LaToya: Episode XXI – Mysterious Club

 

 

A little after 12 noon the following day, I drove out to Quentin Powell’s house. The Mexican lady who opened the door showed me into the lounge and said she would ask if Mr. Powell was free to see me.

I waited half an hour before Mr. Powell appeared, in a light-blue pyjamas. He still looked drunk, but at least he had shaved and bathed.

“You again,” he said, and labored across the carpet to the drinks cabinet. “Vodka, or do you want something softer, like Pepsi?”

I said Pepsi sounded right.

He poured himself a Vodka, placed it on the small table near his armchair, and went to the refrigerator in his kitchen. From there he brought a can of Pepsi, came back to the lounge, and handed it to me with a hand as shaky as the fresh cassava leaf. Then he sank into the armchair, took a swig from his glass of Vodka, shuddered and closed his eyes.

“To hell with sunlight and early callers like you, Mr. Emeka,” he said mournfully. “I sometimes wish I lived in the moon, where nobody will bother me. Have you ever thought of living on the moon, Mr. Emeka?”

“Nope,” I replied.

He stared up at me and shrugged.

“Well, I had,” he said. “Just think of how isolated you will be from this crazy world, especially from early callers like you.”

He took another drink, then asked, “So, what is it this time?”

“You are a member of the Golden Triangle club, aren’t you?”

He looked surprised.

“That’s right,” he said. “Why?”

“I want you to take me there tonight,” I said.

He gaped at me, then smiled before setting his glass down on the table at his side.

“I applaud your boldness, Emeka,” he said. “So you want me to take you to the Golden Triangle club, don’t you?”

“I hope I’m not asking for too much,” I said. “But I do…”

“You are damn right,” he said. “Your request is both outrageous and out of line.”

“It’s just that…”

“Mr. Emeka, what makes you imagine for one moment that I want to take you to the Golden Triangle nightclub tonight? I don’t want to sound mean, but let’s be reasonable here. I met you for the first time in my damn life just yesterday. And now you are suggesting that I should take you to the most expensive nightclub in Alexandra and spend my good money on you? No offense, Mr. Emeka, but when I go out and spend my money, I prefer to spend it on a girl with fat ass who will be duty bound to give me at least a blowjob in return. See what I mean?”

I laughed.

“What you said makes a lot of sense, Mr. Powell,” I said. “I will do the same thing too, but this is business and important. I have reason to think Leisha  York has been murdered.”

He spilled some of the Vodka on his pyjamas, but he didn’t even notice.

“What do you mean, murdered?”

“You heard me right,” I said. “Murdered. It’s important I get into the Golden Triangle nightclub and take a look around. And you are the only person I know in Alexandra who is a member. You will be doing both the Baltimore City Police and the Alexandra Police a service if you’d take me tonight.”

He stared down at the carpet while he thought. From the expression on his face, I could tell that the whole idea is certainly difficult for him.

“You mean a member of the Golden Triangle nightclub killed her?”

“That is possible,” I said.

I almost asked him to give me a description of Saul Bolton but decided against it. He would probably jump to the conclusion that I thought Saul Bolton had killed the girl. If he spread that rumor in Alexandra, I knew I would be in real trouble.

“I don’t buy the idea of me taking you to the Golden Triangle, Mr. Emeka,” he said, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t be good for you or for me, and I’ll tell you why. I go to the Golden Triangle pretty often, but I’ve never taken a man there as my guest. Not once. There’s a bouncer on the club’s door who’s about the toughest guy I’ve ever run into. If you don’t want to look suspicious, you won’t go to the Golden Triangle with me. Am I making any sense?”

“The problem,  Mr. Powell, is that this is a very urgent issue,” I said. “If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have come to you.”

He thought some more, the snapped his fingers.

“I think I’ve found a way to help you with this,” he said. “I’ll ask Latasha to take you. She is a member of Golden Triangle nightclub, and she’s always taking her boy friends there. Would that be okay?”

“I’m okay with it,” I said. “But I had the impression she didn’t like me. So, I don’t think she will play ball here.”

Mr. Powell waved a shaky hand.

“You will be surprised,” he said. “You don’t really know Latasha very well. She’ll take you. She’s always enjoy meeting new men, especially if they have plenty of dough to spend. You leave it to me. I’ll take care of it. I hope you have enough dough to spend on her?”

I stared at him.

“Sure,” I said. “I think I can handle that. Is it going to cost a lot?”

He laughed loudly; a sound that would have made Mr. Sessoms’ blood run cold if he could have heard it.

“That’s the strangest question I’ve ever heard. Cost you a lot” I’ll say it will, You don’t take Latasha out unless you are prepared to sell your car and empty your bank balance. That’s why I see her here. Taking her out is a luxury I can’t afford.”

“Well, I guess I have no choice,” I said. “You go ahead and arrange it. It’s one of the reasons I have an expense sheet.”

“It’s a deal then,” he said and reached for the telephone.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 21

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 22, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

Latoya: Episode XX – Vanished Without a Trace

 

 It was almost 7 o’clock by the time I had tracked down N. Washington Avenue.  I, however  decided to keep on working while I could. I remembered Captain Donald’s warning. If what he told me is true, then the chances were I will be chased out of Alexandra soon, and I wanted to find out as much as I could before I did run into trouble.

