All That Jazz

My eyes felt like coarse sandpaper. Violently irritating when trying to shut out the pain. Detective work- nothing more then murders, booze and all that jazz.  Across the bleary bar, the door painfully squealed. I couldn't care less who it was. I swirled around the almost empty glass of whisky and clinking ice, as footsteps lingered throughout the dim bar. Tinted lights emitted an eerie glow as they hung over the pool table- a dozen scooners and potato chips scattered on its lawn, and a scruffy bum snored thunderously on the carpet.

A shadow towered over me. Flopping my head to the right, a man stood with arms crossed and thriving impatience. His rusty eyes screamed red murder at me. It was like knowing a man is angry although he yells a foreign language. I knew his sour expression from somewhere, a badge glinted and reminded me of who he was. ''Senior Police Officer David Tibbons'', as if to warn me trouble was ahead.

He was neatly dressed in black, ornamented with shiny badges and was bald. Baldy Tibbons, or as I call him ''mud guard''- shiny on top, shit underneath- and in a bitchy mood.

I glared bitterly at him before peering into the glass again. 'The sheer sight-a you like this makes me sick Gill....!' My head told me to scull the drink- piss off the cop and satisfy a smirk. 'Well, beat it then... do us both some good!' I tried shooting him a death stare, but the light bounced from his throbbing head. I choked on a laugh, trying to swallow it quickly- I didn't want my headache to worsen.

I downed the drink.

'I don't have time for smart remarks today Gill, there's a murdered dame at the jazz theatre'

I perked up instantly- at least there were women there.

He plucked my coat from the seat while I scavenged in my pockets for my wallet. A swift tug exposed its frayed leather to the sight of the dingy bar man, who immediately took interest in wiping the counter in front of me. I chucked a couple scrunched up bucks beside the glass, sweeping up my hat and snatching my coat from Dave, who stared at me disapprovingly.

The daylight was blinding and the streets were cleaner compared to the corrupt building behind me. As David toddled to his car, I lingered behind, striking a match and placing it before a cigarette hooked in my mouth, shaking out the flame then on the ground. He slid between two parallel parked cars and jammed a key into the lock of a white topped Police car- I slumped in.

As we veered through the spearing gates of Auburngale Jazz Theatre, it was drowning from a flood of people. Newspaper journalists waved their notepads, photographers flashed camera lights and civilians moped around each other attempting to get to the front door, only to be pushed away. The dame must've had a reputation!

Gradually parting through the crowd, like sailing on waters without wind, we arrived at the buildings rear, where a line of about ten cars were parked. They were all relatively new, shiny and slick. As Dave hiked the stairs I stumbled up them, glaring over my shoulder at a marvelous Sloper Sedan parked beside Dave's. It was glossy black with more round curves then any dame and was unfortunately carved with a long scratch on the driver's door.

I resumed climbing the stairs. A well built, Mexican security guard propped open one mahogany door and sized me up. I copied him. A small mirror hung just inside the doors, beside a familiar ''I Want You''  poster that pointed at me. My hair was static, my tie was loose and my dress shirt was crimpled like a tissue. It was like I was vigorously sneezed from a drunk's nose... and they want me to serve on America's behalf? The hell with it!

A faint light caught my attention, I followed it down a corridor. It brightened and David questioned a small group of presentable people at the end. Behind him was a large stage framed with cardinal drapery and decorated with a corpse hanging from the curtain chord. The dame, I recognised as Seraphina Evander, Auburngale's version of Judy Garland!

Her pale face was mortified, her slim fair neck was bruised, her wavy brown hair tangled and bloody. Her arms ran like cold train tracks down each side of her body and a silk violet dress hugged her corpse, rippling around her limp feet. Oddly, her index finger nail was caked with black paint when the others were clean and lengthened. The explanation for the scratch on the car door.

High heels deeply clicked behind me, peeping over my shoulder, I discovered a wondrous beauty. An alluring blonde wiped a single tear away from a rosy cheek, her blood stained lips quivering for air. A shimmering scarlet dress clung to each curve as if she wore it like skin...like she was dipped in red toffee. A man accompanied her, with saggy eyes and fuzzy white hair. His grey pants and suspenders looked new yet tired- He was the producer.

They'd dispersed from David's circle of prissies. An old man, the conductor, clutched some sheet music entitled ''Seraphina'', and silently grieved. Seraphina was his favorite. A scruffy, younger man, immediately left untroubled- the back stage boy. Lastly, a man dressed appropriately for mourning, wore a gold wedding band on his left hand, and with a single glance at Seraphina's body, he pawed and bawled at it, similarly to a feral cat ripping apart it's prey. Her husband.

I did not notice the dame beside me, she flashed her pearly white teeth. 'So, you're our hero detective?' She questioned in a sexy monotone voice. I babbled, searching for the words on the tip of my tongue while finding my eyes lost in her bulging cleavage. 'Awwm yeah, I am. Though it's nothing much apart from murders, booze and all that jazz...'

The suspects were gathered and one stood before me. Covering up her skanky tracks with her charm and will to please me!