by Harry Hoge
"Sting's in place," he told Chad. "Gerry starts her show tonight."
Chad nodded.
Frank gave the officer the once over as though he was a tailor assessing him for a suit. "Where do you live?"
Chad furrowed his brow. "I rent a place on Campbell between Long Point and the Northwest Freeway. Why?"
"We're going to the club tonight to catch Gerry's act and you don't need to look like a cop." Chad showed a skeptical grin as he scanned Frank. "I know what you're thinking, but in civilian clothes, people at least have to guess." Frank turned his eyes to the sky, judging the rain would no doubt resume soon. "I've got an errand to run." He looked at Chad. "We'll go by your place so you can change and then drop in to a place I know near Town and Country Village Shopping Center. We can get a bite to eat and be at the Ha Ha House in plenty of time."
Frank was wrong about the timing. He and Chad hurried the last few blocks after they found a parking spot, hustling through the door only ten minutes before Gerry was due to be introduced. Mars was filling a beer case, looking more confused and vacant than usual, and The Grinch was busy with a customer. She looked up as they approached the bar. Frank had a sense of deja vu, reminded of the first time he had entered the place, with one major exception. The Grinch flashed what for her was a big smile.
"You should do that more often," Frank grinned. "That's a charming smile."
"I save it for you, Sugar."
"Too bad you're married. I might sit up all night watching you smile."
"Sounds good to me, but we wouldn't be up all night." Frank found her brazen stare discomforting. "I might not be as married as you think."
Frank hid his astonishment at the inference, choosing to smile and keep his eyes on her. She looked away first, pretending to suddenly see Chad, although Frank guessed that she missed very little going on at the bar, and was using the "distraction" to kill the silent liaison. Chad got the full "I hate cops" expression Frank had received when he first came into the club.
"This your partner?" The Grinch asked, her voice ringing with insolence.
Frank looked at Chad. Like many men who wear uniforms most of the time, he seemed out of place in civilian clothes. The selections were well chosen: olive, corduroy pants; a cream-colored, lightweight, ribbed, cotton pullover; and a khaki-colored, pseudo-suede sports jacket; but instead of giving him a casual, self-assured appearance, he looked uncomfortable. Nothing fit exactly, although Frank was at a loss to determine why he thought so. Maybe the style was more a 90s look, or Chad's body shape was better suited for another type of ensemble, but whatever the cause, the man looked like he'd been dressed by a wardrobe director for a part in a B grade movie. Frank wondered if other people saw him in a similar light.
"Yeah. This is Chad Sherman. Chad, this is Gretchen Sullivan. She keeps this place running, and she doesn't like cops."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Sullivan." The Grinch didn't answer, merely glared. Chad had to force himself not to look away. He was relieved by a disturbance to his right that gave him an excuse to break the standoff.
The door to the office opened, and Reuben Rankin came wheeling out. It was one minute before eight o'clock. When Rankin saw Frank at the bar, he broke into a broad smile and headed his chair toward the detective. He stopped short of running into Frank and stuck out his hand.
"Detective Rivers. I'm happy to see you here." He seemed truly sincere about what he said.
"Rankin," Frank mumbled without a smile. "Ah, I'm still a suspect. Capital."
Frank turned to Chad. "Officer Sherman, meet Reuben Rankin. He owns this club and some others around town. Mr. Rankin, this is my partner, Chad Sherman."
Rankin shook Chad's hand. "You must be delighted to be teamed up with the best detective in Houston, Officer Sherman." He turned to The Grinch. "Take care of these two, Gretchen. Consider them my special guests." Rankin turned back toward Frank and Chad and started to say something when the lights dimmed, a spotlight swept across the darkness following Chuck Wood as he ran on stage.
Rankin motioned with his head and said, "Come on," although Frank couldn't hear the words over the applause from the crowd. Rankin maneuvered his chair to the rail where he was center stage. Frank and Chad followed and took positions like bodyguards, flanking Rankin and the chair.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Chuck Wood exclaimed. "The Ha Ha House is pleased to present a special treat tonight. Our next performer is unannounced, but some of you may know her because she's been a headliner around the Houston area for the past several years. We hope you welcome her and that she'll grace us with her presence for a long time. Put 'em together for Miss Bea Black." Frank laughed to himself at the introduction. He wondered if anyone else knew she hadn't been a headliner in Houston, or anywhere else.
