It was showtime.
Suddenly, without any introduction or fanfare, eight gorgeous young women wearing silver dresses and silver flowers in their hair pranced onto the dance floor. These were the celebrated Copa girls-the uniformly tall, slinky, and ultrabuxom beauties often referred to in the gossip columns as “Manhattan’s choicest” (which I thought made them sound more like meat than showgirls, but maybe that was the point).
The band struck up a snappy cha-cha and the girls began to dance-four in front, four in back-swaying their hips to the music and shaking their shoulders to the beat. Their dresses were strapless, and even more revealing than Abby’s and mine, so every little shimmy caused a turbulent undulation of exposed flesh. All of the men in the audience were mesmerized. Some of the women, too.
I, on the other hand, was in agony. I had to pee so bad I thought I would pop. Knowing Corona would be making his entrance soon, and that I couldn’t possibly last through his entire performance without relieving myself, I decided I’d better make a run for the bathroom while I had the chance.
Jumping to my feet, but crouching as low as I could to avoid obstructing the audience’s view, I leaned over and announced my intentions directly into Abby’s ear:
“Gotta go to the loo, Sue. Be back in a few.”
She was having such a good time, she barely noticed my rhyme. Or, for that matter, my frantic departure.
Chapter 27
THE LADIES’ ROOM WAS EMPTY-AND IN VERY short order, so was my bladder. (Word to the wise: If you’re in a crowded nightclub and you want to pee in private, hit the john during showtime.) I wasn’t alone in the elegant lavatory for long, however. As soon as I stepped out of the stall and over to one of the pearl white porcelain sinks to wash my hands, a tiny Negro woman in a black dress and a starched white apron appeared out of nowhere with a white linen hand towel draped over her skinny arm. She smiled and handed the towel to me at the exact moment I needed it.
I thanked her profusely and gave her a dollar, an expansive gesture that-since I’d splurged on a pair of shoes that afternoon, and bought a bunch of stuff for lunch, and repaid the eight bucks Abby had loaned me over the last couple of days- left me with three singles, three quarters, one dime, one nickel, and two pennies. Not that I was counting.
As I left the lavatory and entered the plush, gray-carpeted lounge, the door to the room burst open, and a woman in a turquoise taffeta cocktail dress burst in. Her green eyes were flashing with fury, and her light brown pageboy was flying out of control. She rushed straight over to me, grabbed me by the shoulders, and stared intently at my face.
“So it really is you!” she spluttered. “I thought it was, but with the blonde wig I wasn’t so sure. What the hell are you doing here? Are you following me or something?”
I almost wet my pants (again). It was Jocelyn Fritz, otherwise known as Candy, and she was not happy to see me.
“Following you?” I rasped, keeping my voice down to a near whisper. (I didn’t want to alarm the little woman hiding in the washroom.) “Why on earth would I be following you? I didn’t even know you were here.”
“Does Sabrina know?” Now she looked frightened as well as furious.
“That you’re here?” I said. “I don’t think so. She knew I was coming, so I’m sure she would have mentioned it if she thought you were, too.”
Jocelyn heaved a harsh sigh, released her grip on my shoulders, then spun around and sat down on one of the posh pink-and-gray-striped chairs in front of the glass-topped makeup counter. She propped her elbows on the counter and dropped her head in her hands, covering her face with her fingers.
“Are you okay?” I probed, quickly sitting down next to her. “You seem really upset. What’s the matter?”
She raised her head and gave me a guarded look. “I can’t tell you,” she said. “You’d just make trouble for me, and God knows I’m in enough of that already.”
“Trouble?” I croaked. “What kind of trouble?”
“Forget about it. It’s none of your business.”
“Does it have anything to do with Melody’s murder?”
She didn’t answer.
“Because if it does, then it is my business, and I need you to tell me exactly what’s going on.” I peered deep into her anxious eyes and gave her my sternest Susan Hayward scowl.
Jocelyn turned away from me and looked at herself in the mirror. Then she sat up straight, poked her nose in the air, and patted her pageboy back into place. “Nice try, Sherlock,” she said, “but it won’t work. You’d better back off. I’ve told you too much already.”
Backing off was not a specialty of mine. “You must be referring to what you said about Sam Hogarth and Tony Corona,” I pressed on. “You were really serious when you called them ‘devils in disguise.’ I’ve been wondering why you used those particular words, and why you never voiced them to Sabrina.”
She whipped around to face me again. “So, did you tell her what I said?” Her distress was palpable. Likewise, her annoyance.
“Of course I did!” Jocelyn was starting to tick me off. “Your statement was relevant to the murder, you know! And Sabrina and I are desperately trying to identify the monster who killed Melody. Remember her? The poor girl who was stripped naked, tied up, and exterminated last Monday night? She used to be your best friend… or so you said. And if that was the case, why would you want to keep your suspicions about her death secret from Sabrina?”
I had hit a nerve. Jocelyn’s shoulders slumped and her chin fell to her chest. She was silent for a few moments, then said, “Melody was my best friend. We were as different as night and day, but I loved and respected her more than you can imagine. And I didn’t mean to hamper your investigation in any way. I swear.”
“Then what the hell’s going on? What are you trying to hide?”
Her shoulders slumped even lower. “My own guilt,” she mumbled, suddenly looking very guilty indeed.
“Oh, my god!” I gasped, heart banging against my breastbone. “Are you saying that you had something to do with the murder?”
Jocelyn groaned, threw her hands up, and snapped, “Good lord, no! I’m saying nothing of the kind! I may be a devious, dishonest, money-grubbing whore, but I’m no killer.”
“Then what else are you guilty of?” I pressured, praying for a straight answer. Getting information out of Jocelyn was like pulling molars from the mouth of a mastodon.
“If I tell you, do you promise not to tell Sabrina?”
“Yes,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back, “but only if it has nothing to do with the murder, and if it won’t hurt Sabrina’s well-being or livelihood in any way.”
“Take my word for it, Paige, what Sabrina doesn’t know won’t hurt her. The only person who stands to get hurt is me.”
“Okay, then, shoot,” I said, offering her a cigarette and lighting one myself, hoping the nicotine would loosen her tongue and my nerves. “I’m all ears.” (My failure to show Jocelyn any sympathy at this point was a result of severe time restrictions, you should know. No lie! If I didn’t get back to my table before Corona came out on stage, there’d be the devil to pay-whether he was in disguise or not.)
Jocelyn took a deep drag on her cigarette, blew out a great whoosh of smoke and said, “Look, I’m not proud to admit it, but here’s the story: I really am a devious, dishonest, money-grubbing whore. I’ve been servicing Sam Hogarth and Tony Corona on the sly for almost two years. When Melody joined the agency and took over the wealthiest clients, I lost a few perks and a fair amount of income. To make up for it, I gave Sam and Tony my home phone number and told them they could bypass the agency and dial me direct; that I would charge them a lot less than Sabrina charged for Melody.”