“Bootsie.”
“Sebastian.” I paused for a moment, then asked, “Or is this an official visit and should I be calling you Detective?”
He didn’t answer because the woman nudged him aside, leaned down and gave Vertigo a light kiss on his bald head then nodded toward an empty chair at the next table. Sebastian sighed and politely placed it next to Vertigo. The woman sat. Vertigo beamed at her.
“Jean! Great. You got my message.” He turned to us all. “I don’t know if you had a chance at Mr. C’s party to be introduced. Babs Harrison, Bootsie Kittredge, this is Jean Liuzzi, my . . . “
I mentally filled in the blanks: “Mistress? Moll? Floozy?”
“Associate.”
That was unexpected. “Associate?”
“Yes. I do have a law practice, remember?”
My mind continued to stray, imagining the voluptuous Ms. Liuzzi associating with clients. For a fee.
She must have read my mind. She smiled. “I’m really and truly an attorney, Ms. Kittredge. Harvard Law. My specialties are tax and estate although I often second chair for Valentine in criminal cases when we believe it’s warranted.”
I grinned at her. “Good to hear that. Really. On the not so off chance that Sebastian here is ready to book Babs and me for anything felonious this week, I like knowing Valentine has back-up. Or an understudy. Or a co-star.”
Sebastian scowled at me. “Not funny, Bootsie, considering why I’m here.”
“Why are you here, Sebastian?”
“To escort you and Ms. Harrison back down to the Tenth Precinct for questioning.”
“Oh shit. What’d we do now?” Babs glared at Laramie.
“Todd Kittredge was shot last night. Since Bootsie has a great deal of motive and the two of you seem to conduct your criminal activities in tandem, you’re lead suspects.”
“What! Shot? Todd shot?” I stood up. “Somebody killed Todd?”
Sebastian shook his head. “No. He’s not dead. Not even critically wounded. The shooter either had extremely good aim or extremely bad aim depending upon the point of view.”
Valentine signaled for Babs and me to stay quiet. “Detective? Where exactly was Kittredge shot?”
“Behind," was the muttered response.
Jean’s finely arched eyebrows rose half an inch. “He was shot from behind? So did he get a look at the attacker?”
Sebastian sighed. “He was indeed shot from behind but he did not get a look at the attacker who used a sniper rifle because he also was shot in the behind.”
Babs snickered. “Todd got shot in the ass?” She raised her fist in the air. “Yes!”
Valentine and Jean both groaned. Valentine shook his head. “Babs! Stop that! These are the kinds of statements and actions that get you into trouble.”
She shrugged. “I don’t think it’s a big secret that I have no fondness for Todd Kittredge. I’m too old to be coy with my feelings.”
Sebastian added, “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’d like for you and Bootsie to come with me now.”
“Why?” I asked. “Can’t you just ask us the basic, ‘where were you?’ stuff here over coffee and skip the let’s take it downtown grilling?”
“I could if that were the only reason I needed to take you—as you so theatrically put it— downtown.”
“What other reason is there?” Babs demanded.
“We have a witness who claims to have seen two ladies of your approximate description fleeing the scene shortly after Todd Kittredge fell to the ground.”
“Which was where?” I demanded.
Valentine stood. So did Jean. In her heels she was about a foot taller than he was. She spoke first. “Enough. No questions at this time. We shall all go to the police station and get this sorted out in surroundings less conducive to emotion. Bootsie, Babs. You need to stay silent.”
Sebastian muttered, barely under his breath, “Like that’ll ever happen.”
Valentine heard him. “This time it will. These ladies are our clients and are entitled to the benefit of our services until they release us. And they are going to listen to advice, correct?” He glared at me. He glared at Babs.
She and I exchanged glances. I smiled. “Yeah, hell, sure. As long as someone else is footing the enormous bill neither of us could handle otherwise, we’ll be glad to remain silent and not let anything else be used against us. Are our attorneys also springing for the coffee we didn’t get to finish?”
Jean dug inside the enormous red purse she’d kept in her lap. “I do believe we can handle that.”
“Thanks, Ms. Liuzzi.”
“Make it Jean.”