North Washington Avenue was a street of apartment houses and No. 259 turned out to be an old apartment house. Having located it, I drove the Chevrolet Impala to the nearest car park some hundred yards down the street, left the car, and walked back.

Climbing the steps to the front door, I stared at the five name plates which told me nothing. There is no doubt in my mind that someone had taken over LaToya Young’s apartment, but I had no idea which apartment she had occupied.

I told myself that I needed to think hard to figure out what to do next. I definitely do not want to let everyone know that I was looking for her. But I may have to do just that if I bump into the person who is currently occupying her apartment. I was about to press the bell to the front door apartment when the door opened and a short, fat, black girl appeared.

Even though  she was fat, she was remarkably beautiful and her face looked very innocent and relaxed. She was the kind of girl any smart guy would like to take home for their mother to see; you know, that kind of girl. Since she wasn’t expecting to see anyone, she started when she saw me, and then smiled nervously.

“You scared me,” she said.

“Forgive me,” I replied, taking of my papas cap. “I was about to ring the bell.” She looked very responsible, judging from her face and her clothes, so I went on, “I’m looking for Miss Leisha  York. I understand she lives here.”

The girl looked sharply at me. It is very obvious she was surprised.

“Leisha  York?” she said. “She’s been gone for months. She left Alexandra in August.”

“She did?” I said. “Oh my God! What a disappointment. I promised to take her out the next time I was in Alexandra.”

She smiled then.

“Oh, what a shame,” she said. “Leisha’s gone. I don’t really know where she’s got to. I was hoping she will write to me, but she never has.”

“You are a friend of hers, correct?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “And we shared this apartment together.”

“My name is Emeka,” I said. “This is a big disappointment for me. I planned to have dinner with her.”

She looked at me and in her eyes I could see sudden interest mixed with caution. I believe that whatever it was she saw on my face gave her some confidence for she said, “I’m Jessica Laidlow. I don’t know if Leisha  ever mentioned me. But she’s gone, Mr. Emeka. Sorry about that.”

“Too bad for me,” I said, giving her my best boyish smile. “I guess you already have a date tonight, Miss Jessica? If not, I won’t mind keeping you company tonight.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Emeka,” she said. “I guess I can call you that now?”

“Sure,” I replied. “So long as you calls me some human name, I don’t mind at all.”

“For what you were asking,” she said. “I don’t really know what to tell you. Okay, I’ll be honest. I have no date tonight, and I was going out to supper on my own when I bumped into you. The problem is that I don’t really know you, and I don’t think…”

“Search me,” I said. “You’ll see that I’m harmless, as I’m going to prove to you if you’ll join me.”

She laughed again.

“Fair enough,” she said. “I guess I’ll accept your offer then.”

“Excellent!” I said. “My car is at the end of the road. Where are we headed to?”

“Let’s go to the Jacob’s,” she said. “It’s a little expensive, but their food is very good. That is, if you like sea food of course.”

I said I loved sea food a lot.

By the time we reached Jacob’s restaurant, I had got her confidence. Soon we were talking away as if we had known each other most of our lives. She was telling me she worked for Tyler Goldman, the advertising magnate, as a drove up a sand-covered drive that led directly to the neon plastered restaurant, and she broke up to say: “Maybe we should go to another restaurant. Jacob’s is going to be expensive and I don’t want you to go broke.”

I laughed, thinking what a favorite she would be with Mr. Sessoms.

“I’m in a spending mood tonight,” I said. “So don’t worry about the cost.”

I pulled into Jacob’s parking lot, and together we walked over to the entrance. It was a pretty big and grand restaurant that overlooked a river. Even though it was fairly crowded, we managed to get a table on the balcony. That was a good spot because it gave us a fine view of the river, the swimmers frolicking in the moonlight, and the wonderful sweep of the promenade.

Jessica told me she had heard the redrock grilled shrimp and lobster tail at the Jacob’s were the best in town. We started with two very dry martinis, followed by the redrock grilled shrimp and lobster tail.

While we ate, we talked. I brought the conversation around to LaToya Young when we got to the coffee and cigarette stage.

“Why did Leisha  leave town, Miss Jessica?” I asked. “Did she told why?”

Jessica shook her head.

“I have no idea,” she said. “I went off to work as I normally do and when I got back she had gone. She left no note; she just disappeared.”

“She took all her stuff?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied. “And that is good because I would have been much more worried than I was if she hadn’t. In any case, it was a strange move. I called The Golden Triangle, but they were just as surprised as I was.”

“Who did you speak to at the Golden Triangle?”

“The stage manager,” she said. “His name is Mr.  Dorsey.  Leisha   hadn’t said anything to him about leaving.”

“Do you remember the exact date?”

“I believe it was August 3^rd,” she replied. “I remember because my brother’s birthday is on the 4^th and I had got him a wrist watch. I wanted Leisha’s opinion of it, but she had gone.”

“She never gave you any impression at all that she was leaving?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Did she pay her portion of the rent?”

“Yes, she did,” she replied. “I found the rent money she left on the table in our sitting room – I mean the mantelpiece. That was the main reason I was so surprised. I thought she should have at least written a note, but she didn’t. We were good friends, Mr. Emeka. We had shared this apartment for almost nine months. And we got on well together.”

I ordered more coffee. When the waitress had refilled our cups and had moved away, I said, “She worked at The Golden Triangle on the night of 2^nd ?”

