The Book of Esther
Chapter 1"Esther! Esther! Where the hell are you, Esther?" Artie yelled at the top of his lungs. To be fair, he had to yell that loud to be heard over the music that was pulsing through the speakers placed all around the club. "ESTHER!"
He was about to go look for her when he heard her coming down the short hallway, her heels making a 'clack, clack, clack' sound as she ran. "Keep your shirt on, Artie, I'm here," she pleaded breathlessly.
"What took you so long?" Artie demanded. He was the show manager and the stage manager and the dancers' manager all rolled into one. And, on occasion, the costume and equipment manager. Right now the stage manager was the one doing the yelling.
The fringe on her costume bounced up and down as she ran. Normally he enjoyed watching the fringe bounce up and down, because that wasn't the only thing bouncing. At the moment he was too distracted by her tardiness to notice much of anything except the clock. "You're fifteen minutes late. What took you so long?"
"My zipper broke. Linda had to sew it up by hand. Or would you prefer I go out on stage naked?" She turned her head to the side to look at him as she walked past. "Never mind, I know the answer to that."
Artie gave her a leering grin. He couldn't stay mad at her, no matter what she did. He leaned over the railing and slapped her playfully on the rump. "Get out there, before I turn you over my knees and spank you."
In turn, she stuck her tongue out at him. "You wish."
In five seconds the music could no longer be heard, drowned out by whistles and catcalls. That's what happened every time Esther stepped on stage. There was something about her that was magical, something that made every man in the audience want her. Tall for the times, about five foot six, and stacked was the only way she could be described. Gorgeous legs, long blonde hair, and built to wear a short, short, fringe-covered mini dress. Tonight's was green in color, and when she moved it sparkled like emeralds. As the noise from the audience died down Artie could hear the music again. He ground his teeth; he hated that go-go music. Since this was a go-go club named The Working Girl, he didn't have much choice in what was played for Esther and the rest of the girls to dance to. If that's what it was called these days.
He walked over to the side of the stage to watch her. Nobody should be able to move like that, and he grinned again. She was beautiful, and sweet, and she lit up when she smiled. That's why he hated to see her dating Harley Franklin. Not that Harley mistreated her – he knew Artie would never stand for that. It's just that . . . well, Harley was a punk of the first order. He was a numbers runner, an enforcer and an errand boy for Jimmie Kline. Kline was a small-time hood who was trying to be a big-time hood, but he made too many boneheaded moves to succeed.
Artie had warned her, so many times he couldn't count them all. She smiled sweetly with every warning and kissed him on the cheek. "You worry too much, Artie. Harley would never do anything to hurt me." He only hoped she was right.
The music ended and Esther finished her first set. She ran off the stage, cheeks flushed and laughing. "Oh, boy, what a rush!" she exclaimed. "Is it my imagination or did they sound extra loud tonight?"
He smiled and agreed with her. "For you they always sound loud. Now go change costumes, and get one without a broken zipper. The red one, maybe. It always looks nice."
She shook her head as she told him, "Can't, Artie. It's at the cleaners. I know, the black one."
He caught her by the arm as she turned to go. "Not the black one, not tonight."
"Why? What's wrong with the black one? They always go wild when I wear the black one."
"No, Esther. Black is bad luck. And it's Friday the thirteenth. Please wear something else," Artie practically begged her.
She couldn't refuse him when he looked at her with those eyes. "Alright, Artie. The silver one. How's that?"
"Good, silver is good. Now get going, meshugenah. Break will be over before you change." Esther hurried off down the hallway, and Artie watched her go. Julie was out on stage and the crowd was still yelling for Esther. That's the way it always was. No matter who he sent out to dance to the God-awful music he had to play, no one was as popular.
Esther got to the dressing room and slithered out of the green-fringed mini. She sat down in bra and panties and lit a cigarette, then took a long drag and blew the smoke out into the air. She was tired and her feet hurt, but that was the price you paid for trying to dance and shimmy in high heels. Right now she'd already forgotten how loud they'd yelled, how they'd thrown money at her onstage. She just wanted to sit still for a few minutes and smoke her cigarette. Artie wouldn't begrudge her one cigarette, would he? Maybe, but she was going to smoke it anyway.
When the cigarette was finished she grabbed the silver fringed mini and wiggled into it. This one zipped without any problem. Then she picked up the brush and ran it through her hair. A new coat of lipstick, one last glance in the mirror, and she was on her way back down the hallway. The wise-crack on her lips just to show Artie she still cared died in her throat when she saw his body bent over the stage railing, a knife sticking out of his back. She screamed and kept on screaming until everyone was out in the hallway; they had to wrap her in a bathrobe and put her in an ambulance to Sisters of Mercy Hospital. Nothing could stop her until the doctor came in and gave her a sedative. Only then did the screaming stop and she drifted off into some kind of delusional sleep, where she was dancing at The Working Girl and Artie was watching her from backstage.
