Lost Distinction (Jordan James, PI Series)

by Rachel Sharpe

  No amount of pressure from my mother would change that. As I sat there, lost in my thoughts, I realized Rick was still standing in the entryway. I shoved the phone in my pocket and crossed the room to meet him. When I was in front of him, he put his arms around me.

  “Thanks,” I said, when he finally let me go. “I needed that.”

  He kissed me tenderly. “Are you all right? What did she say?”

  “I really don’t want to talk about it. Look, we’re both awake, right?”

  He nodded in reply.

  “And we both want to find Arthur, right?”

  He nodded again.

  “Okay, then let’s go.”

  “Where do you want to start?”

  “Of all the places you mentioned, where do you think Arthur would have definitely visited?”

  “I guess I would have to say Hep.”

  I waited. When he didn’t elaborate, I inquired, “Okay, what’s that?”

  Rick answered with a guilty smile and averted eye contact. “It’s a club.”

  I stared, surprised as I considered the kind of club he was suggesting. He refused to offer any more, so I pressed, “Okay, I give up. What kind of club is that?”

  “What’s a dame like you doing in a place like this?”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me, doll-face. Want to paint the town red with me?”

  “Scram,” Rick glared at the strange, middle-aged guy in a black zoot suit who had been, I think, trying to hit on me. The stranger’s appearance and attire were almost too comical to merit a threat. I tried not to laugh.

  The man held up his hands defensively. “Hey, I’m not trying to steal your bird.” He whistled as he looked me up and down. “Doll-face, you have one nice set of gams.”

  Rick took one step closer, fists clenched. At this, the man split. Rick took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Are you all right?”

  “Really?” I laughed. It didn’t take me long to realize he was serious. “Um, yeah, I’m fine. That guy wasn’t bothering me.”

  “Well, he was bothering me.” Rick stared after the fellow, before putting on his hat again. He straightened the lapels of the black, double-breasted pin-stripe suit he’d purloined from Arthur’s garment bag. Rick smoothed his burgundy tie and looked at me. “Well, what do you think?”

  I glanced around the club. My fears about Rick and Arthur running around and hitting all the exotic and seedy nightclubs of London disintegrated as soon as I stepped inside Hep. In this club, time was frozen in the late 1930s, when big band was king and people were doing the Lindy Hop. Everyone here was dressed for the time.

  There were zoot suits and flappers everywhere. I even saw some men dressed in military uniforms I assumed were for the British Army. At the front of the club stood an oversized bandstand offering every brass instrument available and a beautiful singer who was a dead-ringer for a young Doris Day. I felt out of place in my maroon, halter-top dress with four-inch black heels.

  “This was not what I was expecting.”

  Rick mirrored my smile. “What were you expecting?”

  “Something, uh, different.”

  He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.

  “I’m really surprised there’s a club like this in London.”

  “Why’s that?” He led me onto the dance floor. The previous, upbeat song ended and was replaced by a slower one with a nostalgic feel. He took my hand and we slowly moved around the floor, blending in with the other couples.

  “Never thought my heart could be so yearny. Why did I decide to roam?” the vocalist crooned. “Gotta take that sentimental journey. Sentimental journey home.”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I guess I just pictured you going somewhere different.”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of different,” Rick admitted as the song ended. He shook his head, laughing. “I never thought I’d be taking you here.”

  As we danced to another two songs, I was quiet, reflecting on all that transpired in my life over the past two years. While I never would have imagined I would have come so far with my career, a career no one thought would amount to anything, the development of my personal life was more of a surprise. Dancing with Rick again brought back memories of the first time I danced with him at my sister’s wedding.

  “What do you think?”

  “Huh?” I looked up at him, confused. During my reflection, I failed to notice another song end and Rick had danced us off the floor. He was staring down at me with an amused expression. I cringed. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “I said do you want to look around and see if anyone knows Arthur?”

  “Yes, absolutely. Good idea.” I laughed. “I’m glad you said something. I would’ve just danced the night away.”

  Rick took two steps closer and gently put his hands on my waist. “You know, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

  “Down, boy.” I laughed again. “We’ve got work to do. Hey, do you have your cell?”

  Suddenly serious, Rick pulled the phone from his coat pocket and handed it to me.

  I unlocked the home screen and started scanning his photos. “Do you have any recent pictures of Arthur?”

  He took the phone back and stared at the screen as he searched. Finally, he stopped and handed it back. The picture he chose showed Rick and Arthur at Fenway Park. Arthur had a toothy grin that somehow exuded charm despite the blurriness of the image and Rick offered a slight smile. Both guys were wearing bright polo shirts and khaki shorts.

  “When was this taken?”

  “Uh, I guess the summer before I met you.”

  “So the picture’s nearly two years old?”

  “Yeah, that’s about right. Is that a problem? There may be some more recent ones on Facebook.”

  “Oh no, this should be fine, assuming he still looks the same,” I replied. “It may be hard to find him if he dyed his hair black or shaved his head, though.”

