A Slight Case of Death

Chapter 3

The Summersault sat in the middle of the block. A few doors after crossing Larkin I could feel the change in the neighborhood. A couple blocks to the south sat the Ninth Circuit Court. Typical of humanity's way of doing things, the rats collected around the perimeter of the trap. As I passed the little grocery tucked into the ground floor of the residential hotel on the corner, I saw him; a large black man wearing a bright pink dress a couple sizes too small, extra-long fake eyelashes and brilliant red glistening lipstick. Teetering on size 16 high-heeled pumps, he wore a matching feather boa that wrapped itself around shoulders that should have been in football. My guts tightened--Frank, Frankie, as he preferred to be called, saw me, waved and began mincing his way through traffic toward me.

Arms the size of most folks' thighs wrapped themselves around me and squeezed. I could feel my ribs creak as I tried not to breathe in the overwhelming perfume.

"Tony! You don't know how glad I am to see you. You don't call, you don't write. What's a girl to think?" Frankie planted a huge kiss onto my right cheek. I could feel the mark he left there.

"Frankie, please give a guy some warning before you do that." I untangled myself from his arms and stepped back, both for my image and for my breathing. Frankie used perfume by the bucketful. I'd smelled this one before, but couldn't place it.

Frankie pouted and toyed with his hair. It hung to his shoulders, elaborately curled and glistening with fairy dust sprinkles. "You don't love me anymore," he murmured in a little girl voice, twisting the toe of his right pump against the pavement.

"Geez, Frankie, give me a break, will you? I'm on a case. I don't have time for this."

"Oh, sorry, Tony." The voice dropped into a bass worthy of James Earl Jones. Frankie looked down at me from his towering six-eight. The high heels put him near seven feet. The seriousness didn't last long. He smiled big and tweaked the cheek that still bore traces of his lipstick. "It's just that you're so ****ed cute."

"Frankie!"

The flirting vanished like a hooker's virtue. "Right, whatcha working on, Tony? Another grandma lost her cat?"

I ignored the jibe and plowed on. "There's a missing girl. Here, did you see anyone looking like this around? She was partying at the Summersault last night with her twin. I imagine they'd be hard to miss even in a crowd."

Frankie sniffed at the photo. "If you like the type, I suppose."

I had to admit, the big guy could put on the diva act. "I suppose. Come on, Frankie, if anything screwy has gone down, you'll hear about it. Your record's too good."

Frankie preened, lisping, "Yes, it is, isn't it? Let me see now, I was there between 1:45 and 2:30 in the morning. I had just finished a lovely gin fizz when Lowell and his latest came by; she's such a tramp. Then there was a party with a couple of obvious dye jobs; no way they were real redheads..." His voice trailed off. "Wait. There was this big fellow with a mustache, military type, y'know? I couldn't see clearly, but he was talking with a girl that might have been her. I'm sorry, Tony, that's all I can tell you. But then again, the place was crowded. Maybe you should check with Chang; he's tending bar in the Summersault right now. Well, at least he was an hour ago."

"Thanks, Frankie, I appreciate it."

"Anytime, lover."

♦ ♦ ♦

I pushed through the door into the bar and looked around. Inside, the Summersault looked a lot like every other gin joint in the city; low lighting and dark walls lined with deeply padded booths. Off to the right, the bar ran almost the length of the room. Only a couple of the stools held occupants and a few of the booths had some couples in them. Behind the bar, a mid-twenties Asian worked at mixing a drink—Tommy Chang. The smell of spilled booze hung in the air, mixing with that of aftershave, perfume, and bar food. I rubbed my nose and crossed the floor to the bar.