Chapter Five

October 1947

[Final (Take 3) | Miles Davis]

It sounds like a nursery rhyme, four bottles of whiskey, sitting on a shelf. You can tell by the label on the first one that it's way out of your league, your wallet blisters just looking at it. The last one gets eliminated quick, too. You're in the mood, but for something kind of special, more special than that one. You look at the labels on the remaining two, trying to guess what, how, and how long you're gonna pay for this. Just hold your breath and choose. Something about that one draws you in. You're tentative, at first. You sip, savor, you notice the complexities. That's what you call faults you love enough to overlook, complexities. End all the handshaking, winks, and innuendo, you're all in now. Swallow it down, it burns, but it makes you smile. And just you wait. The warm glow, you feel it? Like sunshine in your veins. You can't wait for that second glass. It's just as good. No, it's better. It's better because you knew what to expect and you dove in with no reservations, not holding back a thing. The sun burns brighter. The world is lighter. The second followed by the third and fourth and then... you tilt the bottle upside down. The end. That was good while it lasted. Now it's just an empty bottle. But that's love, right?

I lay on the glove leather couch in my office, blowing smoke from a nearly defeated cigar, and compiling a travelogue of the dust motes sailing through the stray sunbeams the blinds failed to contain. It was 8AM on an October morning; it should have been chilly and dark. Instead, it was so bright out I'd had to salvage a pair of scratched Ray-Bans from the bottom of my drawer for the walk to work. The unseasonably warm sunny Metropolis weather was a stark contrast to the wind and rain that staged the Anderson verdict just yesterday. If one was prone to that kind of thinking, it was a heavenly nod of approval from the powers that be. I was face-up and thinking the Beast Metropolis just took a catnap, letting Justice snatch a rare win.

I'd shared a drink or four with Puckerman and Mike to celebrate the courtroom victory yesterday, then stopped by to tell Artie the good news. It was good news, but I didn't feel like dancing about it. Sure, sure, everyone had a happy ending, Puckerman, Mike, and Britt Anderson, most of all; everyone except Artie and Blaine Anderson. And with her husband's killer still on the loose, how long was Mrs. Anderson's happy going to last? For now, Britt Anderson was free and for good or bad, I played a big role in that. I slouched down a few more inches, resting my head on the arm of the couch, wrinkling my slacks the best way I knew how. I didn't have any clients to see today, I didn't have any clients to see this week, so it didn't really matter.

I tried to jigsaw the pieces of the puzzle together, with not the slightest clue what the big picture on the front of the box was supposed to be. I was determined to make something of it, I owed that much to Artie.

My scratched record of a brain keeps coming back to 'same day'. Britt Anderson hired us to find out who was sending threatening letters to her husband. The day after, he ends up dead and my partner ends up shot. Both shot. Same day. Same gun? Mrs. Anderson has a gun. Did she really shoot Mr. Anderson? She couldn't have shot Artie. She didn't leave the Soirées Noires after I got there that night. And she had no reason to shoot Artie even if she had the opportunity. All this the same day Lauren, the waitress, says Mr. Anderson is planning to surprise the Mrs. with something. Something in a steamer chest he pulls in through the back alley. Same day.

"Seen this?" Tina said, coming through my office door holding a copy of the Metropolis Daily in one hand, two cups of her famous coffee in the other. The mere aroma of Tina's coffee was a tonic to the tired soul. The taste was a silk-smooth buttery whisper for which I'd never found, nor was I seeking, rivals. Tina, in a sunny yellow and white plaid dress, placed the coffee and the newspaper on the low coffee table in front of my couch roost. Before I could protest, she stepped around the couch and tugged open the blinds, filling the room with painfully bright light which was amplified by her kindred spirited dress. "How many plants are you gonna kill before you realize they need sunlight to grow?" Tina fussed with the forlorn philodendron hanging above my head in the window while she clucked her tongue.

"When are you going to find one that grows on moonlight?" I answered, reaching up to snap the blinds shut again. "Or whiskey?"

"Or smoke," Tina said, cutting her eyes at the stubbed out cigar butt in the ashtray. "I thought you were quitting?"

"I was. I did. Quitting felt so good I thought I'd start up so I could do it again."

