Riddles

by Rhonda Crowder

  Buttercup maintained a tight, firm body. To complement her sun-kissed, golden complexion, she wore a long straight blonde weave. The hair color accentuated her skin tone beautifully, and looked real. In fact, all of her additions appeared natural, especially the full-sized, double D implants. I didn’t know much about her except she came from Cleveland too, and did some music video modeling from time to time.

  I walked past the stage and pushed through the curtain into the crowded, noisy dressing room. I could hear some girls talking about Malibu and the murder. My ears tuned in but I didn’t say anything to anyone as I started to undress.

  “I heard the police found a Ziploc bag with twenty-five thousand in cash in her locker,” Pussy said. Everyone’s eyes grew big as eggs.

  “Whoa! Where she’d get all that money from?” one of the girls asked.

  “I don’t know.” Pussy shrugged. “But my question is why was she keeping it in her locker?”

  I wondered the same.

  “Buttercup told me that Malibu owed that dude from Rollin Dee’s for that Lexus she just got,” another girl chimed in. “It still got temporary tags on it.”

  Buttercup just hatin’, I thought as I searched my duffle bag for a costume. I continued to listen as they went on and on. After I finished dressing, I made my way to the floor and sat in a corner to watch the girls on stage. After a while, I got antsy and started to walk around the bar. I found myself staring into the customers’ faces.

  Could one of them be the murderer?

  A shiver went down my spine. I went back into the dressing room. I didn’t have anything to do in there, so I looked in the mirror. I checked my make-up then my hair. I wore it long, jet black, and wavy. I had just got it done the day Malibu was murdered, finally changing from my usual straight style. The lookalike reference had started to annoy me.

  I glanced away from the mirror and saw Pussy, who, on most days, made my stomach turn. I didn’t know her real name, or much about her. I did know she tried really hard to be friends with everyone, which got on my nerves. It seemed as if she did more talking than making money. On top of that, she made the DJ refer to her as Pussy Galore when going on stage. It just sounded so nasty to me. In all my years of dancing, I hadn’t heard anything like it.

  When the DJ first asked her why she called herself that, she matter-of-factly said, “Cause that’s what my man says I got.” I didn’t know if that was the case or not, but I did know it was the name of one of James Bond’s sexy sidekicks, and regardless of whether I liked it or not, she certainly fit that bill.

  Pussy epitomized the definition of a siren. She appeared biracial – mixed black and white, her face emitted a rosy hues underneath her fire engine red hair. Her full set of lips looked like they could suck bubble gum through a straw. Her natural D-cupped breasts attracted men to her like bumblebees to a honeycomb. But, with no butt to shake, Pussy couldn’t dance. In fact, she rarely went on stage. And, when she did, she looked as stiff as someone lying in a coffin.

  Pussy also never went into the VIP rooms alone. She would always invite at least one other girl in with her. Sometimes she would try to ease her way into someone else’s room. It didn’t always work, but she’d always tried. She often invited me into a room with her. I would politely decline because I worked alone. My stepfather always told me, “Bad boys move in silence,” and “You don’t tell on yourself.”

  As Pussy and the other girls gathered, I stood in the mirror and fumbled with my hair one last time then left out the dressing room. Being off work had made me out of sync, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Plus, Malibu’s murder had hijacked my mind.

  I scanned the room, and saw a hand full of guys already occupied. It was really slow for a Wednesday night, especially being income tax return time. I guess Joker’s usual crowd would take a while to pick back up. I knew it would be a long night. I sat at the bar and ordered a drink.

  “You? Sitting around? Drinking?” I heard a voice behind me. I turned and looked dead into Pussy’s brown eyes. “That’s rare,” she said.

  “What?” I asked. I didn’t need her irritating me.

  “I’m just saying,” she said, as she sat on the bar stool next to me. “Since I been working here, I ain’t never seen you sitting around. Not even on slow nights.”

