I slipped out of the hideout around nine-thirty, using the emergency exit. It was one of those pitch-black nights without even a sliver of moonlight, and a faint mist of rain was in the air. Oddly enough, the darkness made me feel safer, almost like it wrapped me in a cloak of invisibility. As I walked, I was glad to stretch my legs after hours of being holed up. The report I’d written for Mr. Sessoms was as complete as I could make it, taking me about four hours to finish. But it was worth it—putting it all on paper cleared up a lot of the jumble in my mind.
I had this nagging idea: if I could figure out why Quentin Powell was killed, maybe, just maybe, most of my other problems would fall into place. As I strolled, my thoughts drifted to what happened yesterday. I couldn’t shake the memory of Mrs. Graves’ reaction when I brought up the painting Powell had done of her. There was something in her eyes, a flash of something she wasn’t saying. And then there was her expression when I showed her the photo of LaToya Young, one of Powell’s models. It was almost like a puzzle starting to take shape in my mind. There had to be some connection between Mrs. Graves, Powell, and LaToya. I figured LaToya’s friend, Jessica Laidlow, might know something, something that could help me. I made a mental note to talk to Jessica as soon as I got the chance.
Then there was Saul Bolton—a loose end I needed to tie up. If his ex-girlfriend, Ashley Robles, was willing to talk, she might help me tonight. The Black and Proud Nightclub was where I was headed. Its flashy neon entrance led down to a dimly lit basement club. It was cramped and a bit claustrophobic, but that didn’t stop it from being a hot spot for tourists looking for cheap thrills.
I descended the stairs, and a bouncer with a face like a bulldog let me in after I forked over five dollars for a temporary membership. After that, I might as well have been invisible—he didn’t give me a second glance. Inside, I pushed past a heavy curtain into the bar area, which reeked of smoke and sweat. The tables were crammed together like they were on a lifeboat, and only about twenty people filled the place. Most were girls dressed for attention—too much makeup, not enough clothes, all hoping to catch the eye of a wandering guy.
As I made my way to the bar, I felt their eyes on me, sizing me up. The bartender, a guy with a face that reminded me of a rabbit, nodded when I approached. He gave me a funny look, probably trying to figure me out.
“I’ll take a whisky with cranberry juice,” I said, sliding onto a stool.
He poured the drink and glanced over at the girls. “If you want company, sir,” he said with a smirk, “just smile at one of those girls. She’ll come right over.”
“Which one is Ashley Robles?” I asked, grabbing the glass. “Or isn’t she here tonight?”
The bartender licked his lips, looking as tired as I felt. “You want Miss Robles?”
“Yeah,” I said, taking a sip of my drink. “She’s the one I’m looking for.”
He narrowed his eyes, clearly suspicious. “Are you her friend?”
I leaned on the bar and gave him a casual smile. “If it helps, I’m a friend of a friend of hers. Is she here or not?”
“No, sir,” he said, his tone shifting slightly. “But take my advice—if you know what’s good for you, leave it alone. She’s got friends who don’t appreciate guys asking about her.”
I chuckled and shook my head, downing the rest of my drink. “Look, I’ve got plenty of friends who are girls. I’m not here to stir up trouble. I just have a message for her—that’s all. No need to buzz around someone else’s honey pot.”
The bartender seemed to relax a bit and refilled my glass. “A lot of guys come in here asking about her,” he muttered. “If it’s just a message…”
“Yeah,” I said, leaning in, “it’s just a message from her uncle. Where can I find her?”
He took my money, pocketed the two-dollar tip, and nodded. “She’ll be doing her act in about half an hour. Stick around, and you can talk to her afterward.”
I peeled a few bills from my wallet and flashed them at him. “Listen, if I spend half an hour here, I might suffocate in this atmosphere. How about I visit her in her dressing room?”
He tugged at his ear, eyeing the cash I held. After a moment, he sighed. “Fine. It’s the second door by the band. But keep it quiet, alright? Don’t make a scene.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, standing up and
sliding the bills into his hand. “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse at a cat
convention.”
