Spoiled Rotten (14 page)

“What's wrong?”

“Police business, I have to get my car. I'll get a cruiser to drop you off at yours.”

“I can find my way back by myself.”

He leaned into my face and whispered. “Try not to deliberately piss me off, okay?”

T
he road was glistening wet with halos of light dancing off the oncoming cars. Rain was coming down in thick sheets across my windshield and the wipers, turned to warp speed, were about to launch into hyperspace. I could see the rubber slipping off one of the blades, causing the metal arm to squeal every time it scraped across the glass and prayed anyone foolish enough to be out in this weather wouldn't be speared by one. Confident that the rain would keep the parking police busy counting tickets for their quotas back at the depot, I parked boldly on the street beside the restaurant. Kitty was caught briefly in my headlights before she scooted down the entrance to the alley. She was on a mission. So was I.

With my wool coat over my head, I ducked from the car to the front door, grabbed the door handle, and yanked hard. The handle almost came off in my hand, but the door didn't budge. I was getting tired of this. Ten years, seven days a week, from nine in the morning to twelve midnight, 364 days of the year, I've only ever closed for Christmas and now it seemed like I was always closed.

My keys were somewhere at the bottom of my purse and I started digging around for them, peering through the front window, hoping to see Rick — he's been known to sit in the dark. An older, sophisticated-looking couple strolled past. Noting my anguish, they commented that it was a shame such a nice place had gone out of business. And although I didn't say a word, they eagerly suggested a great new restaurant that had just opened around the corner. I thanked them and pretended to leave; better than killing them, I supposed.

When the coast was clear, I opened the door and locked it behind me. No point adding insult to injury by having people come in to use the washroom. I lit a candle in a wrought-iron holder instead of turning on the house lights and poured myself a glass of merlot from a resealed bar-back bottle. I looked around glumly and started to take it out on the restaurant. “This is your fault,” I said out loud. “If I had a normal career, I wouldn't be in this mess.”

When my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw a piece of paper pinned to the kitchen door. It was a note from Rick. I had just missed him. He had waited around for the inspector to arrive before the dinner hour, but to no avail. The inspector was unable to process the necessary paperwork until tomorrow morning. He was assured we could open the next day. The staff had been summoned for an 8:00 a.m. meeting and Daniel was coming back to work. Finally, a light at the end the tunnel.

I left my half-finished drink on the bar, blew out the candle, apologized to the restaurant for my harsh words, patted the bar affectionately, and jumped back in my car. I was going to Toscano's dance hall. If Maria was still rehearsing, and I bet she was, I had something I wanted to ask her.

I jockeyed round Toscano's parking lot, tucked behind the building, and found a space along the outer perimeter, near the rear property fence. A row of narrow backyards with covered barbeques and empty garden pots butted against it on the other side. The club was busy with dancers bustling in and out of the lot. I followed in the wake of a young couple dressed in matching sequined outfits moving rapidly along the sidewalk toward the front door. Before climbing the stairs to the tufted, padded-leather doors above, I stopped to admire the building's new cool slate-grey exterior with stainless-steel trimmings. Gone was the outdated purple stucco facade I remembered from long ago. Tonight Toscano's looked fancier than the nightclubs on Richmond Street.

A well-known landmark in the city, this popular nightclub was loved by young and old alike. Having survived fifty years in the central west end of Toronto, the neighbourhood club had recently undergone a massive renovation. I had heard a rumour circulating that not everyone approved of the new exterior — you can't please everyone all of the time — but the refurbished ballroom had maintained the same classic proportions inside, with brighter lights than ever before and a new barroom twice the size of the old one.

As part of the reopening ceremony, an international dance competition would draw a huge crowd. Offering a five-thousand-dollar cash prize for the best performance was destined to be a hit with the locals.

I assumed the rehearsal times were over by now since there was a small cover charge. I got my hand stamped by a woman who looked more like a gypsy fortune teller than an employee and walked into a central lobby, which was bustling with activity. The rain outside had left the streets empty and forlorn, but inside it was like Mardi Gras. I didn't feel conspicuous without a date. Tonight's ambience lent itself more to business than pleasure.

