by Deanna Chase
In the past, my nudging was just that...a small suggestion, barely noticeable. Like I said, I’m not a very impressive psychic. But when I’d stepped outside the back door and saw a man easily three times Destiny’s size, shoving up her skirt and ripping off her undies, I took one look at her split lip and swollen face, and I nudged him to stop. Before I knew it, he’d let go of Destiny, blown out all the breath in his body and never inhaled again. All of him stopped at once.
I shivered and sort of wished I smoked so I had something to do with my hands. The sound of sirens tickled my ears, distant, but headed our way. As I straightened, a movement in the darkness down the alley caught my attention, and my heart jumped. A shadow shifted...no. Must be my freaked-out imagination.
An ambulance rounded the corner, blocking us from view of the main avenue and sending the red and blue disco lights glittering off the broken glass and condom wrappers around us. As the EMTs wrestled with the gurney, two of Austin’s finest jogged over. One officer knelt beside the body to check for a pulse. The other helped the hysterical Destiny to her feet and pressed a handkerchief into her hand. I leaned heavily on the brick of our club to make way for the rushing EMTs.
Marco, the owner of the club, and Jimmy, the head of security, came out to see what all the commotion was about. Seeing me doing my best to appear invisible, Jimmy slipped off his giant-sized jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. February nights in Texas were chilly, especially for someone wearing a micro-mini and a tube top.
It didn’t take long for the EMTs to halt resuscitation and step out of the way so the crime scene investigators could do their thing. The cops’ attention fell on us. Cop #1 examined Destiny’s busted up face with a flashlight, and Cop #2 asked Marco if there was somewhere he could take us to get statements. Very reluctantly, Marco led us to his office. It was the only room in the house with a door thick enough to hold out the club’s thumping bass.
While Marco hustled to clear his personal papers from his desk and leave, the cops introduced themselves, names that I immediately forgot. I wasn’t good with names on a good day, and this definitely wasn’t a good day.
Cop #2 produced a small notepad, leaned his ass on Marco’s desk and set to asking his questions.
“Can I get your names?”
Destiny sniffed and dabbed at the horror show the running make-up made of her face. “Destiny Star.”
He looked over her skimpy, glittery outfit and sneered. “Your real name?”
“Darla Parsons.”
He glanced to me still huddled in Jimmy’s tent of a jacket on the sofa. “And you?”
“Marley Sexton.” My stupid stripper name was Misty Showers. When I chose it, I did it as a joke. Like, what’s the worst stripper name you can think of kind of thing. I thought I’d work at the club for a couple of months, free up some cash from cheating husbands and college boys, and then be on my way to California. What I hadn’t counted on was Mama having a major stroke and me having to pay for her nursing home. So now, almost three years later, I was still taking my clothes off and being referred to by that ridiculous name.
“I assume you both work here at the club?”
We nodded.
“You’re a dancer,” he said to Destiny, before turning to me. “But what about you? Bartender, waitress?”
Now, I almost took offense to that. Okay, I might not look like the other glamazons riding the pole. My body was too skinny and short on curves. And the red hair/freckle combination I had going on made me look better suited for an episode of Hee Haw than Girls Gone Wild, but hell, I was the best paid dancer in the place! So what if I didn’t come by all my tips honestly.
“I’m also a dancer.”
He raised one brow but wisely moved on in his questioning.
“Miss Parsons, do you want to tell me how you came by those bruises?”
We spent the better part of an hour explaining the same thing over and over. Destiny had stepped out back for a smoke after her set. Mr. Gomez—or so his driver’s license read—followed her out for a little something extra, figuring she’d be an easy lay. When Dest refused, he got violent. Just when he had her pinned and reached for his zipper, he suddenly stepped back, turned blue and fell dead.
I was written off as an innocent bystander.
“Okay, ladies. I think that’s all. Here’s my card if you think of anything else.”
Marco gave us the rest of the night off, but Destiny headed out to the bar. Said she needed a drink to cool her nerves. I, on the other hand, didn’t need to be told twice I could leave. The less time I had to spend in The Henhouse, the better. I ducked into the dressing room, winding around women in various states of dress to get to my locker. I didn’t bother removing my pancake make-up. I’d take a shower at home. I just tugged on some jeans and grabbed a hoodie before heading for the back door.
This time I paused with my hand on the cold metal handle. The memory of Destiny being attacked by that man filled my head, and for the first time, I let myself think of what would’ve happened if I hadn’t been there to stop it.
“You okay, Mist?” Jimmy asked, placing his sausage-fingered hand on my shoulder.
I nodded. “I’ll be all right. I just never saw someone die before, is all.”
“You need a ride home? I can call you a cab.”
“Nah. I have my car.”
He gave my shoulder one last comforting squeeze before he reached around to hold the door open for me. “Okay. You just text me if you need anything. Drive careful.”
I held up my pepper spray and called back, “Don’t worry, Jimmy. I’m covered.”