“Yes, she did,” she replied. “She had been modeling for Mr. Powell, the cover designer, during the afternoon.  She told me what a good drawing he had made of her when I got back to the office at about six. She also told me that she was looking forward to seeing him again the following day. She then went out to do some shopping. After that, she came back, got ready for the nightclub and left at 8 o’clock.”

“She didn’t seem upset before she left for the nightclub?”

Jessica shook her head.

“No – not at all,” she said. “She didn’t look worried a bit.”

“Did she get back at her usual time?”

“No really,” she replied. “She was later than usual this time. She normally got back every night at two in the morning. Even though we didn’t share bedrooms, I usually heard her when she came in. I remembered that the time she came in was later – it was nearly daylight when she came in. Now, I could be wrong because I was sleepy, and I didn’t look at the time. But it felt later to me. It must have been nearly daylight, I believe.”

 “Did you speak to her before you went to work?”

“Oh no,” she replied. “She don’t normally get up until around eleven o’clock in the morning, and I have to leave the apartment around nine.”

“And you don’t know is she was alone when she came back that night?”

She looked sharply at me, frowning.

“You know, it’s strange that you asked that,” she said. “There could be someone with her at the time – that may be possible. In fact, I thought I heard a man’s voice but I was only half awake when I heard her unlock the door. So, I can’t be sure since I was sleepy."

“Did she often bring men back to the apartment?”

“Not always,” she said. “But she did bring a man home last July. At that time, she told me she was having a guy in for supper, and would I mind keeping out of the way. It was an agreement between me and her at the time. If I wanted my friends in, she kept out of the way too. The good news was that I already have a movie date with a guy when she told me that, so I didn’t get home until late in the night. They had gone by then, but they left a lot of cigarette buts in the ash-tray: Mexican cigarettes. I hate their smell and I particularly noticed they were Mexican cigarettes.”

“Her guest might have been a woman, of course?”

“Well, she told me it was a guy,” she said. “Besides, there were no lipstick marks on the cigarette butts.”

I smiled at her.

“You will make a good detective, Miss Jessica,” I said.

“I was about to say that to you,” she replied. “Why are you asking all these strange questions?”

“Because I think Leisha is in trouble.” I took out   LaToya Young’s photograph from my wallet and put it on the table. “That’s her, isn’t it?”

Jessica looked at the photograph.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “She added a little weight here and that almost three me off. When was this picture taken?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “But the girl in this photo called herself LaToya Young. She arrived at West Baltimore on August 9 and got a job at the Zodiac nightclub as an exotic dancer. Then in August 17 she suddenly vanished and the police think she was kidnapped. I am going to be honest with you. Can you keep a secret? It is very important that what I’m about to tell you now goes no further.”

She was looking a little scared by now.

“Sure,” she said. “My lips are sealed.”

“The Baltimore police have asked me to find out what I can about the girl. They know the Alexandra police don’t want to investigate her case so I have to work cautiously. The Baltimore police believe there’s some mystery going on, and I want to find out what it is.”

“But she have been found by now if she was kidnapped,” Jessica said, her eyes opening wide. “According to you, she disappeared in August 17. That’s almost fifteen months ago, right?”

“They haven’t found her yet,” I said. I told myself that it doesn’t make any sense to tell her the girl was murdered. If I do that, she might get scared and end our date abruptly. “Maybe she wasn’t kidnapped. It may be possible she’s scared of something and is in hiding. Do you know if she had a regular boyfriend – some kind of significant order?”

“No,” she replied. “It will be hard for her to have one anyway, considering the nature of her job. She doesn’t get up until late, and she went to the nightclub at eight. She often complain about not having a boyfriend to be with during all the free time she have in the afternoon.”

“So, how about the man who came to your apartment for supper – the guy who was with her on the last night before she left?” I asked.

“Well, she never told me who he was,” she said. “I didn’t see him anyway.”

“Do you think she left that night?” I said. “That could be possible, you know. Did you go into her room the next morning?”

“No, I didn’t,” she said. “You are correct: she might have left that night. I overslept and I was in a hurry to leave. I noticed the money in the mantelpiece only when I got back home. It is very possible it have been left there overnight.”

“She never mentioned a guy named Eddie Peterson to you, did she?”

Jessica shook her head.

“No, she didn’t.”

“She had a gold  bracelet. Did you ever see it?”

“Yes. You are correct. I’ve often seen it.”

“Did you notice a miniature golden triangle object in the bracelet?”

Jessica looked surprised.

“Sure,” she said. “And I believe Mr. Bolton gave it to her. It was soon after she had got the job at the Golden Triangle. She had made a hit on her first night, and Mr. Bolton gave it to her as a memento.”

“Saul Bolton? He owns the club, doesn’t he?”

She nodded.

Saul Bolton - Eddie Peterson, I was thinking. Could he be one and the same, given that the initial ‘E.P.’ was engraved on one side of the miniature golden triangle object in LaToya’s  bracelet.

“Have you ever seen him?”

“No, I haven’t,” she said. “Although Leisha  didn’t talk about him much, I think she liked him. But I’ve never seen him myself.”

“She never said what he looked like to you, did she?”

“No, she didn’t,” she said. “But I have the impression Leisha   thought he was very good looking.”

I told myself I should have to take a look at Mr. Bolton. He interested me.

We continued talking for almost an hour, but I learned nothing further. Jessica doesn’t have any more information to give me. I, however, had one more lead to follow. My next move was to take a look at Mr. Bolton.

