Chapter 2

July 1947

[Assassinat (take 1) | Miles Davis]

Friday afternoon arrived, and with it the threat of a rare tropical storm approaching Metropolis. If you believed everything the weatherman said, and you were a chump if you did, a storm the likes of which Metropolis hadn't seen in decades was simmering in the Atlantic waiting to make her move. It always struck me as ironic that they named tropical storms after women. Sure, women could cause a lot of mayhem, but in my experience, it was the kind that only showed on the inside. The kind of damage that only an expert eye could uncover. When you wanted destruction the likes of a hurricane, chaos everywhere the untrained eye could see, that took a man's hand. I didn't know what stormy weather lay ahead of us any better than the weatherman, but for right now I was enjoying the sudden drop in heat and humidity - the calm before the storm.

Normally, we'd have concocted a cover story for me: reporter, new assistant to Mrs. Anderson, chorus girl. But I had the feeling the situation was more complicated than Mrs. Anderson let on. I suggested we play it by ear and see which melodies stuck. Standing at the front entrance to the Soirées Noires nightclub, I caught a glimpse of myself reflected off the poster case announcing that the dulcet tones of Britt Noir could be heard here four nights a week. I was dressed in a crisp new navy suit, a regular Lois Lane. My shoulder pads were stiff and my hair, done up in reverse curls and a chignon, was equally so. I took the three steps down from the street level and glanced at my watch, rehearsals for the Noir's show started at 2. I was 10 minutes early, enough time to look around the joint and make myself familiar.

The street façade was deceptive; the club interior was two stories high, cavernous and air-conditioned cool. I walked in on the mezzanine, which was dominated by massive twin mahogany and brass bars, one on either side of the door. Lit up like Tiffany Christmas trees, the two walls of colored liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes promised no drink request was too outlandish and there were no legitimate excuses for walking around empty handed. The far end of the mezzanine led to staircases that gracefully spiraled up to the second story balcony, which was wall-to-wall with white tablecloth covered tables.

The mezzanine steps descended to the first floor, home to more dinner tables and a polished parquet dance floor big enough for the seventh infantry battalion to do formation drills. Impressive as the dance floor was, it was the red velvet curtain-draped stage that demanded your attention. The stage easily held a full orchestra and a grand piano, with room left over for dancing and singing beauties. A single gleaming silver microphone stood center stage, making it obvious there was one particular beauty to whom this shrine was meant to pay homage.

Union Station had nothing on the hustle and bustle of the Soirées Noires nightclub in the afternoon. Everywhere I looked, people were polishing the brass, shining the silver, and dusting off the crystal. I must have lost track of time because when I looked up, the orchestra and piano man were taking their seats on the stage. As if by some command I missed, the preparations halted and the staff of the Soirées Noires found a chair to sit in or a wall to lean against. Not wanting to offend, pulled up a chair next to the mezzanine railing.

Dressed in pleated brown pants, beige short-sleeved shirt, and matching plaid bowtie Blaine Anderson, AKA Blaine Noir, strode out onto the stage and began speaking quietly with the orchestra. Mr. Anderson's jet black curls were fighting being tamed straight, a rakish part left of center on his head. Even across the football field dance floor between where I sat and the stage, the gleam of Mr. Anderson's pearly whites beneath his pencil thin black moustache put your dentist's smile to shame. Gesturing with his back to the audience, the orchestra watched Mr. Anderson attentively.

There must have been a sound offstage because all heads, including Mr. Anderson's, turned to look stage left. He smiled and nodded; the house lights dimmed. From somewhere off the stage, a silky voice began.

[Why Don't You Do Right? | Amy Irving]

You had plenty money, 1922

The upright bass began its low toned walk and the orchestra snapped their fingers in time. Mrs. Anderson, in a white cap sleeved blouse and long blue high-waisted skirt, with a slit that showed off the loveliness of her legs, stepped slowly from behind the curtain. Mr. Anderson turned to watch, snapping his own fingers. If the Andersons' eyes met, neither of their faces showed it. The chill between the two was enough to make an Eskimo reach for his parka.

