Riddles

by Rhonda Crowder

  They went to court and everything. She told the judge he was her boyfriend and he attacked her when she refused him. He claimed she took his money. I laughed so hard when she talked about the disapproving glances from people in the courtroom. The judge became disgusted in them both, but felt like he needed to learn a lesson. She issued a permanent restraining order and sentenced him to two years probation.

  He called Malibu dirty bitches and everything but the child of God right in the courtroom, having to get carried away by the bailiffs.

  How did I forget him, I wondered.

  “How are you this evening?”

  “Fi . . . Fi . . . Fine. And your . . . Sss . . . Self,” he stuttered while peering at me objectively.

  “I’m Riddles.” I extended my hand. At first, he just looked at me as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He didn’t respond. “And, you are?”

  “Shh . . . Sean,” he said, extending his arm and shaky hand.

  “So, Sean, what brings you in here tonight? The murder seems to be scaring guys away.”

  I wanted to see how he would react. He’d had to have known that Malibu wouldn’t be there, otherwise he’d be violating a court order.

  “I heard. I . . . I . . . was a little lee . . . leery myself. I knew Mal-i-boo. I was bah . . . Bored. Ne . . . Ne . . . Needed to get out of the house.”

  I didn’t know how Malibu could take his money.

  “Oh!” I faked being surprised. “You knew her personally?”

  “We . . . She used to be my . . . gurr . . . girl . . . friend.”

  “Really?” I replied and he gave me a blank look.

  He shifted his body uneasily. It looked as if it his upper torso disconnected from the lower one. “We bro . . . broke up . . . ear . . . ear . . . a couple of months ago.”

  I acted as if I knew nothing about it. He continued to stare at me. “You . . . you . . . re . . . re . . . remind of Ken . . . I mean Ma . . . li . . . boo.”

  “Lots of people say that. Maybe I could be your new girlfriend.”

  “Uhmm . . . But . . . Uhmm?”

  “Whatever it is, I can take it off your mind,” I interrupted. “You were bored right? Why not have a little fun?”

  “How much you talking about?” he asked his stuttering clearing up.

  “Whatever you can give,” I answered. He perked up. “Wait right here. Let me get a pen.” I darted to the dressing room, got a pen as well paper from the house mom, and hurried back to the table. He told me his number. I wrote it down. “I’ll call you when I get off tonight,” I said.

  He nodded his head.

  I watched as he easily pushed up from the table, but then struggled to walk out the door.

  Could he? Am I trying to pin the murder on just anyone to get closure for myself?

  As soon as he left, I dashed to the dressing room.

  I placed the napkin in my bag and when I closed it and turned around, I noticed several girls staring at me and talking amongst themselves. I didn’t care about their thoughts. They should have been glad someone amongst them showed interest.

  I ignored them all, thinking I might finally be on to someone with enough motive for murder.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I woke up early the next morning, got dressed, and rushed out of the door. I wanted to talk to that detective in person, share what I had obtained.

  “Is Detective Fulwood available?”

  “And you are?” the female police officer asked from behind her post.

  “Chyne Jaspers.”

  “One moment,” she said then picked up the phone. She spoke briefly, hung up and said,

  “Follow me.”

  She led me to a small conference room to wait on the officer. I waited about five minutes before anyone came. When the officer opened the door, I stood and extended my hand.

  We shook hands. “Please, be seated,” he said. “I’m Detective Richard Fulwood, the lead on this case. You have some information for me?”

  “Yes. We spoke on the phone before about the murder of Kenyatta Morgan, the stripper at Joker’s? Still wondering if you’ve secured any leads or suspects.”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I told you this is a very complicated case due to the nature of the environment. Now, how may I help you? I don’t have time to waste.”

  “The name and number of a gentleman once involved with Ms. Morgan. In fact, she had an assault case against him where the judge sentenced him to probation and issued a restraining order.” I paused before pulling the napkin out of my purse. “I mean, I’m not trying to convict the man, but I think he’s worth investigating. And, if you find something, can you please let me know? I feel like I can’t move on until I know who did this to her.” I wanted to turn over Dreadlock Guy too but didn’t get a confirmation from Buttercup nor wanted to involve her.

  He took the napkin, looked at it then at me before thanking for my assistance before showing me the door.

  Four days later, as I lay across my sofa with The Young and The Restless watching me, the phone rang. Atlanta Police Department’s name appeared on the television screen.

  “Ms. Jaspers?” Detective Fulwood said after I answered. And, just as I confirmed my identification, he continued. “I called to tell you we looked into Sean Rogers and we’re highly certain he’s not our man.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I couldn’t say anything else.

  “You’re welcome. And, let us know if anything else comes to mind.” He hung up.

  I felt crushed. My nerves shook and my brain felt scattered. I got an instant migraine. Trying to ease the tension, I ate then took two Aleves and stretched across the couch. I felt defeated.

  Six days after the disappointing call from Fulwood, I managed to arrive at work before the fee change. While doing a table dance in the corner near the entrance to the dressing when I saw Sean come in the club. After collecting my money, I decided to walk by him.

