Riddles

by Rhonda Crowder

  Back to the drawing board.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Because it was the middle of the day and hot leads turned cold, I decided to go to work in hopes that new developments surfaced there. I took a shower and did my hair in attempt to get to the club early before the tip-out increased. While sitting at the vanity in my bathroom, applying my makeup, I picked up the remote and turned on the television.

  A CNN broadcaster appeared talking about Illinois Senator Barack Obama. Running as one of the Democratic Party’s nominees vying for the United States presidency against former first lady and New York Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton. Thinking America would elect a white woman before a black man for president, I didn’t put much stock into him winning.

  Between Junior Bush and my baby’s daddy, I developed a bad taste in mouth when it came to U.S. politics. I stopped following the activities of our government once George W. got re-elected after straight-up lying about why we went into Iraq. The smoke and mirrors exhausted me. That’s why I didn’t like politics. Seeing where the country was headed, I had even considered becoming an expatriate. But, questioned where I would want to live.

  I thought even harder about Obama’s likelihood to win as they showed a clip of Clinton on the campaign trail accompanied by Congresswoman Stephanie Tubbs Jones. I remembered when she used to come into our schools to speak so it made me proud to see a black woman from the inner city of Cleveland on the national stage.

  I finished getting dressed, locked up the house, and headed to work. I pulled into Joker’s parking lot and up to the valet. Just as I saw his face, I remember him telling me about the BMW that almost ran him over that night of the murder. How did I miss that clue?

  As I grabbed my bag out of the back seat and hopped out the car, I asked, “Remember you told me about that BMW the night of the murder?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “What kind was it?” I continued.

  “A Grand Turismo, I think.”

  “Black?”

  “Yeah. Why you asking?” he probed.

  “Do you remember what the guy look like?”

  “Black.” He continued as he prepared to park my car.

  Asshole, I thought as I let him pull off. I looked around then entered the club. And, without even thinking about it, snatched a complimentary T-shirt bearing the words “God Bless America” with a flag across the front. The owner, a former Marine, provided them.

  “What’s up, Riddles?” the husky white boy with sleepy eyes asked. He sat behind the desk.

  “Nothing much. What’s up with you?” I asked.

  “So, what happened between you and Buttercup?”

  I had almost forgotten about our little run-in in the dressing room. “I don’t know. I just asked her a question and she got smart.”

  “She said you asked her about some guy in here the night of the murder. And that she didn’t want to talk about it, and you snapped.”

  I sucked my tongue. “If that’s what she said happened . . .” I replied and reached down in my bag for my wallet. I didn’t allow myself to entertain that mess. I removed a twenty-dollar bill as well as my work permit and handed them both to him. He recorded my information then returned my license so I could enter. And, as always, I felt his eyes being planted on my behind when I walked away.

  I went straight to the dressing room, opened my locker, and slowly went through my transformation into Riddles. I looked at my reflection in the mirror as I check my makeup. I smoothed the red lipstick in with my pinky finger and took a sigh before looking around the room.

  By it being so early, the dressing room remained nearly empty and quiet. I usually liked it that way since it got noisier as the night progressed. But not that day. That day, I needed answers and I hoped I could find them in the girls’ chatter.

  I dressed, gave myself a once over in the long mirror, and went into the bar. I noticed a regular who typically came in the early afternoon three or four times a month, knew the day girls, and always spent money. A construction worker, married, it seemed unusual for him to be in Joker’s on a Saturday night.

  He didn’t know Malibu, though. She only worked nights. I took a seat next to him, even though another girl sat with him. I didn’t do that sort of thing often, but I knew he would be offended if I acted otherwise.

  I spoke to the girl first then turned to him. “And, how are you doing today?” I asked.

  “Pretty fair,” he said. “You lookin’ good as usual,” he said in his deep country grumble.

  “I try. I’m interrupting something?” I looked at them both.