You let other women make a fool of you
Why don't you do right, like some other men do?
Get out of here and get me some money too

She took her time slinking to center stage. Even without her trademark sparkling red dress, stage make-up, and jewels, the effect was dramatic, and I found myself holding my breath watching her walk. The drummer's brushes swished across the top of the snare. The piano man's head bobbed and his fingers danced joyfully across the ivories. Mrs. Anderson shot him a wink before caressing the microphone with both her hand and her purring song.

You're sittin' there and wonderin' what it's all about
You ain't got no money, they will put you out
Why don't you do right, like some other men do?
Get out of here and get me some money too

I tore my eyes away from the stage to look around. I hadn't been the only one lost in rapt attention, no one was looking anywhere but that stage. Doors on the far end of the mezzanine level opened and what looked like the kitchen staff lined up along the balcony to get an earful. When Mrs. Anderson took the stage, the rest of the world gladly ceased to exist. Content I wasn't neglecting my duties, I turned back to the stage.

If you had prepared twenty years ago
You wouldn't be a-wanderin' now from door to door
Why don't you do right, like some other men do?
Get out of here and get me some money too

Get out of here and get me some money too
Why don't you do right?
Like some other men do?

The drummer silenced his cymbal and the place was dead quiet. No one moved, still caught up in the spell of Mrs. Anderson's song.

"Okay!" Mr. Anderson said clapping his hands twice, more to command attention than for applause. "Pretty good for a first time through. Britt, honey, watch your timing after that first line, there should be a pronounced… pause." Mr. Anderson smiled and winked as he spoke to his wife, not a drop of affection in his words.

This must have been par for the course, as Mrs. Anderson replied with smile that wouldn't fool a blind man from a mile away, "Thank you, dear. Perhaps you might watch bringing the band in too late as well?"

"Honey," Blaine said through his teeth, "let's not forget which of us is a trained musician and which of us gets to stand out front just because she looks better in a skirt."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short, dear," Mrs. Anderson replied as she walked back to her starting mark. "I've seen you in a skirt. You definitely have the better legs."

I smiled to myself. Mrs. Anderson, what a sharp tongue you have. The orchestra did their best to conceal their amusement, snickering like naughty school boys.

Blaine chuckled, shook his head, and clapped slowly, raising his hands high so every one could see. "Consider yourselves the first to see the comedy stylings of Noir and Noir. Burns and Allen beware. Enough tomfoolery. Places!"

The Noir Orchestra, Blaine, and Brittany ran through their set a few times more. Britt did a dance rehearsal with her half dozen chorus girls while Blaine tried out a new drummer who had me trying on a headache for size. Keeping my eyes on the stage, I took the opportunity to poll the masses on the state of the union- the Anderson union. The tableau that they'd just played out on stage said their marriage was rocky and neither of them was trying to keep it a secret. Asking around the joint confirmed my suspicions.

Checking the time, I ask the bartender the location of the nearest phone. He pointed me towards the hatcheck on the mezzanine. I dialed the office and checked in with Tina, our secretary. She told me Artie was in place ready to surveil the dinner crowd that would be arriving shortly. I'd get to enjoy the show from inside and make sure the Andersons left in one piece, while Artie feathered his nest in the car parked across the street. Normally getting the stakeout would have been a losing pony, but with the Metropolis heat turned down low, a ballgame on the radio, the moon and your flask full, I wasn't feeling so bad for Artie tonight.

II

Compared to the fireworks of rehearsal, the two stage shows that night were something of a letdown. Although the Andersons hadn't been shy about sharing the frigid climes of their marriage during rehearsal, in front of an audience, they were all smiles. If I hadn't watched the rehearsal earlier, I'd have bet a month's rent they were the epitome of wedded bliss. I hadn't given either one of them enough credit for their acting ability. They were the perfect couple: from their matching outfits, Mrs. Anderson's infamous red gowns and Mr. Anderson's trademark red-rimmed glasses; down to the slow waltz they did off the stage to a standing ovation at the end of the evening.