  “You bitch,” he grunted at the top of his voice as soon as he spotted me. He stood up. “You a ‘ni . . . nitch bitch . . . You a ‘nitch.”

  “What is he saying?” Buttercup asked as she passed. I gave her the evil eye.

  “You called the police on me!” he continued. “Nitches get tiches. Nitches get tiches,”

  “Is he saying, ‘Snitches get stitches?’” she asked and busted out laughing. She’d stop to try and understand what he said. “Riddles, is he calling you a snitch?”

  By that time, he was struggling to lunge at me, but I sidestepped him. He nearly fell. Thanks to his upper body strength, he caught his balance. Everyone watched. I walked off toward the dressing room and he continued to yell threats. Looking back, I could see security trying to calm him down enough to an explanation. But, he continued on his incoherent rant.

  I stopped at the curtain dividing the floor from the dressing room and watched.

  “We’re gonna have to ask you to leave, sir,” said the bouncer as the night manager came running from the back. “You’re disrupting the other patrons.”

  “She . . . she sent the police at me,” he attempted to calm down and explain. “I didn’t kill-”

  “Sir, again, we’re going to have to ask you to leave. We can’t have you in here intimidating the dancers. Be lucky we ain’t calling the police,” said the floor man.

  I could see the manager escorting Sean to the door. Once he left, I decided to stay back there for a while to calm down and freshen up. As I nervously touched up my makeup and talked to the house mom about what happened, the night manager entered.

  “What the hell was that all about?” he screamed at me.

  “First of all, I’m a grown ass woman,” I fired back. “Now, if you want to talk to me-”

  “Just answer the question,” he stated more calmly.

  “I don’t know that man.”

  “Look here. I’ve heard about you getting into it with Buttercup, and questioning folks around here about that murder. I don’t know what’s going on with you. But let me
say this, if I hear one more time about you playing Sherlock Holmes, I’ma fire your ass. Only reason I won’t let you go now is ‘cause you make me money. And you ain’t even being doing that lately.”

  He turned to walk out.

  I started to argue, but decided against it. I got dressed and left since most of the girls found the exchange funny. The snickering and snide remarks caused my temperature to increase. I knew that if I stayed, I might seriously hurt one of them with the way I felt.

  Chapter Twenty

  I had to release the stress bottled up inside of me. I’d reached a point of frustration so intense I thought I might explode. I needed to shake this obsession with Malibu’s murder. Hoping some sex might help, I called the only person I allowed to screw me.

  Abe, a native of Cameroon, couldn’t be distinguished from the average black man from any American inner city until he opened his mouth. He stood tall and broad with medium brown skin, distinct facial features, and neatly trimmed dreadlocks. He wore all of the latest designer clothes and sneakers as well as listened to Hip-Hop. However, Abe wasn’t as well endowed as one would expect – based upon stereotypes of African men.

  The complete opposite of my child’s father, Abe exuded “thug culture.” At age twenty, about three years before I met him, he came to the States for the first time. He would come into Joker’s every night. When business slowed, I sat and talked to him. He told me stories about his homeland and family, their struggles, his hustles. Then, eventually, I started hanging out with him outside the club. I became crazy about him – his gentleness and playful manner – still I wouldn’t allow myself to get too involved because he had his hands in everything from international Internet scams to check fraud. He never questioned me about my background.

  Although I never considered him a trick, nor treated him like one, he always gave me money without me having to ask. And, although I would’ve given it to him for free because the sex satisfied me, I allowed him to do so. That kept the feelings in check.

  As always, I felt moist between my legs once I entered Dunwoody and saw the condos where he lived. I approached the entrance, stopped at the security keypad, and entered the code to open the gate. I drove through and parked in a guest parking space.

  As soon as I stepped out of the car, I heard a crack of thunder and it started to rain. I decided against trying to find an umbrella in my trunk and trotted for the shelter of the staircase leading to his unit. He opened the door,

  “You ain’t got no company, do you?” I said our running joke as I did every time I entered his condo then dropped my keys in a chair. I looked around and laughed, then followed him into the bedroom because we’ve “been there, done that.”

  Good thing our friendship proved stronger than any feeling stirred as a result of our occasional sexual encounters.

  “I’d put ‘em out for you, Riddles.” His beautiful white teeth beamed. My vagina felt like it had a heartbeat of its own, especially looking at him with nothing but a towel wrapped around his perfectly chiseled body. It looked like someone hand carved it.

  “You must want some. That’s the only time you come see me.” He watched me as I failed to respond while slowly lifting my shirt then removing all my clothes, tossing them to the side. He started to stroke himself. I smiled then went into his bathroom to take a shower. When I finished, it wasn’t long before our bodies passionately connected with one another.

  We both collapsed, panting, after reaching a very intense climax. Feeling like a new woman, I lay my naked body across Abe’s king sized bed covered with fresh linens. He lit a blunt that resembled a miniature baseball bat. We smoked it as I told him everything about Malibu’s murder, including my eerie feelings and amateur investigations.

  “You better leave that shit alone,” he said with his strong accent while putting the flame out. “Just quit Joker’s. That place’s a dump, anyway.”

  “It ain’t that easy,” I teased, mocking his accent.