I took Jessica home, promised her I will be in touch, then drove back to the Panache Motel. On getting to my room, I got into bed and lay in the dark, thinking about my progress so far.

LaToya obviously had a mysterious boyfriend – I guess I could call him that. For some reason or other she had kept quiet about him to Jessica. If the relationship had been a good one the most natural thing would have been for her to discuss him with Jessica. But she hadn’t done so. Why?

Was he Mr. Bolton?  At least I had one small clue. This guy smoked Mexican cigarettes: a little unusual, but not that unusual. 

Had LaToya left on the night of August 2^nd? If that is the case, it is only natural to assume she had gone with her boyfriend. I wasn’t forgetting that she and Eddie Peterson booked in at the Empire Hotel in Baltimore Street on the same day. The time lag between August 2^nd, when she left Alexandra, and August 9^th, when she arrived at West Baltimore, puzzled me. Seven days – where had she been during that time? Also, what had she been doing and yet wasn’t seen by no one? I told myself that this time lag may be the key to the whole mystery.

It was about 2 o’clock in the morning before I fell asleep.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 20

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 21, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

 

Latoya: Episode XIX - Unseen Connections

 

I checked into Panache Motel which turned out to be exactly what Captain Wilkens had said it would be. It was a comfortable and cheap motel, and their employees seemed pleased to see me.

The room they gave me was in the third floor. It faced the beach and ocean, and had a private bath. One of their employees helped me to carry my bag up to my room. As we were going up,. He asked me if I wanted a bottle of Vodka sent up, I told him it’ll be a good idea. He brought the bottle of Vodka himself without the usual irritating delay.

“Anything else, Mr. Emeka?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “Can you tell me where Mt. Vernon Avenue is in  Old Town?”

“Sure,” he said. “Turn left when you leave the motel, and drive to the main street. Turn right on the first intersection, and continue up to the fourth set of traffic lights. Next, turn left and that’ll bring you to the St. Lo Road. Mt. Vernon Avenue  is the fourth on the left. Note that it’ll take you about fifteen minutes to get there by car.”

I thanked him and gave him a dollar.  When he had gone, I took off my clothes and had a shower. Then I took another drink, got dressed, and went down to where I parked the Chevrolet.

It took me exactly fifteen minutes by the dashboard clock to reach  Mt. Vernon Avenue. I can see clearly that this neighborhood is for the rich people. Small and single luxury houses, each of them with a perfectly groomed gardens, stood in isolated tree-surrounded plots. Every house in the neighborhood is different, and you could see that the architect that designed each house had tried to do better than their rivals by putting up a better, more modern and flashy building than the one next door.

Number 230 Mt. Vernon Avenue was at the far end of the avenue, and was probably the last of them to be built. It was a two-storey townhome  with a gable roof Dormer window. A flight of wooden steps with a carved handrail led to the front door which was of white oak with a lion’s head in the wood for a knocker. Overhead hung a wrought-iron Victorian lantern that was probable made by some local blacksmith in an artistic moment.

The garden was one of the tidiest I have ever seen. In fact, if I own a garden like this, I don’t think I would allow anybody, including myself, to walk on it.

I left the Chevrolet, pushed open the gate and walked up the path, flanked on either side by different types of flowery shrubs. I climbed the steps to the front door, lifted the lion’s head and knocked.

There was a pause while I leaned against the carved handrail. I can feel the sun hot on my back, and as I was about to knock at the door again, the front door opened.

A tall, lean black man stood in the doorway, with his muscular, hairy hand resting on the doorpost. He looked as if he had  just stepped from the glossy pages of the Ebony magazine. He had a face which most ladies who likes the actor type will consider remarkably handsome. He had on a light blue pyjamas, open at the throat, and his feet were also in a light blue open heel slippers. He was a sight that would make a lady’s heart flutter, but he didn’t do anything to mine.

“Hi,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

A blast of Vodka-laden breath  nearly blew the skin off my face. H hasn’t been drinking Vodka; he had been bathing in it.

“Mr. Quentin Powell?”

“Yes,” he said. “Who wants to know?”

He leaned a little more heavily against the doorpost. I began to ask myself if I would ever get anything reasonable from him in his present drunken state.

“I’m Emeka Okeke,” I replied. “I write for Baltimore Star, and I wanted to talk to you.”

He frowned and half closed his eyes.

“Baltimore Star? You mean the newspaper?

“That’s right,” I said. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Sure, mate,” he said. “Come in and have a drink.”

With that, he stood aside.

“I am glad to see you,” he continued. “In fact, I was getting as bored as a dick at an abstinence party. Do you ever get bored?”

I moved into a hall full of fancy carvings, basketball souvenirs, a British grandfather clock and ornate rugs.

I said I get bored sometimes as well.

“Only sometimes?” he asked. “You are a lucky guy then. Come on in.”

Crossing the hall, he went down three steps into a large lounge. He was so drunk that he only just made the steps. He would probably have sat on the floor if he hadn’t clutched on to the back of a chair as he approached the steps.

His lounge was both comfortable and ornate. I have no doubt in my mind that the architect who designed this room was either from Britain, or has British taste, given the way it was designed. With one of the paintings on the wall showing snow heaped against the widows of a house and the other showing an avalanche breaking loose elsewhere, the architect do indeed have the British motive firmly in mind when he has set about this room.