I nodded then turned to Sebastian. “Merely because I’m personally remaining silent doesn’t mean you have to, Detective. I’d really, really like to know where the hell Todd was shot and I don’t mean anatomically.”
“Assuming you didn’t shoot him—or even if you did— there’s no harm in me telling you. Hollywood FX.”
Babs nearly spat out her last sip of coffee. “Again? Did Clayton’s shark get it in the butt too? Or do sharks have butts?”
Sebastian sighed. “Nowhere near the sharks or the movies, Ms. Harrison. The murder museum had just closed for the night. At this point we don’t know why Kittredge was inside the area called Scene of the Crime but when the security guards found him only thirty seconds after he was shot, he was leaning over a well that represents the murder of young Elma Sands. Where more than one person had earlier witnessed a confrontation between Todd and Bootsie Kittredge two days ago.”
I turned to Vertigo and to Jean. “I hope you’re as good as Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton then. Babs and I have no desire to spend the rest of our days in Sing-Sing.”
Sebastian said, “Apart from the fact that the prison is not yet co-ed, if you were sent there, you’ll be in good company.”
“Oh?”
Sebastian nodded. “The Staten Island police made an arrest about thirty minutes ago. Mr. Giuseppe Carmosina.”
Vertigo and Jean stared in horror at Laramie. Then, as one, they turned to us. “Sorry, ladies. You’re on your own.”
Chapter 2 9
“I’m beginning to grow very tired of this place,” I remarked to Babs. “Not that there isn’t a certain horrifying charm about the Tenth Precinct, but it’s wearing on me.”
“Curtains,” Babs stated. “Red and white gingham checked. Would definitely brighten the place up a bit.”
“Especially on these bars,” I added. “You know, I never thought I’d miss the interrogation room, but being in an actual jail cell is—not pleasant.”
She nodded. The two of us solemnly surveyed our new digs. For whatever reason, instead of being ushered into what we now nostalgically remembered as a moderately pleasant space, which was the small brown room where we’d previously answered questions about Monica, Clay and Minerva, Detective Laramie had unlocked then swung open the doors to a cell. A real live jail cell. With bars on the front and on the sides and two benches that not only didn’t look comfortable but obviously hadn’t been cleaned in forty years or so. Babs and I hung out by the bars where we could get a little fresh air. Five women who appeared to be in their very early twenties occupied the bench on the left side of the cell. I hated to stereotype anyone but the super short shorts (in thirty-six degree temperatures) the tube tops that were barely covered by little jackets, the four-inch platform shoes, the false eye-lashes and inch thick make-up and red lipstick did seem to scream “hookers.” Then again, Jean Liuzzi, Harvard lawyer and mob moll would have fit right in, so I’d immediately vowed not to make any assumptions about the ladies and the activities that might have caused them to be incarcerated.
“Well, we haven’t actually been arrested yet,” I mused. “So maybe the interrogation room is currently being used by really ugly major criminals and they simply didn’t trust us to sit quietly at a desk.”
“Hey, you!”
A thin girl with a pink and red Mohawk hair-do waved at m
e. “Whacha’ll in for? You don’t look like the usual Saturday night haul, ya know? Not like us." She inhaled. "Y'all look like fine ladies who maybe have some fine bling on you.”
The others nodded. An air of hostility rose quickly within the confines of the small cell. A second girl stood up. She looked remarkably like J-Lo and for a second I wondered if the singer was getting ready to do a video in the 10th Precinct, which would be very swank and I was primed and ready to sing back up. But the girl’s accent was pure Jersey. “D'jyou get robbed or somepin an’ they stuck you in here ‘cause they ain’t got room at the desk? Well, we might have a little somepin’ to say ‘bout that, ya know. We don’t like the Upper East side joinin’ us while we wait for ‘rainments. Or wait—they tryin’ out new C.I’s now? Send in the grannies to get info outta us on our boys?”
Definite hostility. It was looking more and more like ‘us’ versus ‘them.’ There were more of them and they were obviously in better shape if those hostilities turned physical and nasty. For a second I contemplated screaming for Sebastian but then decided that might make matters worse. Our jailed companions already thought we were snitches. I watched enough crime shows on TV to know a C.I. meant a confidential informant and C.I.’s were considered the lowest of the low.