Tina shook her head and moved the ashtray to push the paper and coffee closer. "Take a look."

"What's the word?" I said, reaching for the steaming coffee, avoiding the newspaper. I wasn't itching to know what any Metropolis rag had to say about the trial. Every paper that had ripped Britt Anderson's personal life to shreds to make a nickel before the trial was now trumpeting the 'Return of Justice' to Metropolis, 'Metropolis' Lady in Red Prevails' or some equally condescending headline written by "seasoned" reporters. My, my, how the collective sentiment of Metropolis turned on a dime, or rather a nickel.

Tina pulled the paper back and read aloud an article about the legal wizardry of Mike Chang. The same talking heads that suggested he might be criminally negligent in his defense of Britt Anderson were now lauding his "daring defense tactics". He never called a witness, least of all his own client, and in a move that must have horrified a profession that prided itself on bluster, he rarely spoke more than a few words. Instead he carefully dismantled Israel's case, witness at a time, and in the process made the Metropolis police and DA's office look as useless as spitting lying down. Mike was receiving job offers and speaking invitations from every law school and legal firm in the country. His time had finally come; another 'W' for the good guys.

Tina finished reading from the paper and reached into her pocket retrieving a square black envelope and a rectangular manila one. "This was under the door this morning," she said placing the black envelope on the table, "and this is from the coroner's office." She placed the manila envelope atop the black envelope.

Curiosity compelled me to try the mysterious one first. Picking up the glossy black envelope, I strode across the room to the letter opener sitting on the edge of my desk. With a flick of my wrist, I sliced open the envelope and retrieved a piece of thick red cardstock from inside. "Well, well, it's a red letter day; an invitation to Mrs. Anderson's welcome home party at the Soirées Noires tonight," I said, holding up the red card. "Wanna be my invited guest?"

Tina cringed, "Will Sugar Motta be singing?"

"It doesn't say," I chuckled, flipping the card over and feeling the raised lettered 'SN' logo of the Soirées Noires printed on the back.

"You go and have fun. I think I'd rather spend the night with Artie. "The Shadow" is on tonight. He never missed that radio show." Tina smiled determinedly. "Never will either." I smiled, sitting down behind my desk and flipping open the box of cigars Puckerman had sent over to celebrate his promotion to Specials Editor. Tina was right, come hell or high water, Artie at least made sure he was there to roar the opening lines of the show: "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!" And if I had a penny for every night he drove me to distraction whistling Le Rouet d'Omphale, the theme music, I'd be living the life in lush tropical Havana, not Metropolis.

"I'll tell you all about the party in the morning," I replied, trying pathetically to repeat the cigar lighting ritual I'd watch Puckerman perform a few weeks before. I'd literally set the one from this morning on fire trying to light up.

"Which reminds me! One second," Tina said heading for the door with one finger raised. She returned a moment later with her steno pad in hand. "Burt's Auto called, he said, 'the car is ready.' What does that mean?" Tina looked up from her notepad. Seeing me still struggling with the cigar she marched over, "Oh, give me that!" she exclaimed, snatching the cigar and lighter from my hands. I frowned looking down at the trashcan next to my desk, awaiting the impending arrival of the cigar and lighter. After a beat, I looked up to see Tina snip the end of the cigar with my scissors and check the draw by inhaling through the freshly cut cigar. She gracefully rolled the cigar between her fingers, turning it above the lighter, careful not to let the flame scorch the cigar wrapper. With the end evenly toasted, she blew on it, and took a long draw, exhaling puffs of smoke as the burning end of the cigar flashed orange. Without a word, she handed over the cigar, set the lighter back down on my desk, and continued reading from her steno pad. "He said with the discount for taking care of that 'unpleasant business' with his former partner, you owe him $250. What's that about?"

Looking from Tina to the perfectly lit cigar burning in my hand, I sat mouth agape.

"Santana! What car?"

"Celine. She's out of the auto hospital," I said, taking a drag on the cigar that made my eyes water.

"You fixed Celine? Why?"

I shrugged, "Artie'll need his car. Until then I'll take care of her." Tina gave me a smile that could blind an angel and hugged me so tight I groaned.