  “Trying to get back into the swing of it, I guess.”

  “I feel you,” Pussy said. “I can’t believe someone could be so cruel to insert nails into the girl’s armpits. You heard about that, right?”

  I shrugged my shoulders, and took another sip of my drink. “I read about it online. You want something to drink? I’m buying.”

  She declined. “I’m figuring she owed somebody some money,” Pussy continued. “That’s why she had it in those Ziploc bags in her locker.”

  Possible, but I heard that scenario in the dressing. “Nobody’s saying nothing else?” I asked.

  She shook her head and leaned into me lowering her voice. “You know the Latino waitress? I can never think of her name.”

  “Yeah. I know who you talking about.”

  “She said Malibu came up to her, by herself, and paid for an hour room with cash. She told Malibu she’d check on them for drinks in a little while.”

  “Oh really?” Pussy peeked my interest. I ran my finger around the rim of my glass. “So what did she say happened?”

  “After a while, she remembered that she hadn’t checked on Malibu. She went to the room and knocked, but didn’t get an answer. So, that’s when she slid the door back and found Malibu.”

  I turned my head to watch her lips, wanting her to answers some of the questions plaguing me since that night.

  “At first, she thought Malibu was just drunk,” Pussy continued. “So, she moved in closer and noticed she wasn’t breathing. She lifted her arm and saw blood. She said it scared the shit out of her. That’s when she screamed.”

  That scream has been playing over and over in my head, I thought.

  “What about the guy?” I asked while shifting my body to face her. “Did she say what the guy looked like? Can she identify him?”

  “No. She claimed she never saw who went in there with Malibu.” She raised her hand and got the bartender’s attention. “The waitress had too many rooms to manage.”

  “That don’t make no sense. That’s her job to check on the girls when they’re in the VIP.”

  “We were short that night, remember?” She glanced at me. “A few waitresses called off.” She bent in over the bar and gave the bartender her order.

  I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. “I can’t believe nobody saw nothing?”

  “Did you see something?” she quizzed.

  True, I hadn’t seen anything but the dead body. I didn’t even see the blood. Couldn’t remember anything either. I guess everyone was doing their own thing that night because who would have ever thought...

  “You still got me?” Pussy pulled me from my thoughts. She pointed at the drink the bartender placed in front of her.

  I looked at her. “Yeah. I still got you,” I said and placed the money on the bar. “Anyway. You’re right. I didn’t see anything either.”

  “That’s everybody’s story,” she responded and took a sip of her drink. “Nobody paid any attention.” She leaned in close to me. “But Buttercup did say she saw Malibu talking to some guy ‘bout an hour or so ‘fore they found her dead. She don’t know if that’s who she went into the room with though.”

  “That could very well be the killer? Did she get a description?”

  “Not a good one. She only saw him from the back. She said she knew he was black because he had dreads. But that’s all she got.”

  “Lots of guys have dreads,” I said. “And, most black guys come in here don’t buy rooms.”

  “Right.” Pussy retorted. “She said she really didn’t pay him much attention at first.” Pussy held her glass and studied it. “Only thought about it later when she heard about Malibu.” She looked at me
. “But you was pretty cool with Malibu. You don’t know nothing?” she asked.

  I remained silent for a few seconds. “All I know is what the AJC reported.”

  Leaving my glass on the countertop, I got up and went back into the dressing room. I had heard enough from Pussy. Once inside, I saw Buttercup standing in front of the mirror. Something came over me, prompting me to approach the girl. The house mom, sitting in her chair, talked on the telephone at the end of the table near the breathalyzer machine. I walked to my locker and pulled out my makeup bag, then stood in front of the vanity next to Buttercup. I placed my things on the counter. She slid over to make room for me.

  “What’s up, Butta’cup?” I asked.

  Chapter Six

  My stomach knotted. I had no clue why I decided to question Buttercup. The idea popped into my head and I reacted. I need to feed my curiosity.