For a minute when she first woke the next morning she forgot what she'd seen the night before. Esther looked around the room and nothing was familiar. Then the door opened and a nurse entered with a tray and everything came rushing back. The green dress with the broken zipper, Artie's harmless pat on her backside, the cheering and whistling from the audience, her cigarette, the God-awful sight of Artie bent over the railing with a knife in his back. A scream rose in her throat and she forced it back down; she didn't want to end up sedated again. The nurse was unfailingly cheerful. "Well, Miss Gordon, how are we this morning?"
"Much better, thank you. When can I leave?" She wasn't much better, but she knew enough not to argue with the hospital staff.
"Well, the doctor needs to check you over, and I understand the police have some questions they'd like to ask you. I would think you'll probably be home by early afternoon."
"I hope so. I've got to be at The Working Girl . . . " her voice trailed off as she remembered that she didn't have to be at the go-go bar ever again. Artie was dead; as far as she was concerned she was unemployed. That schmuck Jimmie Kline actually owned the bar, but without Artie there was no club, no job. He was her mother and father, friend and confidant, her big brother, her protector. She couldn't go back there without him.
"Would you like some breakfast?" the nurse asked in that same saccharine tone of voice.
"Coffee, please. Black."
"Oh, you have to eat something, Miss Gordon. You can't go without breakfast. Why don't I bring you some scrambled eggs and bacon?"
Esther knew she wouldn't win an argument, so she nodded her head. Anything to make the woman go away. And that she did, finally. Esther looked out the window from her hospital bed and cried.
Thirty minutes later someone else brought in a tray. It held the aforementioned bacon and eggs and, thank God, coffee. She drank the coffee down and tried to ignore the food; her mind didn't want to eat, but her stomach reminded her she didn't have lunch or dinner the previous day, and the bacon smelled good. She gave in and took a bite, then another, and before she knew it she'd eaten all of it. That's when she first noticed the orange juice, and she drank that before someone could appear to take it all away.
She'd just finished the last of the orange juice when there was a knock at her door. "Come in," she called, and found herself face to face with a fortyish man, tall and blonde, and she assumed him to be a policeman. No doctor that had ever treated her looked like that.
"Miss Gordon? I'm Lieutenant Gilmore of the North Hollywood Division of the LAPD. Do you feel like answering some questions for me?"
"I'll do my best, Lieutenant."
"I understand you were the one that found the body?"
Not Artie. 'The body.' "Yes, I was."
"You're a dancer at The Working Girl?"
"I was."
"Did you quit?" The Lieutenant asked far more gently than he usually questioned witnesses.
Esther shook her head. "No, but there's no club without Artie. I won't go back there."
"Why don't you tell me what happened?"
The dancer cleared her throat. "I had just come off the stage and was headed back to change costumes."
"Costumes?"
"Yes, sir, I danced in a fringed mini-dress. I have several colors of dresses, each with fringe on them, and I change in between sets. They're usually soaked when I'm done with a set. Artie and I kidded around with each other for a few minutes; then I hurried back to the dressing room."
"Let me stop you. How long is a set and how long in between sets? What color was your first dress and what was the next one?"
"A set usually lasts twenty minutes, and we had fifteen or twenty minutes between sets. At least we were supposed to. When the crowd was crazy like last night I was lucky to get ten minutes. Just long enough to dry off, change dresses and smoke a cigarette." She looked up at him plaintively. "You don't happen to have a cigarette, do you?"
"I do, Miss Gordon." Gil pulled out a pack of Camels and offered her one, then lit it for her. Esther inhaled deeply and blew out a cloud of smoke.
"Green, then silver. The dresses, I mean."
"Thank you. Please continue."
She took another drag on the cigarette and blew out more smoke. "I got out of the green dress and dried off, then smoked a cigarette. Then I got dressed in the silver mini and hurried back down the hallway. When I got to the backstage area I found . . . Artie."
"And that's when you started screaming?"
Esther nodded. "I couldn't help it. Artie was my friend, my protector, just everything. To see him like that . . . it was too much."
"Did you recognize the knife?" Gilmore wondered if she'd even had time to look at the knife before she fell apart.
"No. It was just . . . a knife." Esther stubbed out what was left of the cigarette. "Is that all, Lieutenant?"
"For now, Miss Gordon. I wish I had enough officers to put you under twenty-four-hour guard, but I don't."
"Why? Why would you want to?"
"Because we think whoever killed Mr. Feldner believes you saw the murder." Gil thought for a minute. "I might have someone that could protect you properly. Can I use your phone?"
Esther hadn't even seen the phone sitting across the room. "Sure."
The Lieutenant picked up the receiver and dialed a number. "Stu, it's Gil."