I had only time to take the room in with one quick glance before I became aware of a fat black girl sitting on a red divan looking at me the way one looks at a fly that fell into their coffee. Though she was fat, she was very, very, lovely. And, as someone who likes fat, black ladies, I began to envy Mr. Powell  for having her. She had on a light-blue  sun-suit that failed to disguise her good points, her long, bare, fleshy legs were the nicest I had seen so far in Alexandra.

She got slowly to her feet, with her eyes glittering with well controlled rage, even though she managed to smile a me – the kind of smile in which the rest of the person’s face stay still while they are smiling.

“But Quentin darling,” she said, “we were talking…”

“This is Mr. … Damn! I forgot  again,” Mr. Powell said, squinting his eyes and peering at me. “What did you say your name was?”

“Emeka,” I said, “but if I’m in the way…”

“No, you are not,” Mr. Powell said, putting a hot, heavy hand on my shoulder. “Latasha dear, this is Mr. Emeka. He has important business to discuss with me. Perhaps we can meet tomorrow instead? I will pick you up myself. What do you say?”

The girl stared angrily at him, then walked past him, up the stairs and into the hall, her hips bouncing seductively as she moved. Mr. Powell turned slowly to watch her. She went to the front door, opened it, passed on to the stoop. Then slammed the door so violently one of the basketball souvenirs on the wall in the hall fell down.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Powell. I didn’t …” I began.

Mr. Powell laughed.

“Don’t worry about her,” he said. “You don’t know how glad I am you turned up. Latasha is cute and sexy, but she drives me nuts.” He went over to a cocktail cabinet loaded with bottles, and poured two enormous Vodkas. He added ice and steered himself back with some difficulty to where I was standing. He then handed me one of the drinks, dropped drunkenly into a sofa and waved his glass at me.

“Phew!” he said and drank deeply. Sighing and setting down the glass, he waved me to a chair.

“Sit down, Mr. Emeka. Relax. Do you like fat, black women?”

“I must confess that I do,” I said, sitting down.

“I have a weakness for them,” he said, gloomily. “I bring them to my house and get laid. After that, they start getting on my nerves, and if I let them go away, I become lonely. It’s a hell of a life, isn’t it?”

I said I agrees with him.

“So, we have similar experience then,” he said.

He saw I was taking another look at the room and said hurriedly, as if he was concerned I would think he was responsible for the décor, “My landlord is nuts. Don’t think I did this. Yes, I only rent this dump. I plan to go to Britain one day and put up an American styled bungalow. That will shake them more than this dump shakes me.” He ran his fingers across his forehead, frowned, then continued, “What do you want from me, Mr. Emeka?”

“I understand you wrote to the Baltimore City police about the photo of LaToya Young that appeared in the press.”

He stared at me, blinked and nodded.

“Yes, I did,” he said. “How did you know?”

“I was walking with the Baltimore City police on this case,” I replied. “We want to find something about LaToya’s background.”

“What the fuck!” he said. “Why the hell did the police sent you to me, instead of coming themselves?”

“Alexandra is out of their jurisdiction. I said I would see you to avoid complications.” I took LaToya Young’s photo from my wallet and offered it to him. “That’s LaToya. Do you still remember her?”

He took LaToya’s photo, squinted his eyes while peering at it. Then he reached out and turned on the table lamp to see it better.

“That’s her,” he said. “The face is the same, though she was a little darker than in this photo when I knew her. But I can’t forget that face. Mind you, I’m an expert when it comes to women’s faces. I had to because I design cover pages for magazines.” He waved the photo at me. “A girl with this face modelled for me. Latasha, the girl who went out just now also models for me too. You have no idea how crazy these girls are.” He waved LaToya’s photo again. “This one cost me both time and money. You wouldn’t believe it to look at her, correct? I thought when I met her she would be easy to handle. How wrong I was! She turned out to be as crazy as the rest of them.”

“Was her name LaToya Young?”

He shook his head.

“No. Her name was Leisha  York. She was one of the strippers at the Golden Triangle. That’s a popular night club on Eisenhower Boulevard in case you don’t know.”

 

“You said she modelled for you?”

 

“Yes, she did,” he said. “At least that was my plan – to have her model for me. As a matter of fact, she did quite a lot of work for me. I met her at the club last June. I mean, June of last year. I spotted her at club because she have just the right face and figure for a good cover design. I scheduled several appointments for her to come out here and pose. At first, things were going well and she comes here regularly. Then suddenly, she had an appointment to come one day and she never showed up. I haven’t seen her since then.”

“When was that? Do you still remember?”

 “Around August last year,” he replied.

 “Could you give me the exact date, if you don’t mind?” I said. “It is very important.”

 “I believe you.”  He groaned as he hoisted himself out of the sofa and went unsteadily across the room to a big closet. He took from it a cardboard folder and returned to his sofa. “I still have the last drawing I did for her somewhere in this folder. It’s not done yet, but I wrote the date on the back.” Thumbing through a pile of half-finished sketches, he pulled out one and handed it to me.

“That’s the sketch of her,” he said. “The date is on the back.”

By looking at the sketch, I concluded that he certainly could draw. And I recognized the girl even though the drawing was only half finished. There was no doubt she was LaToya Young. I looked at the back of the sketch. The date was August 2^nd. Fifteen days after she posed for him in this room, LaToya had disappeared from Baltimore City. She had arrived in West Baltimore on August 9^th.  I began to ask myself what she had been doing between August 2^nd and August 9^th? It wasn’t an easy question to answer.