  Buttercup looked at me like with apprehension. I tried to keep a straight face. I wanted the conversation to seem natural, but the voice inside of me screamed, “Tell me you know!”

  “Shit,” she finally said, looking at my reflection. “What’s wit’ you, Riddles?”

  “You remember what dude looked like? The one you saw talking to Malibu that night?”

  “Oh, shit. Here we go.” She dragged her things further down the counter away from me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Who told you I saw some dude with Malibu?”

  “Oh, you ain’t see somebody?”

  “I know it was that damn Pussy that told you? I told her not to say nothing.”

  “Why?” I started applying some lip gloss, trying to stay calm. “What if he’s the one who did it?” I asked her. “I want to know who I need to be looking out for.”

  “Why? The way that went down, it’s was obviously meant for her. I don’t need none these big mouth bitches telling the police nothing ‘bout Buttercup then they questioning me.”

  “You shouldn’t have said nothing to Pussy then?”

  “Look,” her voice went up two decibels. “I don’t know shit about that murder okay, and don’t want to answer no more questions about it. You hear me!”

  The house mom looked up.

  “Don’t you want to know who did it?” I remained determined to get something.

  Buttercup stomped her foot and flung her arms. “Oh my god,” she said looking over at the house mom then the other girls in the room. “Now everybody gone think I know something.” She turned back to me. “Hell no,” she said lowering her voice. “I don’t want to know who done it. For what? ‘Cause the truth is ain’t no tellin’ what Malibu did out here.” She pointed out toward the exit. “Whoever did that shit put nails in her armpits, it don’t take a genius to figure that out someone with a lot of hate wanted her dead.”

  “But she was nice and quiet. She didn’t bother anybody,” I said, still trying to keep a calm demeanor.

  Buttercup pressed her lips together and raised her eyebrows. “Them be the ones.”

  Even though I wanted her to talk to me, I knew Buttercup was right. Sometimes the nice and quiet girls were the ones doing the most dirt.

  “Look,” Buttercup said as she smeared on some blue eyeshadow. “I ain’t trying to have the police all up in my face. I don’t need that shit,” she said and stepped back from the mirror to admire her face. “It’s already slow since that shit happened. All I’m trying to do is make my money.”

  I turned my head and looked directly at her. “That’s it?” Buttercup rolled her eyes. “Oh okay. That’s all, huh?” I said.

  She smacked her lips. “Pretty fucking much,” she said with bass in her voice as she stuffed her cosmetics back in her make-up bag. “Bitch up in here questioning somebody like you the police.” She let her eyes go up and down my body and walked away.

  My composure evaded me. I reached out for her, dropping my compact on the floor and grabbed her arm. “Who you talking to like that?” I yelled.

  She jerked away from me. “I’ll knock your dumb ass out,” I said. But just as I pulled back to hit her, the house mom jumped in between us.

  “Riddles, don’t go starting no shit up in her,” she said. “I ain’t dealing with no troublemakers tonight.”

  “I want that bitch to put her hands on me,” Buttercup said, panting as some of the girls tried to hold her back. “I ain’t did shit to her ass. Coming in here bothering me.”

  “I’m just looking out for Malibu,” I said. “Something you need to do instead of gossiping. Probably should’ve killed your dumb ass.”

  Chapter Seven

  I tossed my things into my locker and went back out on the floor. I tugged on my costume and drew in a deep breath and just stood there, asking myself. What’s come over you? Did seeing the body cause you to be impacted like this?

  Knowing the mind would believe anything you tell it, I tried to convince myself to let it go. I tried to buy into the notion some maliciously intended to murder Malibu, that I had nothing to worry about. I shook my head, like the thoughts would simply fall to the floor.

  Looking around, I saw girls dragging men into VIP rooms, doing tables dances, and having a good time. Everything seemed business as usual with them. Anyone watching would be hard pressed to tell just a week prior a murder had occurred. That began to bother me.