Retrieving the paper and her coffee from the table, she started towards the door. "One more thing. You asked me to talk to the Andersons' former accountant. He said there was never much cash in either of their names. No big deposits or big withdrawals since they arrived in Metropolis, as far as he could tell. He has no idea where the money Mr. Anderson used to buy the club came from, where it stayed, or where it went."

"So either he spent it all buying the club and their house or he was keeping it off the books. And the money they make from the club? That's missing too?" I asked, blowing a misshapen smoke ring into the air.

"Sounds like it, unless they don't make very much. There's enough to buy groceries and pay the electric and phone for a few months. That's all," Tina shrugged. "And now he's dead and she has no money to speak of, poor thing."

"Mrs. Anderson doesn't strike me as a girl who has to rely on sympathy to get by, she'll be fine. The Soirées Noires'll probably rake in double what it did before. What a waste he took it with him though," I said, turning towards the window and lifting a slat of the blinds. "He's the richest stiff in the cemetery." Squeezing the thick cigar between my fingers, I turned back to Tina who was standing in the doorway. "Anything else?"

"I wasn't sure how much you wanted to find since...it's over," Tina replied.

"I thirst for knowledge, Tina. Besides, how's Mrs. Anderson going to pay us for 3 months' work if we don't find the money?"

"True! I'll make some more calls," Tina said turning to leave.

"Tina? About the cigar? Are you gonna tell me how you knew how to-"

"No," Tina replied and walked out of the office.

Part 2

"Scotch on the rocks." The red vested bartender behind the imposing mahogany bar gave a wince of a smile and a sharp nod before turning his back. I leaned in, resisting the urge to rest my foot on the brass rail running the length of the mammoth bar. This was less a matter of decorum and more a simple function of the fact that my cocktail dress fit too snug to allow such a pose to be comfortable for more than a few seconds. Tina was becoming a pro at dolling me up, and I had to admit I enjoyed the results. The emerald-green fitted silk dress with a wrap waist and a plunging neckline felt a half size too small, but Tina assured me the contrary. The appreciative smiles I'd received on the 20 yard walk from the valet stand to one of the twin bars in the Soirées Noires seemed to confirm her assertion. In the rare few inches of bar mirror not obscured by the glass menagerie of liquor bottles, I eyed my reflection. Driving Artie's Celine with the top down had not been overly disruptive to Tina's carefully coiffed creation, my hair, which was parted at the side and hung loose, still in some semblance of order, on my shoulders. I smiled to myself wondering which would rile Artie more, the fact that the damage to Celine necessitated sacrificing her hardtop for a convertible or the fact that I'd left her with the eager young valet at the curb.

"Howard? Make it top shelf. And anything Miss Lopez wants is on the house," a voice I knew very well drifted past my shoulders, tickling my ears. I turned to face the glittering vision that was Mrs. Britt Anderson. The Dom Perignon-colored gown was only a blush darker than her skin, as evidenced by a diamond shaped patch of décolletage below her throat. Her blonde waves played a provocative peekaboo; Veronica Lake would be green with envy.

"Miss Sugar said no open tabs on the house or otherwise," Howard wrinkled his forehead, somehow shifting all of his facial features to the bottom third of his face, in sincere consternation.

"Who hired you, Mr. Bamboo?" Her dark blues focused piercingly on a now visibly shrinking Mr. Howard Bamboo.

"Yes, Mrs. Anderson," Howard said, stepping on a small stool to retrieve a seventeen year old bottle of Glenlivet.

"You'd think I'd been gone three years instead of three months," Britt Anderson shrugged, turning her pools of blue towards me. I wondered inwardly how many lemmings had willingly met their demise there.

"Thank you," I replied to Howard as he set my drink upon the bar and stroked a rag in circular motions across the countertop to propel himself away. "And thank you," I nodded towards Mrs. Anderson, "for the invitation and the drink." A silky mix of caramel and fruit traipsed across my tongue as I took a sip from my tumbler.

"It seems the least I can do. I owe you my life," Britt Anderson leveled her potent gaze at me, her hand squeezing my forearm. As she leaned in, I felt the warmth of her skin radiating against my cheek. "Thank you, Santana Lopez," she whispered, her lip grazing my ear, her voice low and setting to hum a tuning fork in my chest of which I was suddenly aware. My ears flamed Rudolph red and twice as bright. My skin riddled with enough bumps to put Mama Lopez's Christmas goose to shame. My head was drunk on her gardenia perfume, and I was momentarily awash in Britt Anderson. I shuddered to think what she could do if she put any effort to it.