His chuckle rumbled as the door closed. Then, alone in an alley lit only by one dim bulb, I immediately regretted not asking him to walk me to my car parked at the far end of the long block. My feet hustled me past the spot where Mr. Gomez had lain earlier. Because of her busted up face, Destiny was still a “person of interest”, at least until the coroner settled on a cause of death. I wasn’t exactly sure what I’d done to make the guy keel over, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t link back to either of us in the end.
I drew my sweatshirt sleeves down over my cold hands and walked quicker. I was almost to the end of the block when a hand reached out of a doorway and yanked me into the shadows.
Chapter 2
JC
I pressed my gloved hand over the girl’s mouth to muffle her scream. She lifted her leg and shoved back, trying to smash her heel into the top of my foot. It was a basic self-defense move, and one that I easily dodged, though I ended up with a mouthful of hair that tasted like styling product. I pried the pepper spray from her fist and yanked her deeper into the shadow of the alcove. The pawn shop next door had security cameras in the alley, and I couldn’t take the chance of being seen.
“Settle down. I won’t hurt you,” I whispered into her ear. She twisted and wriggled around more. If it weren’t my ass she was trying to kick, I’d admire her spunk. I was coming off as a creeper here, but I needed to question her, and I wasn’t in the mood to play games.
“I said I won’t hurt you. I’m an investigator. Just need to talk to you. I’ve got ID. If I let you go, do you promise not to scream or run?”
She calmed her struggling and gave a brief nod. I didn’t trust her any more than I trusted the bureaucrats I worked for. I turned us, putting her against the door, so I could block her access to the alley with my body. Slowly, I loosened my grip.
Her breath was ragged from the struggle, and even in the dim light, I could see her eyes darting around, looking for something to hit me with. “ID...now.”
I moved slowly, not wanting to frighten the wild little thing. “My wallet’s in my inside jacket pocket. Is it okay if I reach in for it?”
“Give me back my pepper spray first.”
“No. After we talk. Wallet?”
“Whatever...”
She really didn’t have much of a choice. If I wanted to kill her, I would’ve just done it already. I drew out my
wallet, and fished out a driver’s license and a business card. Neither real.
“How’m I supposed to read this in the dark?”
I clicked on a tiny penlight and handed it to her. She huffed, clearly not impressed by my resourcefulness.
“Jace Martin? Thought you said you’re a cop.”
“No, I said I’m an investigator. There’s my business card.” My real name was JC Moreno, and I really was an investigator. The fact that I did it for the CIA was on a strict need-to-know basis.
She blew a hunk of hair off her face and gave me a glare that could peel paint. “So what do you want with me?”
Now that was a good question. I wasn’t sure how the girl fit into my case, but I was convinced she did. I’d been tailing Felipe Gomez off and on for a week, waiting for him lead me to Nico Diaz, the local drug lord. Thought I hit the jackpot when Gomez headed for the strip club alone on a Tuesday night. The only guys who go see strippers on a Tuesday in this neighborhood were pervy sex addicts or dealers looking to do business. To my grave disappointment, Gomez turned out to be the former, not the latter.
I’d seen him trail the busty blonde out the back door, but I was too busy fending off an overly aggressive lap-dancer to follow right away. Besides, by that point I was fairly sure there would be no deals going down, and I really didn’t want have to watch that fat fucker getting a hummer in the alley. After I escaped the handsy dancer, I exited out the front and stealthily rounded the building. Gomez had the blonde pressed against a wall. It took a moment for me to realize her cries were from pain, not pleasure.
In one of the many hidden compartments of my jacket was a tranq dart. It was tiny and difficult to load in the dark, but the perfect thing to stop Gomez without forcing me to break cover. Just as I aimed the loaded dart at Gomez’s considerable ass, the redhead stepped out of the club.
I recognized her from inside. Normally, strippers bore me. They tend to be as homogenous as my little sister’s box of Barbie dolls. So this one was unique in that she stood out from the pack. Her body was athletic and strong, allowing her to work the pole like a monkey acrobat, but not voluptuous with silicone enhancements. She had that girl-next-door thing going for her. More cute than bombshell, if you know what I mean. But it wasn’t only her looks that set her apart. My job required me to pay attention to details. You never knew what was going to be important to an investigation. And my detailed eye noted that this girl walked off the stage with more dinero stuffed in her drawers than any five of her co-workers. Interesting.
“Just want to talk.” I tried to assure her with my best innocent face. I needed her to trust me, because if this girl was what I thought she was, she might be the scariest person I’d ever come across. The loaded tranq was still tucked into my glove, and I was prepared to use it if needed.
She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot, reminding me of my mother when she caught me up to no good. “If you just wanted to talk, why didn’t you walk up and say hi like a normal person? Do you always snatch girls in the dark? If so, you need more help than I can assist you with.”
I kind of loved her cornpone accent. My own accent was white-bread middle-America. I worked hard to sound like I came from nowhere. I grinned as I rubbed my temple, letting my thumb drift back to click on the digital recorder hidden in my earring. “You’re a funny girl.”
“Look, I’ve had a long night. I just want to go back to my shitty apartment and get some sleep. Alone. Ask what you need to so I can go.”
“All right. Tell me who you’re working for.”
“I work at The Henhouse.” She pointed back in the direction she’d come from. “My boss is Marco. If you have a problem with me, feel free to make a report.”