The spotlight swept from center stage and Chuck Wood, illuminating the left wing as Geraldine swaggered onto the stage, casting a stern, provocative stare at the crowd, conveying an "I-know-you-people-and-I-know-all-your-tawdry-experiences," expression. She made her way to center stage and brought a hand-held microphone to her lips. She continued to scan the audience with frowning assessment without saying a word. The applause dwindled to nervous twitters. Some individuals made low-voiced asides to their partners.
Frank pursed his lips to prevent his mouth from dropping open. Gerry had been right when she said he wouldn't recognize her on the stage. Somehow, she had padded herself to look thirty or forty pounds heavier, yet her figure and swagger gave off a bawdy, sensual aura that altered the ambiance of the club and touched everyone in the audience.
She wore purple, a tight fitting gown reflecting the spotlight with a shimmering glow that changed color with each subtle movement. Her hair dropped around her shoulders, glistening in long open curls. Lavender nail polish sparkled in the light, and adamantine jewelry, which would appear gaudy in any other environment, accented her dark skin in a way that Cleopatra would envy.
The silence swelled with anticipation. Gerry milked it for every ounce of amusement. Suddenly, she flashed an enormous smile, overshadowing all the other spangles about her.
Frank felt shivers along his skin. This was talent—she had this audience in the palm of her hand and had not uttered a word. That was something that couldn't be taught. It came from some ephemeral muse deep within a person, not a studied and stilted technique.
"Hi, folks. That's me, Bea Black. How do you like me so far?"
The audience whooped. She hadn't said anything funny or original, but she had the crowd mesmerized with expectation.
"Bea Black... I call myself that because I do be black." She went back to her stern studied scan of the audience. "You sure ain't though. I ain't seen so many white folks since I was an exchange student in the KKK."
Most people glanced around the room, with tentative chuckles, confirming that the crowd was indeed plain vanilla.
"Hey, that's okay. You look like pretty good folks... even if you are white. Besides, if I were bigoted, I wouldn't be after you. I'd be after those undocumented workers. Uh huh, you know who I mean... what the government used to call illegal aliens and we used to call wetbacks. That was before we decided to be politically correct. As if Houston traffic ain't bad enough, them undocumented types make it worse. How should I say it? Mobility challenged? It's something ain't it?
did you ever notice the freeways? There you'll be... Speed limit seventy... Black folks drivin' eighty... White folks drivin' eighty... One Mexican dude doin' forty three point friggin' seven five miles per damn hour... In the center lane... I finally figured it out... That sucker's drivin' in kilometers."
Frank watched the audience. They appeared a little uneasy, laughing at ethnic humor after being reminded they were white, but the smirks couldn't hold back the chuckles. Gerry's expression changed to mournful. She brought the back of her hand to her forehead. "I won't keep you long. I got to go back and sit down. I ain't feelin' too good. Even went to the doctor the other day..." Snickering... "Now don't get ahead
of me... This ain't gonna be one of those stirrup stories..." Scattered twitters... "I didn't even do that stuff with my first husband... That sucker was such a prude..." Guffaws... " 'Course, he ain't my husband anymore, either."
Gerry focused her attention on a young woman sitting alone. "Hey, your man must have been like that too, huh? Anyway, I went to this doctor. Told him I had headaches, nausea, and diarrhea. He gave me a prescription. I got it home and looked at the bottle... It read, 'Caution, possible side effects include headaches, nausea, and diarrhea..' Now how the hell am I gonna know when I'm cured? I learned to start reading labels after I swallowed all those big damn pills for my yeast infection. Hey, couldn't you imagine if other stuff had to have warning labels too? A can of beer would say 'Warning - side effects may include a loud mouth and broken teeth...' And bacon might say 'Warning - May cause a hickory scented breath and a shiny coat.' Man, those doctors are something though. My brother, Leroy... now, y'all know that ain't his real name. Ain't no Afro-American family gonna name their boy Leroy these days... I call him that so he can't sue me... Know what I mean?" Gerry paused, giving the audience a chance to nod their heads knowingly.