I wandered through another set of double doors that led into a narrow, glass rotunda. A circular waist-high wall, topped with spindle-shaped posts, overlooked a very crowded dance floor. This was the main ballroom. Some patrons stood behind the wall, observing and chatting about the dancers on the floor. I purchased a small tumbler of cold white wine and found a spot alongside a railing that was wide enough on which to rest my drink.

The perfect vantage point to watch the dancers, it didn't take me long to spot Maria. She was standing by herself in the middle of the floor. Other couples twirled and dipped around her. I thought she was alone until I noticed another dancer slinking in her direction. He stopped three feet away, swaying back and forth to the music with his hands flattened on his hips. At first Maria seemed to be oblivious to his presence. Then she stamped her foot and turned her back on him. Lunging at her with a high-kick step, he grabbed her long black hair in his fist. She spun around and lifted her hand to strike his face, but he caught her hand mid-air and pulled her whip tight to his chest. Bending her over backwards, he set her hair free, letting it sweep the floor until he lifted her straight up and into the air with one hand. My breath caught. The other couples made room as the two executed spins and thrusts around the room with electrifying precision and speed. They came to a show-stopping lift with Maria balanced high in the air, back arched, and her hips held tightly in the man's strong hands. I cried out, “Bravo, Bravo!”

I assumed the young man was Nicky, the dance partner Maria had mentioned at the hospital. He was pure heat and sizzling energy. His painted-on black nylon shirt and flared pants revealed a seductively lithe body that made me squirm in my shoes. From the looks on some of the other women watching from the sidelines it did to them, too.

Maria looked sensational. She was wearing the costume I had discovered tucked inside the gold bag along with the flyers back at the hospital cafeteria. When I had briefly handled the cloth, I felt a finely meshed nylon material. I didn't remember the glowing emerald fabric. The teensy outfitwas stretched tightly across her small breasts and narrow hips. Feathers trimmed the hem and glass beads, surrounding the neckline, sparkled under the chandelier lights. It was a miracle of modern science that the skimpy dress, completely backless, didn't fall off when Nicky flung her across the dance floor.

As far as I was concerned, no one held a candle to Maria and Nicky. Every step, every movement, appeared effortlessly as one. There was only one other couple who stood out from the rest and like Maria, the girl in that duo was muscular and shapely, with noticeably pronounced tendons in her legs. Her hair was short and black, a pixie-cut. It was cute and it suited her, but was oddly different from the other women on the floor. Most of them either had long hair pulled into tight ponytails or swept up into grand architectural contrivances. Maria's was long and chestnut brown, but she wore it loose, with ribbons threaded through the heavy curls. Both girls' costumes were similar in brevity and style and the shoes had similarly thick, sturdy-looking high heels.

The other partner was shorter than Nicky and stockier. He moved like a tornado, kicking and hopping, spinning his partner endlessly. He was energetic and athletic, but hardly graceful or seductive. The two couples were obviously friendly and faked tripping each other as a harmless game. They were laughing and the usually aloof Maria was having fun. Good for her.

I looked at my empty glass and, still thirsty, went to the bar. The ballroom floor had been replaced with new gleaming hardwood and the surrounding walls given a warm lustre of golden paint. The overhead chandeliers dazzled the eyes. A thousand teardrops of glass crystal had been refurbished or possibly just cleaned and I thought someday I'll try cleaning the office windows, when a fond saying of my mother's popped into my head, “Someday you'll be dead, too.” The magnificent lights rose and fell slowly between songs.

The bar was absolutely gorgeous. I wished with aching heart I owned a bar like that. It was made out of oiled mahogany, with a glassy top and shaped like a key. Rows of liquor bottles were stacked at the far end in front of two massive, ornately carved mirrors suspended from the ceiling. There was an undulating surge of customers moving forward trying to get served. On the floor in front of the bar, five round tables had been pulled together by a group of young girls and boys chatting excitedly about tomorrow's contest. Separate tables scattered around the bar were full and the bar itself was packed shoulder to shoulder.