  “You drive two luxury automobiles, dress nice. You not ‘starvin, Riddles.”

  “How you think I pay for it?”

  “That’s why you need a man to take care of you. To buy you pretty things. You’re a beautiful woman, any man would be happy to wife you.”

  “My baby’s daddy wasn’t,” I responded without thinking.

  “Foolish,” he continued. “I’d marry you, but you won’t let me.”

  “You know you a playa, got too many women for me,”

  “You the only one I give my paper to, though,” he said.

  “But, seriously. I feel like I need to know who killed her, but I really don’t understand why. Everything about it looks intentional, like someone wanted her dead, but something in my gut tells me it’s deeper than what appears on the surface.”

  “’Cause you nosey. That’s why.” He laughed.

  I slapped him on the arm.

  “Riddles, tell me something,” he said as he took my hand and kissed it. “How did you get into this business? You too pretty, too smart to be stripping.” I never told him I held a degree.

  I chuckled, thinking about how to respond. “Why you ask?”

  “Always wondered. Just never had the guts,” he said.

  “If I tell you, I gots to kill you.” I smirked. He looked like he really wanted to know. I decided to tell him. “Seriously, probably since sixteen, I knew I wanted to stripper.”

  “What ya know ‘bout strippin’ so young?”

  I looked him in the face. Abe appeared ready to hang onto my every word the way broke guys hold onto women who takes care of them.

  “I was born into this business.. It’s in my blood. I was raised by hoes and pimps.”

  “No shit,” he said. I loved listening to him speak.

  “I come from a long line of professional ladies of leisure.” I chuckled.

  He looked confused. I explained. “My grandmother was third generation geisha in Kyoto, groomed from childhood. She would’ve become the most celebrated of her time but she ended up having to flee her homeland during World War II.”

  I went on to describe my upbringing, that I am a trick baby. Never knew my biological father. I told him how my grandmother took care of me after my mother’s death, and Ms. Anna raised me after my grandmother passed away from a broken heart. Also a prostitute back in her days, Ms. Anna never shied away from telling people how she reared her son to be a pimp.

  “In fact, his birth name is Pimp,” I continued.

  “What kind of name-”

  “Ever read to book Whoreson by Donald Goines?” He nodded, no. “You should.”

  “So they turned you out?”

  “No. Maybe guilty of exposing me to more than a teenager girl should see. They never forced me to do anything. They took good care of me. All I had to do was go to school. They gave me my foster care check. I chose to dance. Growing up, I only thought about becoming rich but didn’t know how until I met a girl named Dreams.”

  “Dreams?”

  “Sharon, for real. My stepfather’s bottom after my mother died. She wasn’t from Cleveland, though, but he would bring her there and she would stay with me and Ms. Anna, during an impressionable time in my life.”

  I got quiet. I never really articulated my story to anyone. He must’ve sensed my apprehension to open up. Abe started to caress me.

  “I loved her style. The kind of chick who never had to work if she didn’t want to because her daddy had real old money, politically connected. A judge, I think. Her brother became a big time doctor. She, on the other hand, rebelled and strayed. Pimp met her at a Greyhound bus station. My stepfather’s other women couldn’t stand Dreams because he allowed to work in the strip club. Before her, all had to run the track.”

  Unsure if Abe followed the lingo, I continued.

  “Dreams refused to walk the streets. I felt her. I could never imagine myself there in the winter with in mini skirt on.”

  “So you wanted to be like Dreams?” He laughed.

  “
I just grow up under the impression that, if you’re a woman, you don’t have be broke. And, you’ll only be broke if you with a broke man.”

  “Glad I ain't no broke nigga,” he said.

  I shook my head and talked over him. “I watched Dreams count money every night and bank it every morning. So, I guess so. I wanted to do the same. Once you start, it’s hard to stop.”

  I sat up and leaned back on one arm while pulling some cover over my lap. Abe stared at my breast like he wanted to swallow them at any moment.

  “As a young girl, I thought, why not? Everyone around me hustled men in one form or another. It’s like selling dope.” I paused then continued. “Or any other hustle. Only thing, you never have to re-up.” I laughed. “It’s easy, virtually tax-free money. Adult entertainment is a billion dollar industry because men are too stupid to gain control over that third leg.”

  He looked at me cocked-eyed. “Stupid?”

  “You heard me. Men are stupid.” I smirked. My body felt relaxed. I felt like talking. “When I first started, I went by my real name. My grandmother taught me to be coy. So, when guys who didn’t know me asked my name, I’d say, ‘It’s a riddle. If you figure it out, I’ll give you what you looking for.’ Intrigued, or just for fun, many took a stab at it.

  Abe rose and propped his head with his hand.

  “I’d give ‘em two attempts for twenty dollars and three for twenty-five. It became a game I played,” I continued. “Several went along.”

  “What’s the riddle?” he asked.

  I grinned. “What your dick does, once I’m done polishing it.” I looked at him to catch his reaction. Abe appeared puzzled. He only knew me by Riddles as far as I knew. “So, while the other girls grinded on laps, I made money without even taking my clothes off.” I looked into Abe’s eyes. “Get this. The most common response, ‘Go limp.’”