Babs' eyes lit up. “They think we’re C.I’s. Wow. You know that would be a brilliant idea. Get a couple of old broads to find out all about their grandkids’ doings and report to the cops for a little extra bread. Gives whole new meaning to social security.”
I groaned. “Would you stop?" I turned to a girl who had the look of a Georgia debutante gone bad. “We’re in here waiting for a line-up.”
“Oh? Who you s’posed to identify?”
“Not us. Someone else. Identifying us, I mean.”
A gorgeous girl who bore a striking resemblance to Beyoncé rose from the bench and joined the Georgia deb, J-Lo Two and the Mohawk queen. Her perfume was a bit overwhelming but was a very nice scent and far better than the stench of the rest of the cell. “Hang on. You two are doing a line-up?”
Babs nodded. “Yep.”
“Shit! That’s hot! What up! Whacha in for?”
Babs and I stated simultaneously, “Murder.”
All four of the girls standing stared for a second then began high-fiving each other and us. “That’s fresh! Damn! Whodja do?”
“Well, actually, this time the guy didn’t die. The other three we keep getting questioned about did die.”
“Other three?” gasped the tallest of our cellmates—the Beyoncé look-a-like. “Holy shit! You’re like a two-woman crime wave here!”
“Who were they?” came from J-Lo Two.
“The first was an actress . . . “ I started, and then Babs interrupted with, “Hell, no! Not, not, not! Don’t give her that much credit.”
I scowled at her. “Fine. A lousy actress. The next one was Babs’ ex-husband," I pointed to Babs. “Who was a scraggy womanizer and way too high-priced lawyer. And the third one was a phony psychic, who was the only one to make the front page of the tabloids.”
“You talkin' about that Minerva bitch?” the Georgia deb queried. “I remember her. I had a —client—who told me once she rooked him outta thousands of bucks. He was pissed as shit about it. Didn’t she fall off a roof?”
“Well, that was the first theory. Now there seems to be some debate about that,” I told her. “The medical examiner believes she got hit by an Irish shillelagh. One I happen to own which I actually gave away but could easily have gotten my hands on at the time.”
“That’s too cool. So what happened to the guy who didn’t die? Why didn’t he die?” came from Beyoncé.
“He was shot in the ass,” I responded.
Giggles. “Who is he?” Asked J-Lo Two.
“My ex-husband,” I replied. “And a major sonovabitch from the bowels of hell.”
Squeals of “all right!” And “way to go, sister!” echoed.
“Omidgod! I seen y’all before!” A super tall girl with teased hair, who was the last of the quintet to be seated, now rose up from the bench like she was about to go in and take over at point guard during the quarter of a Knicks game. “You were here ‘round Christmas! I remember you.” She motioned to the girl I’d decided was from Georgia. “You remember, don’t you, Darlene? With those cute little boys from Tres Fabulous?”
Darlene grinned. “That was the best fun I’ve ever had in this dump. Damn. Got the whole place rockin’ with Y. M.C. A.”
All four girls stared at Babs and me. The basketball player began jumping up and down in sheer glee “That was you! I told everybody on the street all about that when Darlene and Angel and I got out.” She pointed to J-Lo Two, whom I assumed was Angel.
Suddenly all five women surrounded us but the atmosphere had changed. We were heroes. Darlene wanted to know all about how we knew Minerva. I explained that she had conspired with my ex into dumping me in favor of his young girlfriend, then managed to sucker Todd into giving up a lot of money, and that I’d ended up with zippo.
“Shooting him in the ass was too good for him,” she stated. “That freakin’ bastard needs to have his nuts shot off.”
Babs chuckled. “I keep telling Bootsie that but she won’t do it.”
“Not true!” I protested. “I’m just not that good a shot. That takes skill. I’ve only shot at clay plates and that was over thirty years ago when I dated a guy who had an amazing gun collection. Of course, he did also let me shoot an AK47 but that was at a tree stump. Fantastic. Worked off a ton of angst. I should have married him.”