With this large a crowd, the bar was understaffed, causing the bartenders to fly up and down the key. Edging myself into a slot between two couples, I leaned against the bar, waited for a bartender to see me, and held my glass up, mouthing the word
water
. He nodded, not nearly as annoyed as I anticipated. Maybe the break from shaking one more pina colada or making change for another twenty to pay for a three-dollar soft drink was considered a welcome task. I gave him a buck, anyway.

The mirrors were tremendous in size. I could see all around the room and into the dance area. I could even see Maria and her friends leaving the dance floor and making their way toward the bar. Quickly, I ducked behind the woman with the big head standing next to me at the bar. She turned her back to talk to her husband and I found myself staring directly into a nest of teased hair trapped in a silver net with a velvet bow holding it in place. When the lady moved her head, I moved mine in unison.

Maria was going to get the idea I was stalking her if she saw me here tonight. I didn't want to have to explain myself to her and her friends. I thought if I could talk to her alone I could ask her what favours she did for her deceased employer. I got the impression his wife knew what they were and frankly I didn't think they were sexual.

I was looking for another way out and saw a fire exit sign posted at the top of a flight of stairs with an arrow pointing down. Below it was another sign indicating that the ladies' washrooms were also downstairs. Perfect, two birds with one stone.

Stepping down the rickety stairs, the basement seemed dilapidated compared to the rest of the newly polished club. The renovation appeared to have stopped with the completion of the front facade and main floor. It was postwar era down there. Overhead exposed pipes, connected to steaming radiators lining the hallway, disappeared through the wall and beyond to unknown mechanical rooms and storage spaces.

A freshly painted but severely scarred wooden door read
LADIES ROOM
, a twin door, on the opposite side, read
CHANGE ROOM
.

Naturally, when I peeked inside the ladies' wash-room there was a lineup. I wondered if the dancers' changeroom had facilities and I pushed the door open like I meant it. One has to act like one owns the place for this tactic to work. I was in luck, nobody was in there. I went into a stall and closed the door. Just in the nick of time. Two women walked in the room right on my heels.

I recognized Maria's voice. I silently slid the bolt across on the stall door, opening it a crack to peek out, but a row of lockers that acted as a barrier between the toilets and the rest of the dressing room spoiled my view. I was about to close the door when the other girl approached a wash basin opposite me and splashed her face with water. It was the dancer she and Nicky had been clowning around with earlier. I heard Maria call her urgently, “Hurry up, Inez. Do that later. We need to make the exchange now.”

“Exchange?” I whispered in surprise.

The girl called Inez turned around suddenly and looked my way. I gently closed the toilet door all the way and held my breath. I was sure she had seen me watching her. I could hear her move close to the door, waiting for me to come out.

“Hurry up, Inez. I hear someone coming down the stairs.”

Inez went back to Maria and mumbled something inaudible. Pressing against the stall door I managed to overhear one word: “tomorrow.” A locker door slammed, more whispering, and they left.

Two other girls came into the room. I flushed the toilet and stood in front of the sink, pretending to fix my hair in the mirror. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught something lying on the floor beside one of the lockers. I walked over and looked down. Remembering the deck of cards Maria had dropped at the hospital, I picked up the card and put it in my pocket.

I walked back into the hall and left through the rear exit door. The land was higher here on this side of the building and I stepped directly out from the basement level onto the paved parking lot. It was raining lightly. The lot wasn't as busy as it had been an hour ago. Some of the younger dancers had probably attended school that day, and, tired from a night of rehearsal and the excitement of the big contest tomorrow, they would want to get home to bed. Speaking of which, I was tired, too.

I had covered a lot of territory since this morning. I visited Mr. Randolph at the hospital where I met Mrs. Cecilia Vieira for the first time and talked to Maria in the cafeteria. Then I ate perogies at St. Lawrence market, met Mrs. Wong for the community meeting, almost got mugged in Kensington, and ate Korean in Chinatown with Detective David Winn, my hero. I visited my failing enterprise, complained bitterly about it (which I fully regret), and drove in the pouring rain to Toscano's to speak to Maria, which I was unable to do. Did I say I was tired? More like comatose.