens because most importantly I have what you really want, information about Catherine Fleming and her creepy protégé, Lena McGuire.” He nodded toward the door of the futon room. “Would you like to know what those two cats in there were talking about?”

  “Not particularly.”

  He snickered. “Bullshit. You want nothing more. I watch how you ogle the blonde and the brunette. I know what their up to.”

  I began to think, do I really need another pawn on my chessboard, and more importantly, do I need to go through another lengthy process, and I’ve had several, of battling a blackmailer? “Okay, prove it. Tell me something those two cats are up to.”

  “Fair enough. They’re both from England, arrived here thirty days ago; are former Broadway performers—Cats, of all shows—damn bitches; they live in a two-bedroom bungalow on Balboa Island; they’ve been spying on you for the last thirty days with the help of sweet little Angela, who’s just their stoolpigeon. They’re cat-scratching killers who’ve already flayed two playboys, and if my guess is correct, they’ve got you on their future list of dead players.”

  Ulterior cash accounts came to mind, the kind I used to pay off blackmailers, jealous husbands, and now, William the Conqueror. "And you know all this how?"

  He patted his shirt pocket and said, "Bugs. Miniature recording devices that do a rootie-tootie job of archiving human voices. I have them all over this place. Did I hit the mark, Mr. Kiddy Jack?” A pixie grin with sharp teeth beamed across the darkened hallway.

  “How much do you want?” God, how I hate using those words.
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  “A million should do it.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “I’ll need that much to travel and set up a place. Do you know how much rent is in New York? You’re rich, a million is fair.”

  “I said go fuck yourself.”

  “Oh, and I’ve also learned that you were involved just last month with a Mrs. Brannon. She shared that with me one evening while I coaxed her in the art of fox trotting and namedropping. Got it all right here on my trusty digital recorder.” He patted his breast. “By the way, did you know her husband, the one you cuckolded, is a field agent for the FBI? Hmmm, those kinds of men can track down just about anyone, even to places like Brazil where one local gigolo likes to vacation incognito and do dastardly things to married supermodels.” He gripped his throat and bugged out his eyes, dramatizing the act of strangulation.

  I stared at the prick for a moment. It was obvious he had Brenda’s futon room bugged that day when I un-kinked my haunts. I was cornered. “I’ll have an escrow service transfer the money. Send me your e-mail address and I’ll begin the transaction.” I took a step toward him. “Now, I’ll make you a deal, William. You’ll only get this money as long as you supply me with information regarding Catherine Fleming.”

  “And why should I give back; I have you over a barrel.”

  I grabbed William and began to frisk his clothes—“Don’t get any ideas, Willie”—I patted his back, pants pockets, his chest, and pulled a small recording device from his shirt pocket. I slipped the device in my pants pocket and said, “I know people, too, Willie. People who would enjoy dicing up a twinkle-toed bitch like you into fish bait.”

  William coughed out a snort and a squeal and said, “Trying to manhandle me, huh—and trying to pin me down, are you?” He straightened his shirt collar and shouted, “Give me back my recorder!” Fortunately, the overhead music drowned out his squealing demand.

  “It’s mine now, Willie. Do you want the million or not?”

  After taking a moment to compose himself, he spun a quick pirouette, then pointed his index fingers at me as if they were six shooters. “Rooty-tooty, it’s a deal,” he said, reaching out his hand. His shake was surprisingly firm.

  He checked his watch and said, “I need to make my entrance to the floor; my fans await me. We’ll be in touch, Kiddy Jack.”

  “Yes, we will, William. Oh, and by the way, if you ever call me Kiddy Jack again, I’ll shoot you dead myself. Understood?”

  His lips curled into a sneer, then a wink of his eye as he twitched his skinny ass across the floor.

  Footsteps, precise and confident, clopped toward me. “Meter’s running, dear,” Brenda said, reaching for my hand. She walked me to the floor where we stood in a close frame. “Are you angry with me?” She asked.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “I enjoy only what I can unravel.” We danced our atypical dance toward the corner of the room. I kept my frame wide and nimble and my lead openly sly as I stumbled across the floor. My eyes, however, followed Catherine, who was dosey doeing with a badly dressed student who had more money than class. My eyes returned to the march and found Brenda’s two glistening orbs of prudence waiting for me. She smiled and said, “She intrigues me, too, tomcat. She’s performed in several Broadway musicals, Cats, from what I’ve been told.”

  “So I’ve heard.” I shot a glance toward William across the room, getting his feet stepped on by an overweight student. “So why do you think Catherine-the-Great is here in town and in your parlor?” I asked.

  “There are at least two reasons, and I’m sure none of them have anything to do with money or being mentored by moi—keep your pace, Jack. It’s a two-step.”

  “I thought it was a foxtrot.”

  “Just follow my lead, will you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. So what are those reasons?”

  “The reasons for any juicy plot: murder and escape.”

  We locked eyes; I looked away first. My attention gravitated again toward Catherine until I was jarred back when Brenda said, “You do make the perfect mark.”

  I stopped the dance. “Mark?”

  “Oh come on, tomcat. I have a good idea what’s on the pages of that sketch of yours, so stop with the sleuth routine.”