I shifted away and took another sip of my scotch. Either the sudden rise in body temperature or too much ice was responsible for the sinful dilution of my single malt symphony. I quickly tossed drink to tonsils and caught Howard's eye. "A double. Neat, please?" There was only one kind of drunk I had intended tonight and if Britt Anderson was paying I should get industrious about it. "Are you on stage tonight?" I asked as the bumps on my skin and vibration behind my ribs subsided.

Britt Anderson seemed to consider me thoughtfully and then replied, "Right after Sugar's set. Will you stay? I'd like you to hear."

"No offense, but could you sing before Sugar?" I lifted a fresh glass to my lips.

"Oh! Don't say that!" Mrs. Anderson shook her head.

"I can't be the first person who's said that to you?" I said looking at her incredulously. "You have heard her sing?"

"Sugar is a lifelong friend. I couldn't have kept the club without her stepping in. And the only payment she's asked is to be partner, which amounts to co-owner of a stack of red ink."

"That, and to murder a few songs. If Hudson were here I'm reasonably sure she'd be arrested for loitering in front of an open microphone," I added. She swatted my arm and we both looked out onto the parquet dance floor a few steps below. Waiters, waitresses, and cigarette girls alike flitted to and fro; the mood of the Soirées Noires was as effervescent as the flowing prosecco. The grins were wider, the steps were lighter and everyone was taking advantage of the bartenders' hands being justly heavier. Britt Anderson must have seen it too. To no one in particular, she smiled.

Turning away from the floor and assessing me from head to toe unhurriedly, Mrs. Anderson said, "You look lovely, tonight, Miss Santana Lopez." I coughed quietly, hoping to disrupt the resonance of my tuning fork.

"As do you, Mrs. Anderson," I replied, having visually confirmed this several times in the last few minutes.

A bell chimed, and she looked up at the clock above the front door. "We're on in a few. I need to change. If you can't stay for my set, may I come by your office later tonight?"

"Why certainly, Mrs. Anderson, my door is always open to you."

"Tonight then, Santana. Enjoy the show." She touched my arm before turning and extending her hand to greet more guests as she made her way backstage.

Tonight then, I thought as I retrieved my cigarette case from inside my purse. As I placed the filter between my lips, flames sparked to life from either side of me, Mike Chang and Noah Puckerman. I nodded, accepting Mike's offer. I inhaled and saw Puckerman raise his eyebrow, silently smacking his lips before returning his lighter to the inside breast pocket of his white dinner jacket. He straightened his black bowtie and tapped the bar twice with two fingers to get Howard the bartender's attention.

"Thank you, my knights in formal evening attire."

"Evening, Santana," Mike said smiling; hands in the pockets of his dark blue suit, ever the lawyer. "You look fantastic tonight."

"Yeah, Lopez, nice to see those legs every once in a while. You should let them out more often," Puckerman said with a smirk, although it was clear his assessment had not ventured anywhere below my waistline. Howard approached and Puckerman ordered, "Another for the lady and make mine the same. Mike?"

"Tonic water," Mike shrugged, "I've got briefs to write tonight."

"Suit yourself. And a tonic water."

"Puckerman, mine's Glenlivet, you may want to try on the price for size before you order a round for the room," I smiled taking another sip.

"Well, well, look who's going places. Make mine a double, barkeep," Puckerman said, sneering playfully at me.

The house lights dimmed twice, signaling the show would begin soon. I set my empty tumbler on the bar, tucking my purse under my arm. "Shall we find a table?" Mike offered the crook of his arm and we turned to face Puckerman whose rapt attention was focused on a freshly blonde woman making eyes at him from the opposite end of the bar. I touched his shoulder and he gave a small wave without turning to look at us. "Bring the drinks?"

"Yeah, yeah," Puckerman said, no doubt surveying her "legs" in her low-cut gown.

Mike chuckled and lifted a hand to signal the hostess. "I was kind of hoping we could talk anyway. Things have been impossible since the trial ended. How are you?" We followed a waitress to the table she indicated with her open palm.

