Devilish Details (2 page)

As if on cue, the uniformed officer acting
as the supervisor strolled over. “I’m Sgt. Patrick Evans, ma’am. I
hear you’re the owner of this establishment?”

“Yes, and I’d like to get back to business.
Wednesdays are a big day for me. I’m losing money out here while
y’all arrest some folks for misdemeanor possession,” Jazz replied
crisply.

“We’ve allowed your employees to go on
inside. But are you saying you knew some of your customers were
carrying illegal substances?” Sgt. Evans glanced at Addison with
both of his blonde eyebrows raised. Addison said nothing, but
nodded.

“Oh please. I run a night club serving
liquor while girls dance around poles in one of the rough spots of
Baton Rouge.”

Jazz pointed to a rectangular board painted
white with bold black letters next to the double front doors. The
rules were spelled out. “No loitering, no guns, and no drugs
allowed on the

Sgt. Evans tapped on the screen of a small
tablet. “Okay, just keep the music and the noise on the parking lot
to a minimum as best you can.” He walked off.

“Whatever to you, too,” Jazz mumbled low.
She swung around to face Addison. “You done questioning me?”

“I wasn’t formally questioning you, Ms.
Vaughn. I just happened to see the flashing lights and decided
to... Okay, fine. You don’t believe me. If you see your friend
Kyeisha, tell her to give me a call. You’ve got my number.”

“Humph, I sure do. And Kyeisha is
not
a friend of mine. Don’t expect me to call you,” Jazz said.
“Goodnight Detective Addison.”

“You could call me Don every once in a while
you know,” he replied.

Jazz had already turned and was walking to
the club. “No, I don’t think so.”

“See you around,” he called back, and gave a
throaty chuckle.

She didn’t look over her shoulder. Instead
she flipped a hand in the air and kept going. Once inside the club
again, she checked with the bartender, cook, and the tall local man
she’d hired as security. Jazz looked around. None of the tables,
fixtures, or anything else was obviously damaged. She’d check again
in the daylight to be sure.

Byron, her security guy on duty, approached.
“Hey Jazz, Lilly sayin’ she’s too shook up to finish tonight. She
wants to go home. I figure with the smell of cop still around here,
might as well let her.” He shrugged his hulky shoulders.

Jazz glanced around at the dark interior of
the club. Already, three guys had come in to sit at the round
tables scattered around the floor. One was alone. The other two
took a separate table about five feet from the stage. Rochelle got
busy taking their drink orders. Tyretta was behind the bar. She
wiped a spill from the counter top that looked like marble, a cheap
laminate surface, obvious even with the lights low. The door swung
open and a guy stuck his head in. After looking around for several
seconds, he eased inside as though still on guard.

“Y’all want to give up getting paid?” Jazz
grunted when Byron didn’t answer right away. “I’m running a
business to make money. Get the music ready.”

“Okay boss,” Byron replied. He dutifully
headed for the small booth set off to the side that contained a
sound system hooked up to three speakers, each attached to a wall
in the club.

“Cops asked her maybe one question, if that,
and she’s shook up,” Jazz mumbled to herself as she strode across
the floor.

Another door like the one that led to her
office was on the opposite side of the bar. She pushed through it.
A short walk down a hall brought her to the dressing room door,
which she entered without knocking. Lilly sat in one of four chairs
at a table. A mirror stretched the length of the wall above the
table. She half turned when Jazz came in, but went back to stuffing
make-up into a worn imitation leather tote bag. Only six two months
past twenty years old, she had smooth dewy skin that needed little
make-up. Jazz hired her because she saw not just talent, but a
chance to keep Lilly from slipping into an even worse kind of
profession. The signs were clear to Jazz. Lilly had had to grow up
fast and hard, so Jazz made allowances. She considered Jazz old at
twenty-seven, but had the good sense not to make that opinion too
obvious. Jazz had survived her own tough childhood by learning to
read people. She knew exactly what Lilly thought of her.

Lilly was the youngest employee and the one
with the snappiest attitude. Cutting some slack was one thing. But
bottom line, Jazz had a business to run, and nobody would be
allowed to mess with her hustle.

“Byron told you I’m not feeling well,” Lilly
said flatly. “I can’t perform when I’m upset. I’ll be stumbling all
over the stage. Mama always said I was born with bad nerves.”

“So you don’t need your paycheck tonight?”
Jazz replied.