Angel poked my arm. “I wanna know how this all got started anyway.”
“Sweet Cream Ladies,” Babs began but was immediately interrupted.
“What? What the hell you callin’ us?” came from one of the girls whose name hadn’t been mentioned yet. She didn’t sound pleased.
I held up my hand. “No! No! Not you. Us. That’s Babs’ name for our hit-women organization. We thought it had a little class and didn’t scream, ‘we kill for fun and profit.’”
Darlene mused, “Sweet Cream Ladies.”
“Limited,” I added.
“Why are you limited?" Angel asked. "'cause you’re a lousy shot?”
I grinned. “Limited as in corporations. Business. Although technically we’re not a corporation so we wouldn’t have shares which kind of wrecks the whole limited liability thing but we also felt it sounded better than Sweet Cream Ladies, Inc. or Sweet Cream Ladies Partners.”
Beyoncé Two chimed in with. “I know all about that. The—client—who got taken by that Minerva fake is a broker on Wall Street. He tells me all about business whenever we’re done. Actually, you know, we should form something like that ourselves. A corporation.” She nodded at the other girls.
Jolene snorted. “We don’t need a flippin’ company. We need a union.”
Everyone, including Babs and me nodded in agreement. And then I started singing the old Donna Summer disco hit She Works Hard for the Money. Five voices joined me. Babs stayed silent since she knows she can’t sing. She did however begin a few dance moves.
For the next ten minutes the cage rocked with a routine that J-Lo and Beyoncé both would have been proud to use onstage. We went from "She Works Hard for the Money" to “Single Ladies.” We were nearing the end of a rousing version of Pat Benatar’s "Love is a Battlefield” and had formed our group into a triangle to do the shoulder shimmying, knee raising and fists pumping moves when a young policeman who bore a striking resemblance to the sexy male dancer who’d played the pimp in Pat’s video tapped on the bars.
“Your—lawyer—is here, girls. Waiting for you over in arraignment. The young ones. Not you two.”
Tearful goodbyes all around. Darlene hugged me. “Y’all take care and don’t let these bastards intimidate you. Hang tough.”
I hugged her back and told her I agreed the girls should unionize and I knew a great lady attorney named Jean Liuzzi who shared their sense of fashion wh
o might be able to help with that if she managed to get her mobster client off from racketeering charges in Staten Island, then told the girls to come by Hollywood FX and I’d comp ‘em for a tour assuming I wasn’t in Bedford Hills, Falls or Valleys Whatever for the next twenty-five years.
“Be safe, girls,” we called as they trooped out behind the cop.
Angel turned around and gave a last wave. “Hey! ‘friend’ us online, okay? Go to Angel Baby or Darlene Darling’s page.”
“Will do.”
Then we were alone. The bars seemed colder and more oppressive without the girls but we were determined not to let our spirits droop. So I sang two more Pat Benatar songs, “Fire and Ice” and “Promises in the Dark,” to Babs’ delight and applause from the crowd of felons and police within twenty feet of the cage.
Sebastian arrived with a key.
“Well, ladies. I put you inside to give you a taste of what you might be facing but obviously you were too busy turning the precinct into an Eighties video to realize what losing your freedom is really like. I should have known better.”
I immediately began singing the old Beatles’ tune that matched his last sentence. Sebastian glared at me. “This is not a joke. Get it?”
I sobered up. I had no intention of telling him my stomach hadn’t churned this much since the food poisoning at Burger Blitzkrieg. If I voiced my fears and angst I’d burst into tears and I really, really didn’t want to have that happen in the middle of the 10th Precinct. “We get it. Would you rather Babs and I got hysterical? We can do that, you know.”
“On cue, no doubt.”
Babs smiled. “With real tears too if you’d like. Not to mention drooling and ground-rolling and screaming and ripping of clothes.”
Sebastian snarled, “What I’d like is for you to understand that you’re about to go into separate line-ups and if either or both of you are identified you’ll be spending the night in Rykers with some very unpleasant characters. You will not be singing and dancing for the benefit of hookers.”
Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd. Page 19