  “No, not at all,” he answered. “She was just telling me about the girl murdered in the room over there. Did I know her?”

  “Don’t think so,” I said.

  “Well, like I said,” he glanced at my coworker, “you girls be careful up in here. This world is crazy nowadays. Stuff going on now just didn’t happen in my times. Why would somebody want to come up in here and kill that girl?”

  “Your guess is good as mine,” I said.

  “I heard she owed somebody some money,” the girl said.

  “Some folk don’t play about that,” he said. He smiled at us. “Well, come on then,” he waved us on. “Give me a coupla of dances.” I got up and obliged. My coworker stood, flung her hair and walked away.

  “You want another one,” I whispered in his ear as the song neared the end. He reached in his pocket, pulled out his stash, and placed it on the table. He took a twenty off the bottom of ones and fives then put it in my garter. I never stopped dancing, not even in between songs and the DJ summoning the next girl to the stage.

  I went on to dance for five more songs before I stopped. We talked a little longer before he left. I went back to the dressing room to freshen up and change costumes. By then, more girls had started to come in and congregate. The house mom sat in her chair. I decided to talk to her before going back onto the floor. I knew that if anyone knew anything about everything in that club, it would be her. I approached her, put a five-dollar bill in her tip jar, and started to eat some of the pretzels out of a bowl placed on the counter.

  “Thanks, baby,” she responded.

  “You welcome, Mama,” I said chewing. I paused for a minute. “You heard anything about Malibu’s death?”

  “Ain’t heard nothing. Police ain’t found nothing. Everyone believes it was intentional.”

  “So, a murderer is just on the loose.” I shook my head.

  “You don’t have nothing to worry about. They think the killer came in here looking for her.”

  Several of the girls overheard the conversation and moved in closer to listen.

  “That’s why they opened back up so soon,” she continued. “They figured it’s no threat to the other girls. He got who he came for.”

  There was a collective gasp in the room.

  “But, they will be monitoring the rooms more,” she said. “So . . .” She raised her voice two octaves and looked around. “You girls better watch what you doing in there ‘cause they gone be walkin’ in unannounced.”

  “I don’t be doing nothing anyway,” a voice came from the crowd.

  I looked over my shoulder to see who said it then thought, ‘yeah right,’ recognizing the middle-aged woman. She was a dirty blonde with rotten teeth and skin that started to sag. She looked as old as the house mom.

  “I’m just warning those that you do,” the house mom retorted. “Smart ass,” she said under her breath.

  “You think they’ll ever find who killed Malibu?” I asked.

  “I doubt it. It could’ve been anybody.”

  The group broke up, but the girls continued to talk about not making money since the murder. The house mom and I continued to discuss the details of the death until I went back onto the floor.

  More customers had come into the club by the time I got back out there. I scanned the room to see if I recognized anyone and just as I decided to wander around, I saw a tall, slim figure exit t
he men’s room. Because of the dim lighting, I didn’t recognize the face until he got closer to the

  main stage.

  I wonder what he’s doing up in Joker’s.

  Probably looking for someone else to take care of him. Some men could be that way. He looked at me so I couldn’t pretend as if I didn’t see him.

  “Yo, what’s up?” he asked.

  “Peanut, right?”

  “Bitch. You know my name. Why you got Angie all amped up?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Look. I don’t know what you’re up to, but stay the fuck away from Angie. I don’t need you pumping no bullshit in her head.”

  If looks could kill, my eyes would’ve slit his neck. This bum wasn’t worth the frustration. Angie tried to defend him but to me he wasted space. “You came up here to tell me that?” I crossed my arms.

  “Actually, I came up here to see Buttercup.”

  “Well, that’s what the fuck you need to do,” I said and walked away from him.

  “Just watch yo’ self,” he shouted.