Lilly looked up at Jazz’s reflection in the
mirror, a frown on her smooth honey brown face. “Well I did one set
before the police showed up and got our customers all jumpy. I
should at least get half my pay,” Lilly protested. She turned
around on the swivel stool and then stood to face Jazz. She put
both hands on her hips. At five eight, Lilly seemed to loom over
Jazz, who stood five-feet-five if she had on one inch heels.

“Customers expect to see dancing. I sell
more liquor and food when I have a show. You work the full night
like I hired you to do, or this will be your last night.” Jazz
didn’t raise her voice but returned Lilly’s glare with one of her
own.

“Damn, betcha only three old dudes out
there,” Lilly shot back. But she turned around and started
unpacking her make-up.

Jazz watched for a few seconds as she
applied dark red lipstick. Then she brushed out the long, thick
black hair that was mostly an expensive weave. Lilly shimmied out
of the cotton jumpsuit to reveal she still wore her costume. The
shiny neon red halter and matching thong made her honey brown skin
seem to glow. Customers flocked to Candy Girls to watch Lilly wrap
her long legs around the dancer’s pole. Still Jazz was beginning to
look for a replacement. Lilly got on her damn high horse too often.
Jazz was sure one night she wouldn’t show, would walk out in a
huff, or Jazz would throw her out. The last possibility might be
the first to happen. No employee would dictate to Jazz or give her
attitude for long.

“Consider that visit from the police a long
break. It’s almost nine o’clock. You perform between eight and
midnight. I’ll pay the same.” Jazz turned around to leave.

“Gee, thanks.”

Lilly went on applying make-up. She dusted
sparkly body powder across her generous cleavage and then the rest
of her body, paying special attention between her thighs. The
glitter was her signature. Guys lapped it up. Jazz was about to set
her straight when Tyretta pushed through the dressing room
door.

“Child, you better get your glittering rear
in gear. The natives are gettin’ restless. You got some good tips
comin’ your way. Guess who just slid in all undercover? Lil’ Bit,”
Tyretta blurted out before anyone could take a stab at it. “Girl,
you know he got some fifties with your name on ‘em. I’ve been
keepin’ him hydrated for ya.”

“Just as long as he keeps his sticky hands
offa me. He be tryin’ to sneak a feel when he passes a tip.” Lilly
made a face, but began to primp with quicker movements. The sound
system kicked in, playing a raunchy song by a local female
rapper.

“Them bills gonna spend the same, girl.
Sticky or not,” Tyretta quipped.

“You ain’t even lyin’,” Lilly tossed back
with a chuckle. She shook her butt as if warming up, humming along
with the music. “Later.”

Jazz nodded at her as she walked by. “You
have trouble, just signal Byron. These dudes know I don’t play that
touchy feely crap with my employees.”

“Okay,” Lilly said. Her tone and attitude
were less salty. She dipped and swayed her hips to the music as she
pranced out.

“And why are you in here instead of getting
guys to spend money on drinks and food?” Jazz snapped at Tyretta
once Lilly exited.

“I came in here to save her silly ass from a
whippin’, and
you
from getting arrested,” Tyretta replied
and pointed a forefinger at Jazz.

“Humph. I think you just delayed what is
eventually going to happen anyway. Lilly is on my nerves every
chance she gets.” Jazz glanced around the dressing room. “And she
better straighten up the mess, too.”

“Oh c’mon, relax boss lady. She’s not the
only one that junks this room up. What’s got you in such a bad
mood?” Tyretta picked up scarves on the floor and draped them on
hooks attached to the walls as she talked.

“You mean losing almost three hours of
income, a smaller than usual crowd because of the cops, and being
linked to a murder isn’t a clue?” Jazz shot back.

Tyretta dropped a hairbrush on the table and
stared wide-eyed at Jazz. “Wait, a murder? Who said anything about
a murder? I thought the cops came around because of loud music and
noise out on the parking lot.”

“Yeah, they always use some lame-ass excuse
to make trouble. Some lil’ dude got shot up by Kyeisha’s thug
boyfriend. Addison naturally hauls his long, tall self over here to
harass me,” Jazz grumbled. “And, Lilly sure as hell better clean up
before she leaves.”

“Right, I’ll tell her,” Tyretta replied. She
followed Jazz out, a frown twisting her chocolate brown face.