He pocketed the four five-dollar bills as effortlessly as a Bissell vacuum cleaner collecting dust. Meanwhile, I carried my drink over to a table near the band, took a seat, and lit a cigarette. Just then, a generously endowed black woman, dressed entirely in black, sauntered over without an invitation.
"Hi, sweetheart," she greeted me, flashing a smile that might’ve been dazzling if it weren’t for her teeth. "Gonna buy me a drink?"
I glanced at her and replied, “I’m waiting for my mother.”
Her face twisted into a sneer that was almost comical. Without another word, she stormed back to her friends, clearly relaying what I had said. Right then, two men in flashy tropical suits and hand-painted ties walked in, instantly drawing the women’s attention away from me.
Once I finished my drink, I stood up, strolled over to the second door by the band, and slipped through. The corridor was dimly lit, and at the far end, I spotted two doors. One had some kind of logo on it. I knocked and waited.
A sultry contralto voice called out, “Come in.”
I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The black woman sitting in front of triple mirrors was striking in her own way, especially if you had a thing for medium-built women. She had the curves you'd expect from a black woman in showbiz. A few years ago, she might have been breathtaking, but the grind of the nightclub scene had taken its toll on her youth. She wore a low-cut scarlet and black gown, with a Newport cigarette dangling from her glossy lips.
She raised an arched brow and asked, “Well? Can I help you?”
“Miss Ashley Robles?” I asked, standing just inside the room.
“That’s me,” she replied.
“My name’s Weaver,” I said, borrowing Medgar’s name. I moved farther into the room and closed the door behind me. “Got a moment?”
“For what?” She twisted in her chair, draping a smooth arm over the backrest, her expression disinterested.
“You and I might have some common ground, Miss Robles,” I began. “I’m investigating Saul Bolton.”
Her eyes narrowed as she tapped the ash from her cigarette. “Why?”
"It’s a long story, but the short version is this: Saul Bolton’s involved in the disappearance of a girl, and I’m looking for any information you might have. I can make it worth your while.”
“What girl?” she asked, now fully interested.
“LaToya Young or Leisha York,” I said. “Ever heard of her?”
Her lips tightened, and she gave me a once-over.
"Who are you—a detective or something?" she asked, still suspicious.
“I’m a private investigator,” I admitted.
“Who hired you?”
“I’m working for someone with deep pockets and a lot of interest in finding this girl.”
She stubbed out her cigarette, turning to check herself in the triple mirrors.
“We can’t talk here,” she said in a low voice, picking up a comb and running it through her hair. “I have an apartment on Duke Road, Apartment 11C. Meet me there after one o’clock.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
Just then, we heard a door creak open further down the corridor. Her face tensed. A moment later, there was a knock on her door, and her eyes filled with fear.
In a high-pitched voice, she started, “You’ve got the wrong idea. I don’t know anyone named Kenneth—”
The door swung open, and in stepped a tough-looking bouncer. He glanced at me, then grunted, “What the hell are you doing here?”
"What do you care?" I shot back, stepping back just enough to size him up.
“Get him out of here, Austin,” Ashley said, her voice shaky. “He’s bothering me.”
The bouncer reached for my jacket, and I had to fight the urge to clock him. His chin was wide open, practically begging for a punch, but I kept calm, playing it cool.
“I was just leaving,” I said, keeping my tone even. “No need for a scene.”
“Oh, you’re about to get more than a scene,” the bouncer growled, his grip tightening as he shoved me down the hallway toward the rear exit. He yanked the door open and threw me out into the cold night air.
“If I ever see you in this club again, I’ll rip you apart and feed you to my dog,” he snarled, giving me a shove that sent me stumbling onto the sidewalk.
I straightened my jacket, gave him a smirk, and couldn't resist. "You and who else?"
The words got to him. He swung his fist like a lazy pendulum—slow, heavy, predictable. I sidestepped it with ease, then delivered a solid right to the side of his jaw. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed onto the pavement with a grunt, like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground.
As the saying goes, “It’s not the size of the
dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”
END OF EPISODE 33
P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 34, which
will be published here next Sunday.
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