  I entered a dressing room full of girls. I needed somewhere to go and just think. That episode with Peanut threw me for a loop. I didn’t imagine Angie going back and discussing our conversation with him, let alone Peanut calling himself checking me about it. I looked around at the girls who did everything but work. And, they were talking but not saying anything worth hearing. I had to ask myself, “Am I the crazy one?” Then, I wondered, what sane person wouldn’t allow something like this to continuously bother them.

  Maybe I am crazy.

  I felt stumped. The leads had turned cold. But, my gut instincts told me to continue questioning it, and I had learned long time ago to follow intuition. It never failed me.

  I gathered my composure and left the dressing room so I could talk to the DJ about my music. I walked across the room and passed the bar to the sound booth.

  “Play some Gucci first, that pop-lock-and-drop it song. Then something a little slow. Maybe some Usher.”

  “Can’t play no rap,” he responded then ran his hand through his hair. “Really can’t play the other but might be able to get away with it.”

  “What?”

  “Boss really don’t want no rap at all. If it’s clean, it’s cool,” he said and started searching his catalog of music.

  “He back on that bullshit again,” I said, speaking of the night manager.

  “Said it attracts the wrong crowd.”

  “What? A black crowd?” I said. “You can play Smack My Bitch Up, but not Gucci? Fuck it. Play whatever,” I said. I turned, went down the two steps, and waited my turn.

  Once the girl ahead of me finished and my music started, I strutted up the steps and swayed to the beat to get into the right frame of mind. I made my body roll, shake, and gyrate for three songs. And, once my set came to an end, I headed straight for the dressing room to freshen up.

  Pussy sat in there on her cell phone. I ignored her. While wiping myself down with some baby wipes and looking for something else to put on, Buttercup came in. At first she pretended to be wrapped up into finding something in her locker, but never pulled anything out. Then, she flat out turned to me with a puzzling look.

  “What’s wrong with you, Riddles?” she asked. “Why you tripping over Malibu?”

  “Why something gotta be wrong? I just wanna know who did it.”

  Pussy moved her cell phone from her face just as another girl walked into the room.

  “Whoever killed her,” she said, “wanted her dead. We ain’t got nothing to worry about. Might as well keep getting this money. Bitches got bills to pay.”

  “I know that’s right,” Old, Saggy Skin interjected but I didn’t acknowledge her.

  “What you talkin’ ‘bout, Buttercup?” Pussy asked.

  “Riddles’ ass round here questionin’ ma’fuckas like she the police.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Pussy said.

  “That shit already got customers uneasy,” Buttercup said. “Whoever did that shit got away with it when they walked out the door. If the police can’t figure out who did it, what makes you think you can?”

  “What makes you so sure I’m incapable?” I said. She didn’t know me, not even my real name. “And, why are you so concerned about what I’m doing? Did you do it? You got something to hide? While her man coming up here to see you?”

  “Look, Riddles. I ain't trying to fight you. Malibu was my girl, too. I miss her as well. But, we don’t need to draw no more attention to this club. You look crazy. Get over it.”

  They looked at me as if I was a bag of buckeyes asking them to eat me. I realized they didn’t understand. They didn’t sense what I sensed. I liked to think I had become more in touch with myself and my relationship with the universe over the years. I liked to think that, in many cases, I was right since I believed in the power of positive thinking. If I could see it, it could happen, and I saw myself solving this mystery. I just couldn’t see the culprit. And though I knew the murderer like I knew a stray cat, I did know this person had to be rotten to the core.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I went home, went to bed, and woke up to the same thing. I hadn’t solved Malibu’s murder. And, despite what the girls thought of me, I went back to work anyway. Something has to give.

  When I got there, the parking lot looked nearly full. I could hear the music blaring from inside. The valet trotted around to the driver side to open the door for me. Wanting to slap him, I grabbed my bag from the back seat and hopped out instead.

  As I approached the door, the club’s stench became more apparent and defined. I walked in and went through the normal procedure for entering. I saw a small crowd so I hurried to the dressing room.