"I've been good. I hear you've been more than good," I tapped a new cigarette on the cover of my cigarette case.

Mike smiled modestly, "I have gotten a lot of positive ink thanks to this trial."

"Thanks to the trial? Thanks to your brilliant defense. Take credit wherever you can, my man. Unarmed pats on the back are rare in Metropolis," I chided, turning to see the members of the Noir Orchestra taking the stage.

"I don't know about brilliant, but successful. I'll agree with that. The publicity's been good to me. I can't complain," Mike said. "Has business picked up for the 'absolute best' private investigator out there?"

I shrugged. To be honest, we'd gotten more than our share of calls from people trying to beat a rock solid rap hoping I was their ticket. When rent was due at the end of the month, I'd have to pick between the lesser of the Metropolis evils beating a path to our door.

"Maybe now isn't the time to talk about it," Mike said, looking conspiratorially over his shoulder, "but I get the feeling…is there something more I should know about?"

At least one very real reason I would never deign to give up smoking for long was the ten second pause it afforded you in awkward conversations. Although it wasn't reflected in a snappy response, I milked this drag for fifteen seconds easy. "What do you mean?" I asked, exhaling.

"The trial. There's more. I know you know more," Mike moved the tea candle between us to the side and leaned forward. "You know you could lose your license if you have knowledge of a crime and don't report it. Let alone the accusation of…," Mike paused, whispering the words as if uttering a foul unforgivable curse upon my mother, "…perjury."

Again, the tip of my cigarette pulsed orange. "You're only responsible for what you know, Mike. Not what I know." Mike didn't take his eyes off of me as he sat back in his seat. The expression on his face left me unsure if it was his impression of the trial that was changing or his impression of me. The fact that he avoided eye contact the rest of the evening made me suspect the latter.

A drum roll began and Puckerman clamored into his chair, setting three glasses on the table. All eyes turned to the stage as a dark haired member of the orchestra stepped center stage and read haltingly from a card in his hand, "Ladies and gentleman, the Soirées Noires is pleased to present, for your-," he paused and looked off stage before continuing, "for your musical pleasure, Miss Sugar Motta." He stepped back from the microphone and retreated to the horns section.

The audience clapped, a sign that most had not been in the club while under Miss Motta's management. As before, a blindingly silver figure hopped to the microphone.

"Well, well, who do we have here?" Puckerman said, grinning, wolf teeth bared.

"Would never argue against your well-honed instincts, Puckerman, but reserve judgment for a few moments more?" I whispered, "You'll thank me."

"Thank you, Metropolis! Thank you! Thank you! I appreciate all of your love, but sadly, tonight is not about me. Tonight is the welcome home party for our falsely maligned Lady in Red, Mrs. Brittany Anderson!" Sugar Motta clapped her hands, clashing her silver bangles, inducing gnashing of teeth. "But before we bring out our lady of the night, I want to dedicate a little song the fellas and I have been working on. To you, Britt, from all of us here at the Soirées Noires." Being a private investigator meant that I was a student of human nature. It didn't take an iota of my powers of observation to see that the Noir Orchestra was visibly uncomfortable. The tugging of ties and shifting in seats was painfully plain from the back of the house.

"Fellas? Hit it!" Sugar Motta commanded.

[I Need A Little Sugar in My Bowl (modified lyrics) | Bessie Smith]

You need a little sugar in your bowl

You want a little sweetness down in your soul

And I could stand some lovin' oh so bad

I feel so lonely, I feel so sad

Whether it was the oddly inappropriate lyrics, the accompanying pelvic motions, or the continual aiming at and missing the correct pitch, the audience quickly joined the Noir orchestra in appetite spoiling discomfort. Puckerman turned and mouthed 'thank you', none too subtly covering his ears with his hands.

You want a little steam on your clothes

Maybe I can fix things up so they'll go

What's the matter Daddy, come on, lemme save your soul

Drop a little sugar in your bowl

I ain't foolin'

Drop a little sugar in your bowl!