I ordered a scotch when the last call bell tolled, figuring after a bone-dry evening of surveillance, all that was left was to see Mrs. Anderson home safely, and that didn't require steady hands. Downing my drink in two gulps, I headed backstage to begin my home escort services for the night. I tapped the shoulder of the first person I saw and he pointed me towards her dressing room. I knocked, noting Mr. Anderson's dressing room was right next door, probably adjoining.

"Who is it?" Mrs. Anderson called from within.

"It's me, Mrs. Anderson, Santana Lopez. Are you dressed? May I come in?"

"Santana, come on in. Have a seat," she said, unlocking the door and gesturing to an ivory chaise lounge in the center of the room. "And please, call me Britt," Mrs. Anderson chided. I stepped in and closed the door behind me, turning to see Mrs. Anderson seated in a plush white robe at a dressing table. "I wondered if you actually showed," Mrs. Anderson said, looking at me in the mirror as she removed her stage make-up. "I was prepared to call Mr. Abrams tomorrow and tell him you stood me up." She smiled as she turned to face me and looked me up and down as she'd done at the office the night before. "You clean up very nicely, Santana."

"You say that like you've seen me dirty," I replied, taking a quick inventory of the nearly completely white dressing room. "Speaking of which, you must pay a fortune to keep this place clean. I feel like I should've left my shoes outside."

"No, it's all right," Mrs. Anderson smiled. "The red gowns were Blaine's idea. He said they'd make us more memorable. Between the red clothes and the noise, this is my little sanctuary. My senses aren't assaulted here," Mrs. Anderson said, gesturing at the room with her hand. "And I meant that you look good in your suits, men's or women's. That's a talent." Mrs. Anderson turned and continued her make-up removal.

"Thanks. And for your peace of mind, I've been enjoying your humble little establishment since rehearsal this afternoon. Artie's been casing the place from outside since before the first show."

"Very professional."

"That's the impression we're trying to make, Mrs. Anderson," I said. "You asked us to be discreet and voilá. Although it would be easier by a mile if Mr. Anderson was in on it."

"No!" Mrs. Anderson said, turning away from her mirror towards me, looking distressed. "Blaine would say I was wasting money. He's convinced the threatening letters are some gag."

"But you think they're serious?"

"I do. In fact I haven't slept a decent night since we started getting the letters." She turned to face the mirror again and spoke to my reflection. She stroked a brush through her gold-colored hair. "Would you be a dear and mix me a headache powder from the medicine cabinet?" she said pointing with her brush to the small sink and mirror next to the door.

I opened the cabinet and looked for the familiar blue and white packets. "Say, Mrs. Anderson, where are you from originally?" I asked looking back over my shoulder at her reflection in the mirror. "Most people from this part of the country use aspirin tablets instead of powder."

"A regular Sherlock Holmes. Where do you think I'm from? Sleuth that out," she chuckled. The sly grin reflected in the mirror was setting off warning bells. A smile like that belongs to a woman that would just as soon break your heart as look at you, familiar territory.

"Well, I would have said points continental," I started, "but now I'm thinking Southern." I took one last glance through the cabinet and was about to tell her she was out of headache powders when I noticed her purse balanced on the corner of the sink, unclasped. It was the same one she'd had with her in the office last night and I could see the tip of a blue and white foil packet, her headache powder, on one side.

"Oh, you're good. Very good. Can you keep a secret? Promise not to tell?" she asked.

I tugged at the tip of the packet in her purse and when it didn't budge I snuck my hand in. Instead of the hairbrush, compact or tube of lipstick one might expect to find in a gal's purse, I felt the cold barrel of a revolver. Looking over my shoulder, she didn't seem to have seen me, so I recovered quickly. "Can I keep a secret? Sure, sure, I never tell unless someone asks," I said, pulling out the headache powder and closing the purse.

"You're a funny one Santana. Blaine likes to pretend we're from the big city, but really, I grew up in a small town outside of Phoenix. Lived there until I was 20 years old. Then I ran away to Metropolis. That's how I met Blaine. Surprised?" she said looking at me in the mirror.

"Surprised? No," I said, pouring the contents of the packet into a small amount of water and swirling it before placing it on her dressing table. "It takes a lot more to surprise me." That was half true; it did take a lot to surprise me, but finding a revolver in Mrs. Anderson's purse had certainly done the trick. "So things turned sour in Arizona did they?"