“Yes, that’s LaToya Young all right,” I said, handing back the sketch. “Can you remember if she gave you the impression that she might not turn up to finish her modelling?”

 He shook his head.

 “No, it was a complete disappointment,” he said. “She loved the sketch, and she said she was looking forward to seeing it finished. I told her it will be ready if I work on her for one more day. As a matter of fact, it was her who suggested she came the next day, and she chose the time she will be here too. Then I waited for her but she never turned up.”

“By what time did she left your house on August 2^nd?”

“Around four o’clock, I will say,” he replied. “I hated working long hours. She came at twelve-thirty, and we worked until two, then we had a Chinese food lunch, and she left at four.”

“Did she show up at the Golden Triangle that night?”

 “Yes, she did,” he said. “Incidentally, I was there and I saw her. She took part in the show.”

 “Do you know where she lived?”

 “I believe I do,” he said. “I am really meticulous, Mr. Emeka. You may not know it by looking at me, but I’ve got a method.” He produced a card index from the cupboard, flicked through it, found a card, and gave it to me.

 I examined the card.

 Leisha. York,  Lizzy. 259 N. Washington Avenue, VA 22314. Showgirl and Stripper.  The Golden Triangle Club. Age 26. Black (African American). Height 5ft. 7. Bust 38. Hips 40. Weight 160 lbs. Photogenic.  Good patient Model.

“I keep a record of them all,” he said. "So, when I want them again, I run through the cards until I find them.”

I wrote down the address.

“Do you know if she had a boyfriend?” I asked.

 “I don’t really know,” he said. “It is my policy not to get personal with my models. This is because I often run into trouble each time I gets personal with them. Latasha is a good example. I mean, she is a good model, no doubt. But then she thinks she can boss me around: she slams doors, gets mad at me whenever she feels like it, and she won’t do as she’s told. I blame myself though, because I got personal with her.”

“I wouldn’t mind getting personal with Latasha myself,” I said. “Anyway, do you know a guy who calls himself Eddie Peterson? He is a white guy of about  six foot, lean, with an eyebrow moustache, and he runs a grey-colored  BMW convertible?”

Mr. Powell shook his head.

“No, I don’t.” He closed his eyes, and I could see he was fast losing interest in our conversation. “Well, Emeka, if I can’t help you anymore, I guess I’ll get back to my bed. I’m not really feeling as alert and bright as I did when I got up this morning.”

“You did your best, Mr. Powell,” I said, getting to my feet. “And, I am grateful. I may have to call on you again. You go and get some sleep, sir. I can find my way out.”

I realized was talking to the air in the room. By the time I reached the hall, Mr. Powell had began to snore.

 

 

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 19

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 20, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

LaToya: Episode XVIII – Mission to Alexandra

I hit the approach road to Alexandra at around four o’clock in the afternoon. It is a three-track  highway that meander in some areas, while in others it ran as straight as a foot rule alongside a thick forest filled with trees, shrubs, and grasses. I was lucky that the road was fairly clear of traffic, and I maintained

 a steady speed of sixty-five miles an hour until I saw ahead of me a big signboard whose black letters on a glittering white background made me snatch my foot off the gas pedal.

 

THIS IS ALEXANDRA

GO SLOW

OR

SPEND A NIGHT IN OUR JAIL!

 

I definitely don’t want to spend a night in their jail, and I reduced my speed significantly.  After driving for about a mile further on, I spotted two speed cops leaning at the doors of their police cars. They were two huge white officers with eyes like sun baked pebbles, and they looked as if they were itching to go into action any time. They both stared at me as I passed them while maintaining a speed of forty miles an hour.

The road dipped sharply and began to run down hill after another mile further on, and I had my first sight of Alexandra. It is indeed a beautiful city,  with high rise buildings, apartments, town houses, plushy looking hotels, glittering restaurants and bars, beach huts, and tropical shrubs and trees.  

As I reached the long, busy main street, a closer inspection told me this town is for rich people. Mercedes Benz, Volvo, BMWs, Cadillacs, Bentleys, and Rolls Royce cluttered up the parking lots. I saw richly dressed men – all of them white – sitting in their cars, drumming impatiently on the steering wheel, probably waiting for their wives or girlfriends to finish their shopping and join them back  in their cars. I also saw more men sitting a cafes, staring hungrily at some half-naked ladies who displayed their charms flamboyantly.  I told myself that  Medgar would like Alexandra. I didn’t dislike my first look at  the town myself.

I spotted an empty space in one of the parking lots and swung the Chevrolet Impala into it, cut the engine, and got out. I could feel the heat from the sun as I walked across to a nearby pharmacy store to ask the way to Bashford Lane where Nicholas Wilkens lived. The unfriendly clerk made sure I understood he was doing me a favor as he explained how I would get to Rosemont Drive. Perhaps because my dressing was simple, his sharp eyes seems to have figured that there won’t be  much money in my wallet. From his expression, I could see that he didn’t think much of me, and it was obvious he doesn’t wish to be bothered by a broke black man like me. 

A tall white lady in a green swim-suit, sunglasses, and a straw hat the size of a cart-wheel  came into the pharmacy store as I was leaving. She had a bracelet of diamonds around her right ankle – a bracelet that I believe must have cost some guy a fortune.

