Straight Silver. Darlene Scalera

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СКАЧАТЬ pupils dilated. He was getting interested now. He said nothing.

      “This was more than a night of sexual fun and games gone awry.” I had just finished my second semester of English comp.

      He looked at Della on her steel bed.

      I waited until he lifted his gaze. I met the black in his eyes. “She was murdered.”

      He played it cop cool. “There’ll be an autopsy.”

      Way too much information before lunch.

      “What about her family? She have anyone in the area?”

      “Her younger brother was in the service. Last I knew he was stationed right near here at Fort Grant. She once mentioned a grandmother in Pittsburgh raised her. Never said what happened to her real parents.”

      “She didn’t mention anyone else?”

      I looked at Della’s pale lips. Most gals were only too happy to give you a blow-by-blow of how they’d been done wrong or hung out to dry–more times than not by their own flesh and blood, but not Della. She didn’t confide much, but she didn’t bitch, either. Grousing was not her style. She had dignity. If Jackie O had been a stripper, she would have been Della Divine.

      “No.” I answered Serras.

      “What about boyfriends?”

      “Sure.”

      “Anybody special?”

      “Strippers don’t usually go steady.”

      “How ’bout friends, enemies? Anyone stand out?”

      I shook my head. I’d never have a career as an emergency contact.

      “Ms. Devine have any problems with any of the other girls at Billie’s?”

      I shook my head again, returning my gaze to the corpse. I remembered a bright blonde with fake breasts, a whole lotta leg and a corn-pone wholesomeness not usually associated with someone from Pittsburgh. Her specialty had been tassels. I felt lousy.

      “What was her real name?” I asked Serras.

      “Doris Mickel.”

      I reached for the sheet and drew it up over her face.

      Serras smoothed a wrinkle in the sheet, then slid Della/Doris back before stepping away from her. If he’d been the pencil-pushing type bucking for Administration, I’d have written the gesture off as anal. But it being not even noon yet and already too long a day, I decided to allow myself the delusion this cop might really care what happened to a twenty-seven-year-old stripper with a violet choker and green bruises for eye shadow.

      “Got any other thoughts on what happened to her?” I wasn’t deluded enough to think he’d start spouting out theories, but my motto is “You Can’t Fault a Girl for Trying.”

      “We’ll be investigating all possibilities.” He gestured for me to precede him out of the morgue.

      I didn’t move. “Maybe someone was trying to rob the Oyster and Della got in the way?”

      “How ’bout a cup of coffee, Ms. LeGrande?”

      It was July in Memphis. Just breathing made you sweat. Officer Serras wanted more than to extend hospitality. I glanced at my Rolex knockoff. I was taking a few summer courses at the college, catching up on credits. “I’ve got Principles of Macroeconomics in ten minutes.”

      Serras didn’t crack a smile. Della could have done worse for a homicide detective.

      “Was she killed in the club, then dumped out back?” I probed.

      This time Serras took my elbow, steering me toward the door.

      “We’ll investigate all angles.”

      “The bruises on her body, the pooling of blood suggest she was moved from the original crime scene.”

      Serras glanced at me. I was bluffing, and he knew it, but it was a good bluff, and I sensed he liked my style.

      “There’ll be a preliminary report filed later today. You can give me a call.”

      I took his card. “Thanks.” I meant it.

      “If you remember anything, think of something that might help us learn who did this to Ms. Devine, you can get in touch with me at that number or leave a message. I’ll get back to you.”

      He had used Della’s stage name as if he knew it’d please her. And me. He was right.

      He led me up one floor. At the public entrance door, he tapped the card still in my hand.

      “If you remember anything—”

      I nodded. I knew the routine. You don’t strip for eleven years without participating in a few police procedures. This was the first time it was this personal, though.

      I stopped on the way out to hold the door for a young woman coming up the sidewalk pushing a stroller. Serras was heading toward the back of the station house. As a stripper, I’d become a student of the body but I wasn’t even using that excuse this time. I watched him for the pure pleasure. His glutes tightened. His backside became even firmer. Finer. I didn’t know if his cop radar sensed I was watching him or he just wasn’t taking any chances. I did know one thing though. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d see those prime-time buns flex. Like gals called Silver LeGrande and Della Devine, some fates are unavoidable.

      Chapter Two

      Three miles from campus I pulled a 180 and headed into the heart of the city. Billie’s held center stage in a renovated warehouse two short blocks from Beale Street. Only a small sign near the double doors advertised Adult Entertainment. The club’s owner, Billie West, ran a clean joint. Topless only, no lap dances, no drugs, and Billie never missed a contribution to the Policemen’s Benevolent Association. I parked, went in through the back employees’ entrance. The club wouldn’t be open for hours, but Billie did her paperwork in the afternoon. She didn’t look surprised when I came to the office door. Billie had always expected it was only a matter of time before I’d be back.

      “Silver.” She welcomed me in her rich contralto as she enfolded me in the reassurance of two hundred pounds plus. She rocked me a little and was kind enough to let me hang on tight. Billie was a mulatto from New Orleans with golden marcel waves and a variety of lovers. Her mama had sewn the costumes for many of the burlesque stars of Bourbon Street while Billie had listened to the triumphs of “Lottie the Body” and “Tajmah the Jewel of the Nile” and other stories of the glamorous life in the French Quarter clubs. When still on the sweet side of thirty, Billie had convinced one of her boyfriends, an ex-racketeer, to invest in her dream, and Billie’s was born–a nightclub in the forties’ French Quarter style. Billie’s featured an emcee, comics and singers, but it was the girls that brought in the customers.

      “So, you finally ready to come back to work? I can start you on the floor, strolling and getting drinks.” Billie smiled, showing a gold cap.

      I СКАЧАТЬ