Jazz headed down a hallway behind the stage
out front taking the back route to her office on the opposite side
of the club. She turned right at another shorter hallway that ended
in her office. Tyretta followed on her heels asking questions about
the murder.

“Look, you think I’m CNN or Fox News?” Jazz
retorted over her shoulder. “All I know is some dude is dead and
they looking for Cleavon. That’s all I want to know. Why in the
hell he think Kyeisha is a friend of mine?” She muttered another
curse at the ringing cell phone on her cluttered desk. “Well at
least nobody stole my cell while I was out there.”

“Detective Addison uses excuses to hang
around ‘cuz he’s sweet on you.” Tyretta took a melodramatic step
back when Jazz spun around and scowled at her. “I’m so scared, but
I gotta tell the truth.”

“Humph.” Jazz sat down at the desk. She
found the box of cigarillos, pulled one out, and lit up. She
inhaled the sweet smoke and let it out.

Tyretta had become the closest anyone had
ever come to being Jazz’s best friend. They’d met at a group home
after both had been kicked out of separate foster homes. Despite
appearances, their bickering never amounted to more than their
unique way of communicating. In some ways they were closer than
Jazz was to her older sister, Willa. She thought of her sister
because the caller ID on her phone showed Willa was calling. The
phone played a popular R&B tune again. Jazz grunted and picked
up.

“Yeah, Willa. The cops must call you when
they come around here, huh? Get out of my business. I’m grown.”
Jazz rolled her eyes to the ceiling. She sucked in more smoke, and
let it trail from her open lips. “Yes, I’m fine. Hell no, I don’t
need bail money. I’m at the club. I’ll talk to you later. I’ll let
you know ‘bout dinner on Sunday. Bye.”

“She cares about you. That’s something. More
than I can say for my jacked-up family,” Tyretta mumbled.

“Willa is a control junkie, all right? Not
enough she got them two crumb snatchers to take care of, but she
gotta be in my face asking questions.” Jazz dropped her cell phone
into the pocket of her leather jacket. Then she took it out again
and sent a text to Byron. “See if Lilly is out there workin’ her
butt to make me some money.”

“I think it’s wonderful that she invites you
over for Sunday dinner.”

“You wouldn’t think it was so
wonderful
if you had to deal with her holy-roller Aunt
Ametrine preaching at you over mashed potatoes and meatloaf. Sister
Ametrine will all but hit you over the head with her Bible. Talks
about how Christians need to ‘smite the demons out of misguided
folks’.”

Willa and Jazz had grown up in foster care
thanks to Vivienne, their troubled, neglectful mother. They’d been
separated six times. Jazz being younger had stayed with Vivienne
almost four years after she was born. Willa had been removed by
child welfare by then. Willa’s fourth set of foster parents adopted
her. Through them she gained three aunts and six uncles,
“holy-roller” Aunt Ametrine being one of her adoptive mother’s two
sisters. Jazz didn’t call them her family, because in her mind they
weren’t. No matter what they tried to say.

“Is it good meatloaf? I love me some good
meatloaf and gravy. Umf!” Tyretta nodded.

“You’re not listening to a damn thing I say.
I...” Jazz stopped when her phone signaled a text. “Damn right she
better be dancing. I got bills to pay.”

“Who’d you say got killed tonight?” Tyretta
said, switching gears back to the murder.

“It was yesterday or last night. Some guy
named Brandon Wilks.” Jazz waved a hand and turned her attention to
the invoices on her desk.

“I know that name,” Tyretta said frowning.
“I wanna say he ran with the South Side of Town boys, you know that
gang from the bottom.”

“You mean one of the four or five gangs in
the bottom,” Jazz replied dryly.

“The Bottom” was the nickname for a south
Baton Rouge neighborhood. Starting in the forties and fifties, many
middle-class and stable blue collar African-American families moved
there. The area boasted the first Black high school offering a
diploma. Two of the city’s first African-American doctors had
offices there and so did a black dentist. Small businesses
flourished as well, with upholstery shops, various repairs shops,
and more that catered to black customers. Black Baton Rougeans
avoided the demeaning experience of being forced to enter through a
back door or being called “boy” and “girl”. And like many black
neighborhoods, the passage of time brought change that wasn’t for
the better. The downward slide began in the mid-1970s. When crack
hit in the eighties, the slide became a speedy tumble down into a
crime infested “hood”.