The clerk went over to her with a deference that is usually reserved for celebrities, royalty, or important politicians. Obviously, money talks in Alexandra.

I went back to the car.

A fat, white police officer leaned against the car and stared  at me as I approach with cold, unfriendly eyes.

“This is your car, I believe?” he asked, nodding at the car as if it was something he scraped off his booth.

“That’s right,” I said.

He seemed to be mad at me, for reasons best known to him.

“You are in Alexandra now,” he said, biting off each word. “We like cars parked the proper way in Alexandra. Your rear wheels are over the white line.”

I looked over at the glittering Mercedes Benz parked next to my car. Its off-side wheels were over the white line by more than three feet, but after all it was a  1977 Mercedes Benz and not a 1962 Chevrolet Impala Sedan.

“I apologize,” I said. “I just arrived here from Baltimore.”

He held  out his hand which revealed fingers so thick they could have been mistaken for a bunch of hot dogs in a poor light.

“I need to see your license and registration!,” he barked.

I gave him my license and registration document. He looked over them as if he wasn’t too sure they were mine,  then took out a form from a leather case and began to write laboriously.

“Staying long in Alexandra?” he asked without looking at me.

“Not really,” I said. “I don’t think I can afford to stay for a long time here, even if I want to.”

He let that one slide, and just handed me the sheet he had written on.

“Ten bucks.”

“What?” I said. “I don’t get it.”

“That’s your fine for parking your car the wrong way.”

I gave him the ten dollars without protesting further and accepted the receipt. I had been warned by Captain Donald, and Mr. Sessoms was paying, so why should I care? The officer seemed surprised there was no argument from me.

“We have to show visitors like you that we are serious about punishing violators,” he said. “Be careful next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied.

His eyes were as cold as an iceberg. He wrote down my plate number, so I figured he would look out for me in the future.

I got into the car.

“Am I good to go?” I asked.

He gave me a cold stare and walked away. He looked from the back like a prizefighter.   I told myself that a  nudge from this guy  would have shoved in  my ribs.

As I drove away, I suddenly noticed that I was sweating slightly and the reason for that wasn’t because of the heat. If my experience with the clerk at the pharmacy store and with this police officer was going to happen often, I thought, then my temper and nerves would almost certainly become tested in this town.

Bashford Lane was in the poorer quarter of Alexandra. The houses there were smaller, and didn’t stand in a couple of acres of screened estates as almost ninety percent of the rest of the houses in Alexandra did. It was a tree-lined street tucked away as if ashamed of itself, but a street I immediately fell in love with and wished I could live in.

In the garden of No. 25, I saw a big, fat, solid-looking man fussing over  a row of tomatoes a professional would have been proud to have grown. I guessed he must be Nicholas Wilkens. He glanced up as I swung the Chevrolet Impala to the curb.

Although he is fat, his weather-beaten face, his alert blue eyes, his sun-burned, balding head and his aggressive  chin gave him character plus toughness and made him look every in a cop. I got out of the Chevrolet Impala as he wandered down the garden path to meet me.

“Captain Wilkens?” I asked.

“Who wants to know?” he said.

“Me, of course,” I said, smiling.

“Good enough,” he said. “Come on in.”

“I hope I packed at the right place?” I asked. “I’ve already gotten a ticket for parking out of line.”

He laughed.

“Your car will be fine,” he said. “They don’t give tickets to cars parked outside my house. Come on in.”

I followed him up the path.

“You must be a proud gardener, Captain Wilkens,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen tomatoes as big as those before.”

“They are pretty good,” he said. “And they taste good on sandwich too. You a gardener?”

“No, but I plan to become one in the future,” I replied.

“Oh yeah?” He nodded. “Can’t say I blame you. Gardening these days are for the middle aged and the old like me. I can’t do without gardening at my age. I will be completely lost.”

He led me into a neat, comfortably furnished sitting room. The way the room’s casement windows opened out on to the lawn made it a good place to sit and relax while sipping on a glass of wine.

“What’s your name again?” he asked.

“Emeka Okeke,” I replied.

He lifted a bushy eyebrow.

“You the guy who writes in Baltimore Star?”

“That’s right,” I said.

He beamed.

“I’m glad I finally met you,” he said. “I read all your articles. They are good investigative  work. Please have a sit.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“How about a drink?” He asked.

“That’ll be good,” I said.

“This is your first visit to Alexandra?” He asked while he was getting the drinks.

“Yes,” I replied.  “It’s a pretty looking city, and it looks as if it is made of money.”

“It is,” he said. “Some say there’s more loose money here than in Las Vegas. We have ten billionaires living here right at this minute. As a matter of fact, anyone with less than six-figure income is trash in Alexandra.” He came over with the drinks and lowered his bulk in a couch facing me. “Well, here’s to you.”

We drank, then I handed him Captain Donald’s letter.

“Here’s an introduction from Captain Donald,” I said.

Wilkens’s face lit up.

“Captain Donald is a very good friend of mine,” he said. “I haven’t heard from him in a long time. How is he doing?”

“He’s doing okay,” I said. “He and I are working on a case. It was almost a forgotten case until Baltimore Star decided re-open the investigation. For some reason, a lead has turned up here, and he thought it might be a good idea if I investigated it.”

Wilkens looked sharply at me, opened the letter and read it. As he returned the letter to the envelope, he said, “Very interesting. So you are here to investigate a lead, correct?”