  Maybe I came back too soon, I thought.

  I never argued with the girls. I usually stayed to myself. But that night I inched my way into Buttercup’s head, and almost fought the girl.

  I shook my head. At that moment, I knew it would be a long night. Plus, it would cost me money since I hadn’t earned a dime. The club didn’t care if you made money or not. Girls paid to walk through the doors just like guys.

  I wandered over to the bar, climbed up on a stool, and watched a basketball game on the small television mounted to the wall. By the time I looked up, nearly an hour had passed. I had never just sat in the club, and had never gone an entire night without going into a VIP room.

  Something’s gotta give.

  “Hey! Malibu,” a voice said. I turned and saw a man smiling. “Oh I apologize. You’re Malibu’s twin.” He smiled. “What’s your name again?”

  “Riddles. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Marc. Is she here tonight?” His eyes scanned the room.

  “In spirit,” I said.

  “In spirit?” He looked confused.

  I looked away as I answered him. “When’s the last time you were here?”

  About two months ago, I guess. I live in New York, you know.”

  “New York? No, I didn’t know. What do you do there?”

  “I’m a literary agent.”

  “Really?” I placed my elbow on the bar, chin in hand, and crossed my legs. I looked at him.

  “I’m writing a book.”

  “Oh?” He chuckled. “What’s it about?” he asked.

  I chuckled. “My life.”

  “Working here,” he said looking past me, his voice trailing off. “I’m sure you have some stories to tell.” He gave me a half smile. “What did you mean when you said in spirit? When’s she coming back?”

  “She’s not. She dead.”

  “What!” He sat on the stool next to me. “What happened?”

  “She was murdered. They found her in the VIP room over there.” I pointed. “Dead.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. His whole body slumped. I reached out thinking that he may fall off stool. “That’s horrible.”

  “Yep.”

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  “No. Nobody saw anything. So there’s a stripper killer on the loose.”

  “Wow. That’s horrible. Send her family my condolences. Can you do that?”

  I nodded.

  “She lived with her mom and siblings, right?” he said. “Mother’s dying from cancer.”

  “Seems like you know more than me.” I arched an eyebrow and uncrossed my legs. Her mother hadn’t said anything to me about having t
erminal cancer. Neither had Malibu. It could’ve been her way of hustling him.

  “She told me she danced because her mother was sick,” he said, seemingly flustered. “Said she had to take care of her family. That’s why I would just give her money so she wouldn’t have to work as hard.”

  “Oh,” I said and smiled. “That was nice of you.”

  “Very sweet girl,” he stumbled over his words. “So young. I’m sorry to hear such a terrible thing happened to her.”

  “Me too,” I said absently.

  “Well, here’s a couple hundred.” He pushed it toward me. “Was going to give it to Malibu, but you can have it.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Go home and get yourself some rest. You look exhausted. And, here’s my card.” He pulled it out from inside his jacket pocket. “Let me know when you finish that book. Maybe I can help.”

  I wrapped the money around the card, stuck it in my garter, and watched him walk away. I stood and went to the restroom. I passed the first stall where two girls were snorting coke and went to the next one. Just as I finished, I heard the toilet flush, heels going clickity-clackity across the tile floor, and a burst of music. I went to the sink to wash my hands.

  “Riddles, were them broads in here getting high again?” the bathroom valet asked as she entered.

  “What you think?” I let the warm water run over my hands.

  “They better be glad I didn’t catch ‘em. Told them about that shit. Them hoes hard-headed.”

  I stood there and listened to her, thinking I would never do coke in the restroom. I only did it in the VIP, and I at this point, I didn’t think I’d ever do it again there either.

  I flung the excess water off my hands and grabbed a paper towel. I remembered being high the night Malibu died. I also remembered seeing cocaine on the table in her room. Malibu didn’t do coke. Not in the restroom. Not in the VIP. Not ever.