"Anyway, Leroy went to the doctor a couple months ago. The man told Leroy he needed to check his prostate. Leroy asked him what he was going to do. The doctor explained it to him. Leroy said, 'Oh no, sucker. You ain't gonna do nothin' like that to me unless I can do you too.' Yeah, it's easy for you to laugh... I had to fly to Boston for the wedding. Anyway, I stopped in New York on the way home. Them people up there are weird. I don't know what their state flower is, but their state bird's the middle finger." She waited for the hoots aimed at New Yorkers and Yankees in general to subside.
"Let me tell you, I was riding over here this afternoon. Saw a sign. It said 'No Center Line.' Why those suckers be spendin' my tax money tellin' me something I could have figured out for myself? I try to obey signs though. If a sign says 'Stop,' I stop. If one says 'Yield,' I yield. Saw one the other day that said 'Water on Road..' Well, about that time, a cop came by. He asked me what I was doing. I pointed to the sign... He looked at that sign, looked back at me, nodded and said, 'I'll go behind the car.'"
Gerry paused to let the laughter subside. Frank realized it allowed her to change her subject and manner of delivery.
"You know, I've been thinking. Can you imagine what a good salesman the guy was that sold the first customer ever a telephone? And what did he think he needed it for? I can just see it. Everyday, he'd pick it up. The operator would answer. 'Hi, Bob... Nope, not yet... Don't worry, I'll give them your number.' At least his kids weren't on it all the time... Hey, I went to Wal-Mart the other day. I walked inside and started looking around. I told myself, them people have everything but a funeral parlor. Then, I started thinking. Why not? Couldn't you just see it? The little old man that greets you at the entrance would say, 'You here for the Smith services? Aisle seven, the other side of House-wares'. If you want flowers, the Garden Section is to the left... Here's a basket.' And for those folks that want to be frozen after they die, there's plenty of room right next to the Blue Bell."
A loud male voice came from the audience. "Get off the stage!"
Frank watched, wondering how Gerry would handle a heckler.
"What's your problem, sucker?" she asked calmly.
"You ain't funny," The man shouted back.
"Yeah, and you ain't handsome, but I didn't try to tell everybody."
"You need to get some new writers."
"And you need brain surgery... I know a good proctologist."
It was clear that Gerry had the audience. They hooted and cheered. One man stood and made a dismissive gesture at the heckler. Even the heckler broke out in a broad grin, and gave a friendly wave.
Chapter 19
Frank watched Rankin. The proprietor said something to Sammy Sullivan and swiveled his chair, heading toward a hulking man standing near the office. Sammy retrieved a bunch of flowers wrapped in tissue paper from behind the bar and handed them to Marsha Meyers who headed for the dressing rooms backstage. Acknowledgement of Bea Black's success. Classy move.
It took Frank a moment to realize the man Rankin was talking to was Roger Harrington. Roger's change in appearance was as dramatic as Gerry's. During his time as a homicide detective, Frank had been involved in several sting operations, but Gerry and Roger took to being under cover better than anyone he'd ever worked with.
Rankin and Roger talked long enough for Frank to finish his second beer, then the proprietor headed back to the bar. Meyers had not come out of the backstage area. Frank glanced at the bar. The Grinch was busy.
"What did you think of my new act?" Rankin asked.
Frank shrugged. "I'm not much of a judge. Seemed all right to me."
Rankin pulled a face. "I agree. You're definitely not a good judge. She had the audience rapt. Once she took charge of the stage, she could have recited the Preamble to the Constitution and they would have laughed." He glanced around. "Where did your partner get to?"
Frank nodded toward the front door. Chad was ambling toward them. "He had a call from nature."
Rankin waited until Chad was standing beside Frank before flashing his infectious grin.
"I understand you tried to get a search warrant for my home and got turned down?"
Frank couldn't hide his surprise. "How did you know that?"
"I've got friends at City Hall. How do you think I compiled those files on you? All that information wasn't in the Chronicle."