“That’s the idea,” I said. “I understand Commissioner Lawson doesn’t encourage that kind of thing.”

“I will call that an understatement, Emeka,” Wilkens said. “Take my advice: get in your car and go back to Baltimore.   The atmosphere in Baltimore, as far as I know, is a lot healthier than here.”

“I know that, Captain Wilkens,” I said. “But I have a job to do. I was hoping you’ll give me some tips on how to get this job done, you know.”

“There’s not much I can do because I am no longer with this establishment now,” he said. “I have been basically decommissioned and haven’t been inside headquarters for over a year. In any case, will you mind telling me what it’s all about?”

Making myself as comfortable as I can, I gave him the whole story. He sat still and listened attentively. I had no doubt in my mind that he hadn’t missed a single word I said.

“A very interesting case you have, Emeka,” he said after I finished. “I think you are on to something coming here. Now, this might be a coincidence, but you might be interested to know there’s an exclusive night club in Alexandra that’s called the Golden Triangle.”

I sat up.

“Golden Triangle?” I said. “Please tell me all you know about this club. What type of club is it?”

“A very exclusive one, Emeka,” he replied.  “It is run by Saul Bolton, who is a very smart businessman, that is, if you can use that word for a crook. Anyway, when I was with the force, I made it my business to check on him. He started life as a gambler, his preference being poker at Century Casino which then was the most notorious casino in Alexandra. From gambling he graduated to other clandestine illegal dealings, and he is always one step ahead of the law. That’s why I said he is smart. He made good money and opened the Golden Triangle. The night club has two big gambling rooms and a strip club, and I am very sure that at least two of the roulette wheels are rigged. The problem is that only those with membership cards can get near the place. Commissioner Lawson, by the way, was one of the first life members. I also learned that his entrance and subscription fees were on the house. The club has six hundred members, and they are all top government officials. All of them has six-figure incomes. It’s really an exciting place.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Do you think I can register as a member?” Wilkens laughed.

“It would be easier to get you made the Mayor of Alexandra, Emeka,” he said. “Yes, a lot easier.”

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to try shelf the idea for now,” I said. “Do you know Quentin Powell? Does the name mean anything to you?”

“Not really,” Wilkens said. “He’s the guy who claims to recognize LaToya Young, correct?”

“That’s right,” I said. “And he will be my first port of call.”

“Well, Emeka,” Wilkens said seriously. “If you take my advice and go slow, you will live long. You don’t have to worry much about the uniformed police officers in Alexandra. I mean, the officers who are pounding the beat won’t bother you much. Now, don’t get me wrong: they are equally on the look-out for an easy money here and there. As a matter of fact, almost all of them get a cut on all fines made on the spot, and believe me their eyes are red when it comes to money. I recommend that you pay up when they asks for it and don’t talk back at them. If you can do that, then you’ll be okay. The plain clothes officers are the ones you should be worried about. They are really tough, for real. Police Captain Fitzgerald was my lieutenant when I was in charge. I had trouble with him when I was in office and my greatest mistake then was not getting rid of him. He is a bad cop, and is very, very brutal. His lieutenant’s name is Sergeant Luke Montgomery. Run up against Sergeant Montgomery and your best bet is to get out of Alexandra fast. I’m not joking, Emeka. There’s a private eye from West Baltimore…”

“I heard that story from Police Captain Donald.”

“It was Sergeant Montgomery who fixed him,” Wilkens said. “So, you’d better watch out.”

I was beginning to feel concerned, and I wished I had Medgar with me. He would have been very scared to hear all these, and that will make me to feel brave and less lonely.

“I will be careful, I promise,” I said. “Thanks for the tip. I am looking for a cheap but good motel. Do you know any one?”

“Try Panache Motel on Seventh Avenue,” he said. “They will take good care of you. One more thing: never tell anyone you’ve been to see me. I’m not popular in Alexandra. So naturally, strangers or friends calling on me won’t be popular either.”

I got up.

“Thanks a lot for your help,” I said. “Can I come and see you if I need more tips?”

“Sure,” he replied. “But I do prefer that you call me first. Also, it would be safer if you come here when it was dark, and better if you didn’t leave your car outside.”

I stared at him, surprised.

“Really?” I said. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious,” he said.

“So they really don’t want you to have visitors?”

“That’s the way they want it,” he said. “I retired last year, and you are the only visitor I’ve had since then. People don’t want to visit a cop who had to retire anyway. But, it doesn’t really bother me – nothing bothers me these days anyway. I have a good and beautiful wife and a garden. That’s all men my age needs.”

“You had to retire?” I said. “As the…”

“I was kicked out of the force,” he said. “I will give you the whole story whenever both of us got more time to waste. For now, I’ve go a lot of work to do, and I believe you have plenty on your plate too.”

“That’s right.” I was startled. “In any case, thanks for seeing me. I will be in touch.”

I left him and walked down the path to the Chevrolet.

I saw a huge, white policeman wandering along the opposite side of the road. He paused when he saw me and his brow furrowed in guarded curiosity as he continued to stare at me. I ignored him, even though my heart started racing. I got into the Chevrolet and drove away.

As I was driving away, I could see the policeman in my rearview mirror. He had his notebook out, and I had no doubt in my mind that he was writing down my number. I told myself that Alexandra is indeed a police city. That knowledge increased my anxiety.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 18

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 19, which  will be published here next Sunday.