  Like most clever type A individuals with PHDs attached to their name, Dr. Murphy was able to deduce the human nuance quicker than most, hence, my reason for being here tonight. And so too like any woman with a lonely heart and quivering loin, she kept a tight perimeter around her favorite boy toy. Or perhaps she and William were in cahoots and had this place bugged like an American embassy in Beijing.

  “What about Angela?” I asked. “Where is she from?”

  “According to her résumé she’s from Beirut, Lebanon, a local student needing a part-time job. I hired her a month before the other two. Her last name is Bashir, and I can see the French, Lebanese mix in her. But she grew up in England someplace, London, more than likely. She does her best to hide the British lilt.”

  “I’m sure you have all three of their heads shrunk and pickled in a jar by now.” I reset our dance frame and resumed my desecration of graceful movement.

  “I’m in the process. Three way overqualified women come to dance in my studio and you know I’m rapt with curiosity. Getting back to the topic of murder and escape, squeezed any carotid arteries lately?”

  “I see you’ve taken your bedside manner to the dance floor.”

  “Just caressing your pathos, dear.”

  I then realized my miserable display of a dance that required the robust grace of a two-step, tango, rumba, foxtrot, or whatever the hell it was we were dancing. I picked up my pace.

  “How’s Gertrude?” I asked.”

  “She’s off duty until next week. Why?”

  “How well do you know her?”

  “She just started two months ago. Why all this concern about my staff?”

  “Just sizing up the place in case I want to buy it out from under you.” We ended our series of scuffling feather steps until I made a velvety sidestep to the left and proceeded forward.

  Brenda laughed like a therapist amused by her stumbling specimen. “Is there something you need to tell me, Jack?”

  I stopped, then drew near my maestra. “I get murdered,” I said.

  “Murdered?”

  I glanced around the room, making sure no one was in listening distance. “After the sex with this woman in my dream, I find myself standing at the edge of a bedroom. I notice a man lying on the bed in a catatonic state; he’s someone I can’t recognize. The woman’s now wearing a hideous cat mask with claws on her hands.”

  Brenda raised her chin, beaming a smirk.

  “The woman straddles the man and begins slashing him with those claws until he’s nothing but a pulp of flesh. I then find myself lying on the same bed looking up at that damn mask, waiting for my own slashings. That’s when I wake up from the dream in a heavy sweat, sometimes screaming from the pain.”

  “So let me get this straight, before you can get your hands on Michelle’s throat, she gets the jump on you with a pair of cat claws and turns you into mincemeat. Am I interpreting this correctly?”

  “I don’t know, are you?”

  She nodded toward Catherine. “You’ve dreamed about her, I’m sure, your long awaited muse; Blonde, British, brashly beautiful, the one who resembles Michelle Brigham? The subconscious has a self-inflicting way of resolving issues.”

  Refusing to play along anymore with Brenda’s psychobabble entendres of envy and analysis, I looked at the clock and said, "It appears my meter has run out." I took Brenda’s hand and kissed it chivalrously. “Good day, madam.”

  “So long, tomcat.” She squeezed my hand, drawing me close, and said, “Be careful that the hunter doesn’t become the hunted.”

  I left her parlor with another lesson under my belt along with the names Catherine and Michelle pinging in my head.

  10

  Saturday morning.
I was at my desk in my home office when my cell phone rang. “Jack here.” I considered my phone salutation to be the most concise and flip in the home-buying/home-wrecking business. And no matter how curt my tone, the work came in steadily.

  “Mr. Kidd, this is Rebecca Quinn with Business Roundtable Magazine. How are you today, sir?”

  “Fine. I’m sorry, but I have plenty of periodicals to read.”

  “I’m not calling about subscriptions, Mr. Kidd. I’m a reporter and I’ve been doing a story on the real estate market here in the county. I wonder if I could inquire about the one-hundred-and-sixty acres of land that you own.”

  “You can wonder all you want, but I’ll let you know how much you can inquire.” A subtle burn began in my gut. I’ve received these calls before, Pulitzer Prize wannabes prying their sneak attacks at just the right moment when my guard was down: not today, you annoying paparazzi with a notepad.

  “But it is true, sir, that several parcels of your land are to be sold off, that it may be placed on the market, right?”

  “Could be. There could also be a killer comet headed our way.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A silly answer for a leading question, Ms Quinn.”

  “Uh, yes, okay...the sale of your land, sir; it’s been all the buzz lately.”

  “And like most buzz, it’s mostly bullshit.” The burn began sliding into my intestines.

  “I see. Then why the rumor?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I was at a press conference, actually, Jack—may I call you Jack?”

  “Mr. Kidd will do.” Ugh!

  “Yes, of course, I attended a press conference yesterday and was briefed by liaisons in county government who say that you have no choice but to sell.”

  “We always have choices, Ms Quinn.” I don’t know why, but sometimes I’d hang on the line for no other reason than to find out just how far they were willing to go with their lame-ass questions. That’s when I’d cut them off in mid-sentence, or, if it was a woman, I’d tell them how much I enjoyed watching them shower and dress that morning. That usually ended the dialogue quickly.