  After getting ready, I walked out to the floor tugging on my costume. I looked around and then took a seat at the bar. Just I sat down, a black guy, twenty-something, looking like a rapper. He glanced around then walked straight to the barstool next to me.

  “What’s up?” he asked. He appeared a little young to me. “You wanna dance for me?”

  Why not? That’s why I’m here, I thought. It’ll help me pay tip-out.

  “It’s a table right over there,” I said instead. I stood and walked toward it, and he followed. We got settled in and I started dancing in front of him. After a few songs, I took a seat.

  “Why you stop?” he asked.

  “I don’t like her music. Let’s wait to see who goes up next.”

  “So when you gone kick it with me?” he asked out the blue.

  “I don’t know you like that,” I answered, with a frown. “And, you too young for me.”

  “Oh. I ain’t too young for you to take my money?”

  “You come up in here giving it away. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “I feel you. I feel you. But, what’s up? How much ya need, ma?”

  “You a trick?”

  “It’ ain’t trickin’ if you got it.”

  I chuckled. “You right. As long as you got it, it ain’t. But, once I get, it’s tricking.”

  “What’s up with a VIP then?”

  I wasn’t up for going into the private rooms yet. I could still see Malibu stretched out in that chair. I still couldn’t take that chance.

  “I ain’t doing VIPs,” I said and shook my head.

  “Since when? Last time I was here, a nigga couldn’t even get at you… So busy in the VIP.”

  I perked up and keyed in on his hair. “When’s the last time you came in?” I asked. Then I remembered what Buttercup said about a black guy with dreads. I got nervous and looked for her. “Is Buttercup, here?” I questioned the waitress passing by.” She shook her head no.

  Maybe I’m over thinking this, I thought. Just like I said to Pussy, there are lots of black guys with dreads in Atlanta. And Buttercup never put him in the room with Malibu.

  “You know Malibu?” I asked.

  “Who’s Malibu?” he responded. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “It�
�s been awhile since I’ve been here. All I remember is you were in and out them rooms.”

  “You don’t know they the girl found in that one over there?”

  “Didn’t know that,” he maintained a straight face.

  “Well . . . Uhmm . . . I don’t don’t do VIPs anymore but give me your number,” I said and nodded my head. “I’ll call you or something.”

  “Don’t be bullshit-”

  “I will. For real.” I stopped him before he could finish. I tapped the waitress. “Let me use your pen.” I gave it to him and pushed a napkin over to him. “Write it down. I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said. “I might take the day off. Maybe we can kick it.”

  “That’s what’s up.” He stood. I gave him a weak smile.

  “Call me,” he said.

  After he left, I looked at the napkin. It read, ‘D’ under the number. I went to the dressing room to put it in my bag.

  As the night grew old, I ended up seeing several men who danced with Malibu at one time or another. I spent more time talking to them than hustling to make money. I came up with nothing. After overhearing some of my conversations, as I had no qualms about it, the other girls in the club thought I had really lost my mind and vocalized it, more and more.

  Shortly after midnight, an older gentleman, who Malibu used to see outside the club, entered. He walked with a limp, some crippling condition Malibu had told me about. He took a seat in front of the stage and had no problem waving for the waitress.

  He always seemed strange to me, but Malibu got a thousand dollars out of him every time she saw him. She told me that he only wanted to perform oral sex on her so she agreed. He hated going in the VIP room because he didn’t want to give the club the money, and they arranged to meet at his house, as many as a few times a month at one point.

  That is until he flipped on her one night.

  She’d told me he got a hold of some Viagra and wanted to have sex. She agreed, providing he gave her an additional thousand. But, once he gave her the money, she changed her mind. According to Malibu, he attacked her. She said he was strong as an ox; he lifted weights, building his upper torso to compensate for his legs. But, she told me, she somehow managed to push him off. She pressed charges, with her mother’s insistence, as way to extort money from him, thinking he would pay and she’d drop the case. But he had refused to give in.