She started to move past me, but I shot my arm out to stop her. “Ah, ah, ah. That’s not what I mean. Who are you really working for?”
“Trust me. If I had another job, I wouldn’t be here. Is that all?”
She was lying. I decided to try another tactic. “What’s your name?”
“Misty Showers.”
“ID, please.”
“Fine.” She reached into her small purse. “I’m Marley Sexton. Here.”
I examined her license under a different pen light. The one she’d used was now tucked into a plastic baggy in my pants pocket. I memorized her address and license number before handing the card back. If it was a forgery, it was done well.
“All right, Marley. If you aren’t going to tell me who you’re working for, why don’t I take you downtown, and you can explain to the police how you killed Felipe Gomez?”
Her eyes grew so big, the whites of them shone in the darkness. “W-what? I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Let me refresh your memory. Felipe Gomez...money launderer for the Mexican drug cartel El Caos. You know, the guys who control northeast Mexico and like to behead people who get in their way? The dead body that you and your friend spent all night talking to the cops about. The guy who told me you ordered his execution.”
Marley stepped back and pressed herself against the locked door, as if trying to put as much distance between us as possible. “That guy was with El Caos?” I didn’t blame her for looking a little green. “How could he have told you I was gonna kill him when I never even saw him more than thirty seconds before he keeled over?”
I grinned. “He told me after you killed him. Marley, I can see and talk to ghosts.”
She pressed her fingers to her mouth to stifle a gasp. I was all set to ask her again who ordered the hit on my witness, when I suddenly felt the need to step back into the alley and let her through. Yes, she had to leave now. I moved to give her more space, and then stood rooted to the spot while she took off running.
Chapter 3
Marley
Oh, sweet Jesus, I prayed as I ran for my car. My nudge wouldn’t hold the guy for long, and I needed as much distance between us as possible before he came to his senses. I’d met his kind before. My daddy’s great-aunt Zinnia used to travel with the carnival, doing séances. I’d only met her a few times when I was a little girl, but she’d scared the bejeezus out of me every time she’d include her spirit guide in her conversations. Was Jace really like her? An icy chill ran through me. He had to be if he knew I killed Gomez. Dang it, what did Gomez tell him about me? I didn’t want to go down for murder. Redheads look like shit in orange, and what would happen to Mama?
My keys were out and ready before I reached my car door. I hopped in and twisted the ignition. Now would be a really bad time for it to die on me. I drove a Chevy Nova. Not the cool one from the 70’s, but the 1980’s piece of shit re-boot model that Mama drove until her stroke. It was as temperamental as a badger trapped in a chicken coop on a hot day. To my relief, the engine coughed to life after only two tries, and I raced for home.
The studio apartment I rented was in the attic of what used to be a large single-family home. What was probably a perfectly nice house eighty years ago was now was a cobbled together mess of tiny low-income apartments.
Studio was just a fancy word for one large room. The place was depressing. All my furniture, including my giant tube TV that only received fuzzy local channels, came from the Goodwill. One corner had a small sofa, another had my bed, a third corner held a dorm-sized fridge and a hot plate, and the last, cordoned off by one flimsy wall, was a toilet/shower combo. It wasn’t much. Hell, I doubted the housing inspectors would even consider it a legal apartment. But it was cheap, and the landlord liked it that I paid my rent in cash.
I deposited my keys and purse on a small Formica table along with a stack of unpaid bills. It’d been a decent week at the club, but Mama’s doctor had left another message about some fancy physical therapy program he wanted to get her into, and there was no way I could afford it. Marco was sick of me asking for more shifts. I already worked more hours than any other girl there. But what else could I do? The gas station on the corner was hiring, but minimum wage just wasn’t gonna be enough
.
I crossed to my dresser and switched into a pair of cotton pajamas before ducking into the bathroom to wash off my cakey make-up. As the orange and black gunk swirled down the drain, I imagined it collecting on the insides of the ancient pipes, gearing up for the mother of all clogs. Once my pores could breathe again, I began to get down on the floor for my nightly stretches, but someone rapped at the door.
My stomach dropped to the vicinity of my knees. Could it be that that damn guy from the alley? Nah, it was probably just April from downstairs. At least once a week, she’d wander up after her waitressing shift with a box of wine and her latest complaint about the married man she was seeing. I wasn’t in the mood for company, but she’d know I was home, and I didn’t want to be rude. I approached the door and wished for the millionth time I had a peephole.
“Who is it?” I called.
“Open the door, lady.”
Oh, hell! It was him.
“How’d you find me?”
“You’ve got ten seconds to let me in before I report you to the cops for murdering my lead.”
I couldn’t let him call the cops. While I was pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to link me to the dead guy, if Marco found out I was a suspect, he’d fire me. There were plenty of illegal things going on the club, and he wouldn’t tolerate any employee attracting the attention of law enforcement.
“Fuck me,” I muttered as I flung open the door. Jace barged in, eyeing the place, gun in hand as if gangsters might leap out from under the bed any moment. I shut the door quickly to keep my neighbors from overhearing what I was sure would be a tirade of epic proportions.