Frank didn't say anything, but acknowledged to himself there was definitely a leak at HPD.
"Any time you want to come by the house," Rankin continued, "I'd be happy to show you around."
"I'm not interested in your taste in decor," Frank answered. "Would you be willing to waive preemptory rights?"
"Of course. Particularly since it wouldn't make any difference. Any good lawyer can get preemptory evidence thrown out of court. But regardless, I have nothing to hide."
"How about early in the morning?"
"That all depends on what you call 'early.' I work nights, remember."
"Your call."
Rankin extended his hand. "See you about ten?" Frank shook the hand and watched Rankin spin the chair and head for his office. Gus stood in the open doorway glaring over Rankin's head at Frank and Chad.
Gerry sat in her dressing room staring in the mirror. She was appraising her performance, evaluating what had worked and what didn't, injecting punch lines that would have been better, evaluating her timing and assessment of the audience. She decided that the routine had gone well, considering how rusty she was. She opened the drawer in the table and withdrew a dog-eared spiral pad, reviewing the notes for the delivery she'd chosen for the next time. She mouthed the jokes as she dabbed on cold cream and wiped off her stage makeup with a tissue. She chuckled as she studied her facial expressions through the mottled mess of makeup.
The door opened behind her and a woeful looking blonde came in carrying an armful of flowers. The woman appeared lost and apprehensive. Gerry figured this must be Marsha Myers, the employee Frank said they called Mars.
"These flowers were sent by Mr. Rankin," the girl informed her. "He always sends them if he likes the act."
"How nice," Gerry smiled as she stood and accepted the gift. "And who might you be? If I read your attitude correctly, you don't agree with the boss."
"Hey, don't pay me no mind. I just work here, and I've seen acts come and go. You did all right, I reckon."
The East Texas phrase, "I reckon," didn't come off as though Marsha felt comfortable using it. Gerry recalled what she had read in Marsha's file. There was little to remember: Name: Marsha Meyers; Vitals: five feet six inches, blonde hair, blue eyes; Weight: 130 pounds (approximate); Age: 28 (approximate); Employment: The Ha Ha House - Bar back and wait staff; Profile: Emotional, loyal, unsophisticated - Frank had said flaky and Gerry decided to add petulant, sometimes vacant; Previous history: Unknown. Gerry decided t
o try to fill in some of that.
"You sure don't sound like an East Texas girl, Marsha."
Marsha squinted and focused on Gerry for the first time since entering the room. "I don't know what you mean. I was born right here in Houston."
"Yeah? That may be, but I get the feeling you spent a lot of time elsewhere."
Marsha shrugged. "Maybe so. Off and on." She turned and left.
Well that got me absolutely nowhere, Gerry thought. Now I've got to be careful, or the next time it'll be obvious I'm probing.
Frank and Chad left the club and headed for Chad's apartment.
"I'll pick you up in the morning early. We'll check in with the task force and be at Rankin's by ten. Don't wear your uniform."
"Okay, Frank, but I'm going to need a clothing allowance if I stay at this detective game long. I don't have a closet filled with civilian clothes."
Frank didn't respond.
He dropped Chad at his home and cruised along I-10, debating whether to go to his apartment and call it a day, or to do the other chore first. He'd bought a potpourri of audio-surveillance equipment from a man he had busted several years earlier. Shawn Worley had been in his early twenties when Frank uncovered his felonious activities as a computer hacker and all-purpose electronics wizard. Worley was a merchant who asked no questions of his customers, obtaining and distributing
information about anything or anyone as long as the price was high enough to provide funds for his expensive hobby. One of his customers was a gun for hire and Frank had nailed Shawn as an accessory. After his prison term, Worley opened a legitimate business, manufacturing and selling all manner of electronic systems.
Before Frank and Chad had gone to the Ha Ha House, Frank had paid a visit to Worley's shop and purchased what he needed to bug every room of Gerry's new apartment. Probably a waste of time and money. Gerry had moved to a "safe house," a motel room actually, which was already rigged for the maximum security HPD could afford, but each of the victims in this case had been killed at their place of residence, and he had no intention of taking any chances with his new partner's life.