  “No, Arthur would never do that,” Rick insisted, mistaking my pathetic joke for sincere concern. I nodded in response and he glanced around the club. “So who are we going to talk to? The bartender?”

  The bartender was not my first choice, but it was a valid, albeit predictable one. Rick followed me across the room. The bar itself was walnut and so well-polished that even in the dim, nightclub lights, I could see myself. Behind the bar stood a short man in his early-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and chocolate-brown eyes. He was dressed in a tuxedo and a black bow tie. He was drying a cocktail glass when we approached.

  “Hello, there,” he greeted in a slight English accent. “What’s your poison?”

  I stared at him, confused. “Huh?”

  “Ah, Americans.” He winked, motioning to the four rows of liquor bottles on the shelves behind him. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Oh! Uh, I’m good right now, thanks.”

  He nodded at Rick. “You?”

  “Good, too, actually.”

  “Hmm,” the man frowned, raising an eyebrow. “If you’re both good, why are you bothering me?”

  Rick tensed up at the bartender’s blatant hostility. Having worked as a waitress prior to beginning my current occupation, I was expecting it. “We wanted to know if you’ve seen someone.”

  The bartender clicked his tongue and looked around, bored. “Yeah, I’ve seen loads of someones.”

  I brushed my hair behind my ears and leaned against the bar. The sound of brass blared seductively from the bandstand. “We’re looking for a particular someone.” He stared at me, not blinking. Exhaling slowly, I nodded, “Give me a shot of whisky, straight up.”

  The bartender narrowed his eyes, studying me. Finally, he leaned down. When he stood up again, he placed a shot glass on the c
ounter. He then grabbed a bottle and poured the amber liquid in the glass before pushing it toward me.

  Now, I’ve never considered myself a heavy drinker. I enjoy mixed drinks and wines, but the really hard stuff never appealed to me. It’s a personal preference to be sure, probably stemming from a few too many fun nights that led to long, painful days. But I digress. I knew there was only one way to get this guy to talk – and unfortunately, this was it. I accepted the glass and taking a deep breath, swallowed it in one gulp. The fiery liquid scorched my esophagus and awakened all of my senses. Still tingling, I placed the glass back on the counter and stared at him. The bartender’s expression had resumed its original amused smile.

  “All right, who are you looking for?” he asked, taking the glass away. I showed him the picture of Arthur on the phone and he nodded. “Yeah, he was here a few nights ago.”

  I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. I swallowed again, hoping to remove the bitter taste from my mouth. “What else do you remember? Was he alone? Did he meet someone? Did he leave with someone?” In response, the bartender produced another shot glass and filled it with whisky. I stared at the glass warily. “What’s this?”

  He grabbed a white towel and began wiping down the immaculate bar. Grinning, he replied, “I thought we could play a game. You drink, I tell.”

  Rick slammed his fist on the bar, enraged. “What’s your problem, man?”

  The bartender ignored Rick and kept his gaze focused on me. He folded the towel and placed it behind the bar. “Do we have a deal?”

  I stared at the glass. There was no telling whether or not this guy actually saw Arthur. For all I knew, he could have been lying just to have some fun. I shook my head. “No deal.”

  With that, Rick tossed some money on the bar for the drink then we began to walk away. “Too bad,” the bartender called, “because your mate did meet someone and she’s here tonight.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. I scanned the dance floor and assorted tables on the far side of the room. There were easily thirty women in the room. I looked up at Rick and he shook his head. “You don’t have to do this.”

  In my line of work, it’s safe to expect to get dirty to solve a case. With previous cases, my life was literally at risk. If a slight hangover was all that I suffered to solve this one, I decided it was worth it. It wouldn’t be my first, or likely my last.

  I headed to the bar again. The bartender grinned triumphantly. Still grinning, he pushed the glass toward me. Reluctantly, I accepted it.

  “Bottom’s up,” he winked.

  The second shot didn’t burn nearly as much. Previous experience told me straight shots got to me quick. Taking my body weight into account, I figured if I did three more shots, I would be done, so I needed to make my questions count. “Who did he meet?”

  The bartender refilled the glass and shook his head. “No fair, Lass. You have to build up to that one.”

  Rick breathed slowly and through gritted teeth and said, “You didn’t offer stipulations.”

  The bartender sneered, clearly enjoying his game. “I can do whatever I want.”

  Before Rick replied, I took his arm and whispered, “I’ve got this. Just give me a minute.” When he appeared ready to protest, I added, “Please.”

  He walked away from the bar, muttering something, and I turned my attention back to the bartender. “I’m going to assume this club is usually this busy,” I surmised, nodding at the patrons on the dance floor and others at tables. “So if you really recognize my friend from almost a week ago, something must have happened to make him stand out. What happened?”

  The bartender pushed a third shot toward me. “You’re right. Something did happen.”