"There was a man in Arizona," Mrs. Anderson said, pausing to drink her headache concoction. "That's why I'm in Metropolis."

I glanced down at my watch.

"Am I boring you, Santana or are you afraid of turning into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight?" Mrs. Anderson jabbed. She stood and walked behind the shoulder-high folding screen in the rear corner of the room. She draped her robe over the top of the screen.

"A pumpkin, Mrs. Anderson? I've been called far worse after midnight." As Mrs. Anderson got dressed, I asked, "Mind if I smoke?"

"Would you step outside please? Like you said, it costs a fortune to keep it clean, even I don't smoke in here," she replied, stepping out from behind the screen dressed in a figure-hugging silk dress with a floral print. "You like?"

"Might be a shorter list to tell you what you don't look good in, Mrs. Anderson," I said as I stepped outside her dressing room and lit up a cigarette. Finding the gun in Mrs. Anderson's purse changed my thinking on this whole caper. Maybe she wasn't the little missus cowering in a corner after all. She could certainly duke it out word for word with Mr. Anderson, maybe she had plans to do the same with our mysterious penpal. A client afraid for her life and packing heat was not a good combination. Unpredictable was putting it mildly.

III

With the Andersons safely back home in their apartment, Artie and I stopped by the office before heading home ourselves. We parked the car and for once, took the elevator up to the sixth floor landing of our office. As we'd been in the car on the drive from the Anderson's, we were quiet in the elevator.

"So what's on your mind beside your pretty little curls, Santana?" Artie teased, flicking one of my ringlets with a finger.

"Hey! Quit it! I'm "dressed appropriately" or don't you remember saying that yesterday?"

"You know I was kidding. I'm just teasing because I haven't seen you all dolled up in a good long while. I like it."

"Lay off it, Artie," I said stepping out of the elevator on our floor. I was in no mood to be teased. Finding that gun in Mrs. Anderson's bag had me feeling like I didn't know what was going on and I didn't like it when I didn't know what was going on.

"Don't be mad, let's kiss and make up?" Artie said, puckering his lips like a guppy you won at the fair.

"Why don't you go kiss a light socket, hot lips?" I said unlocking the office door and heading towards my office.

We both put away our notepads and packed to leave for the night. From my office I called out, "Say Artie, what do you know about Mrs. Anderson?"

"What do you mean? Married to Blaine Anderson, resident of the West side. Used to get cut in half by her husband for a living. Get it? Magician's assistant? Get it?" Artie laughed.

"Corny, Artie, corny. No, I mean, like where is she from? What do her parents do? Does she have brothers or sisters? Or Blaine for that matter what do we know about him except that he used to saw his wife in two for a living?"

"Oh, Santana! I'm so glad you asked. Let me just sit down here at my magic typewriter and type 'Britt and Blaine Anderson'. My little invisible minions will run out and get the lowdown in seconds and get back to me," he threw his hands up, exasperated. "Geez, Lopez, it's the 20th century not the 30th."

I aimed a rubber band from my collection squarely at his forehead. If I'd been a better shot, Artie would've been sporting a nice red raised reminder about being snarky.

"Tomorrow, can we get Tina to work her magic?" I asked, closing my office door behind me.

"She's on the case. Probably has a copy of their birth certificates by now. Give her another day and I'll bet you 3 to 1 we'll know how many cavities they have. I think we've got time, next to nothing happened today. I'm starting to think Mr. Anderson is right and the letters are a hoax. We just need to find the line between reassuring Mrs. Anderson and taking her money for no good reason."

When I didn't reply, Artie asked, "Why, Lopez? What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking there's more to this than we think. Mrs. Anderson's a charmer, she could cash a $7 bill at a bank. I just wanna know the whole story. Before it's too late."

A/N: Thank you so much for the positive feedback and suggestions! I love to hear your thoughts!

As always, thanks to Nayshen, my beta Blueashke, my Vampie, and Snixx! Big s'up to NEMO who gifted me this idea to start.

And Foss ;)