With that, the music stopped and a stunned audience of one hundred or more sat stone quiet and as sober faced as in first Sunday mass. Mike Chang had the decency to cover his mouth, concealing his snickering. Noah Puckerman laughed openly. From somewhere in the audience a clap began. Some unspoken word moved through the crowd that clapping, although not too enthusiastic, was the best response to the tonal travesty that had just played out before us on stage. Miss Motta beamed and bowed from the waist. Ever gracious, she framed the orchestra behind her with raised arms, indicating they too should be blamed for the inhumanity we'd just suffered. Although I was prepared, I was equally staggered by Miss Motta's performance. While I did see her lips move again, I didn't hear what Miss Motta said and only realized as I saw the trademark red heels appear stage left that she had introduced Britt Anderson.

Judging by the pink flush of Britt Anderson's cheeks, Sugar Motta's welcome home tribute had not seen the early afternoon rehearsal that the Andersons had made an institution at the Soirées Noires. She hugged Miss Motta and took her place behind the microphone she alone owned despite who dared borrow it. The house rose to shower her with applause.

"My goodness! Thank you!" Mrs. Anderson said quietly into the microphone, visibly moved. She turned away from the audience and the piano player darted to her side to offer his handkerchief. Dabbing at her eyes, she turned to face us. "Thank you," she blinked back tears, "keep that up and my eyes will match this dress in a few minutes more," her soft laugh was echoed by the crowd. "I'm not much for speeches, so, friends, family," she turned her head addressing each corner, each floor, of the Soirées Noires, "I hope you'll find what I'm trying to say in this song." She stepped back from the microphone, gave the slightest nod of her head, and the orchestra strings swelled in response.

[Let Me Sing and I'm Happy | Irving Berlin]

Let me sing a funny song

With crazy words that roll along

And if my song can start you laughing

I'm happy, happy

Let me sing a sad refrain

Of broken hearts who love in vain

And if my song can start you crying

I'm happy

Puckerman turned towards Mike and I. "How's it feel being responsible for freeing the songbird? Pretty good, huh?"

Mike did not return my glance and I deftly maneuvered into the cigarette stall for the third time tonight. Puckerman didn't seem too interested in an answer and returned his attention to the stage.

Let me croon a lowdown blues

That lifts you out of your seat

If my blues can reach your shoes

And start you tapping your feet

I'm happy

The crowd erupted in thunderous, enthusiastic, sincere applause, most standing in ovation. Britt Anderson inclined her head and graciously stepped to the side to direct applause to her accompanists. As the applause slowed, she cradled the silver microphone in her hand once more. "Thank you for all of your support. Thank you for believing in me and giving me the chance to sing for you again." She received more applause in response.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a hostess offering me a piece of paper. I mouthed thank you and glanced down; 'phone call for Miss Lopez'. I looked back towards the coat check; another hostess stood covering the mouthpiece of the phone with her palm and beckoned me. On nights neither Tina nor I would be in the office, I paid for an answering service to direct calls to one of us. We couldn't afford both rent and turning away potential clients. I extinguished my cigarette and stepped away from the table, nodding to Mike and Puckerman. Onstage, Britt Anderson began again. I paused, turning back to the stage. I stood at the top of the mezzanine steps, directly in front of the Lady in Red, only a parquet dance floor between us.

"One last song from me and I'll return the dance floor to you." She shielded her eyes from the stage lights and turned her head as if scanning the audience. Like everyone else in the crowd, I tried to follow her line of vision. "I hope you decided to stay. This one is for you."

[Nearness of You | Ned Washington & Hoagy Carmichael]

It's not the pale moon

That excites me

That thrills and

Delights me,

Oh, no.

It's just the nearness of you.

I scanned the crowd again looking for the intended recipient. Several heads seemed to sway to the music, but no one looked especially moved by being on the receiving end of Mrs. Anderson's declaration.

It isn't your

Sweet conversation

That brings this

Sensation

Oh, no.

It's just the nearness of you

The hostess holding the phone stage whispered, "Miss Lopez?" I faced her and nodded. "It's Metropolis Memorial. It's an emergency!"

A/N: Thank you for your patience, for the lovely reviews, and for reading my story. *muah*

Thank you, NEMO & Blueashke!

Thank you, Snixx Ladies, especially K, for putting up with me foolishness.

Thank you, Foss, me love. Hehe. ;)

More soon!