  “What?” I persisted. He nodded at the glass, grinning. Groaning, I took it and stared at the liquid before gulping it down. Feeling a little unsteady, I reached for a barstool and sat down. Thankfully, I did not stumble. All I needed was to fall on my face during an investigation. “All right. What happened?”

  He scratched his chin thoughtfully and glanced up at the bandstand. “There was an incident,” he began, pouring another shot.

  “What incident?” I watched him motion to the glass and felt myself getting frustrated. “No, I’m not doing this. I’ve had three and you haven’t even answered one question. What happened?”

  When he laughed, I grabbed his collar and pulled him down so we were eye level. It was apparent he didn’t expect this. His eyes widened in surprise. He shook me off, scoffing.

  “All right, fine! Blimey, you don’t have to go mental.” He adjusted his tie. “There was this row that night. Yeah, some cheeky bloke shows up, completely juiced, harassing this fit bird and your mate clocked him.”

  My head felt lighter as the effects of the liquor began to set in. The sound of the band grew louder, but more distant. Almost like I was listening to it under water. I had to pause and think about what he said. “So, some drunk guy was hassling a woman and he hit the guy?”

  “Yeah.” The bartender nodded. “That’s the long and short of it.”

  Realizing it would be a waste to ask for specifics about the fight, I pressed, “Who was the girl?”

  The bartender shook his finger at me with reproach. “No fair. You drink, I tell. I’ve told so now it’s time for another drinky.”

  I stared at the glass. I knew if I had one more the investigation would be put on hold. I was losing focus as it was. When the bartender’s attention was diverted, I dumped the liquid out on the floor before loudly slamming the glass on the counter to get his attention. The bartender looked at me and I repeated, “Who was the girl?”

  “Someone took you out of my arms,” the singer cooed, “still I feel the thrill of your charms. Lips that once were mine. Tender eyes that shine. They will light my way tonight. I’ll see you in my dreams.”

  The bartender glanced up at the songstress before turning his attention back to his bar. I looked at her, then back at him. “Her?”

  Sniffing, he began wiping the bar down again.

  “It’s her?”

  He gave me a look that answered my question.

  Rick had appeared during our conversation and walked up to my barstool. He glanced at the floor, staring at my discarded whisky. “What the?“

  I grabbed his hand and used him as support to climb off the stool. “Let’s go,” I interrupted, pointing to the stage. “We need to talk to her.”

  I felt the shots taking their toll faster than I imagined. Leaning on Rick’s arm, I led the way across the dance floor until we were directly before the stage. The song ended. When the singer glanced at us, I held up Rick’s phone, showing her the picture of Arthur.

  She looked at it and then quizzically at us. She leaned over and whispering something to the piano player. He nodded and called out to the rest of the band and they began to play a lively number. She glanced at me and nodded to a door near the right of the stage. We headed toward the door and she met us there.

  “Hello,” I yelled over the trombone.

  She shook her head, signaling she couldn’t hear me and opened the door. She ushered us inside and we walked down a long corridor with three doors on either side. She paused in front of the last one on the left and opened it.

  A faded bronze star on the door said “Dusty Harmony.” Inside the room was a worn, gray couch along the right wall as well as a mirror and yellow counter on the left. Above the mirror were eight, bright light bulbs and the counter was littered with stage makeup and jewelry.

  A metal rack on the back wall held numerous colorful period outfits, which ranged from a pale-pink chiffon dress to an American nurse’s uniform. She motioned for us to take a seat on the couch while she sat on a stool near the counter. Although she was pretty, up close I could tell that her coiffed, blonde ringlets were dyed an
d she had caked on so much foundation and blush that I wondered how long it took to scrape it off.

  She glanced at us through the mirror as she reapplied cherry-red lipstick. “What do you want?”

  “Your name is Dusty?” I asked, trying to break the proverbial ice.

  She curled her lashes and applied more mascara, opening her hazel eyes widely. At my question, she laughed daintily. “That’s not my real name. My name is Denise, but that doesn’t sound forties enough, I guess. Marty came up with Dusty.”

  “Oh.” Feeling dizzy, I blinked my eyes, trying to focus. “My name’s Jordan and this is Rick.”

  She nodded, slowly sweeping a blush brush across her high cheekbones. While she preened, I could tell she was surreptitiously staring at Rick’s shiner. “Nice to meet you. Um, you had some questions about that nice guy from Sunday night? Are you the cops? ‘Cause he was helping me. He didn’t cause any trouble.”

  I smiled and shook my head, which caused the room to spin slightly. “No. We’re family friends. Just trying to get some details.”

  She placed the brush in a makeup case and spun around to study me. “You all right, hun?”

  “Yeah, fine. Just, uh, jet lag.”

  “Whiskey shots didn’t help, either,” Rick added quietly, his jaw tight with anger.

  Denise grinned. “You’re Americans! I thought so! Where are y’all from?”

  “Boston,” I answered quickly before adding, “well, really New Orleans.”