13 Murders

Sweet Cheeks

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SWEET CHEEKS

I leave the next evening. I’m not sure what I am going to need, or how I am going to get Electra to help me, but I pack the essentials. By that I mean a toothbrush, a gun and band-aids (although I am not sure what I would use them for, or how they would come to use other than if I fell and scraped my knee). I unpack the band-aids and replace them with two apples. Then my handbag is full. Not the most convenient of bag choice if I say so myself, but bringing luggage to jazz club isn’t exactly inconspicuous.

 The journey takes thirty minutes by train, and the whole way there I think of things I could say to convince her to help me. I word it differently every time. Please, Electra, I need you. Electra, please, I need you. I need you Electra, please. It is a short walk from the train station to the bar, and a dark one as well. Normal civilians would be scared of criminals or thieves or murderers, walking down this street.

 Huh, scared of murderers. I am not. I have a gun and criminal record, no one is going to kill me.

 I suddenly feel more confident, and so I make and effort to look that way, straightening my back and opening my coat another button. My shoes make a satisfying tapping noise on the tar of the road, and I realize why Electra goes for the sexy masquerade, it makes you feel good. The bar is full. People chatter loudly over the background music, I fit right in. I slip into a barstool and lean in to the bartender, he smiles.

 “What can I get you sweet cheeks?” He asks. I make my best smirk and raise my eyebrows.

 “Where can I find Ms. Roxanna Raven?” I enquire. He looks me up an down, a sly smirk on his face. I want to slap him, but I have a feeling that little favours like this is what is going to get me to Electra without being seen by the crowds.

 “She doesn’t like visitors, not before a show. Or any other time.” He says, placing a martini glass on the table and filling it with a pinkish liquid. I smile as persuasively as possible and bat my eyelashes a little.

 “She doesn’t? But I’m a special visitor, we’re practically sisters.” I pout. In my head, I thank Amelia for teaching me that lies are believed easily, as long as they have a believable facial expression with them. He looks to the side. I know that the back door is in that direction. And then he looks back at me and shakes his head.

 “Fine sweet cheeks, I’ll slip you in after the show,” He says softly, pushing the pink drink toward me. “It’s on the house.” Then he leaves to serve the other customers. I get up and sit at an empty table at the back of the hall, where it is dark and Electra won’t be able to see me from the stage, that way she won’t know I’m here and she won’t leave without me seeing her.

 She does the same number as she did when I came here with Jason, in the same costume. She sings a couple of other songs, one really raunchy song where she rips of a white Marilyn Monroe-esque dress to reveal a studded leather corset and hops onto a nearby table. The crowd goes wild, they love her, and for a second she looks like she’s having fun, like she loves being on stage. She really has a beautiful voice, and she’s good with acting, I know that already. First the psycho act at Everleigh, now Roxanna Raven, the sexy southern belle turned jazz singer. It is astonishing.

 Her last act is a performance of ‘At Last’ by Etta James, and she appears on stage wearing a full-length, silk, emerald green gown with spaghetti straps. The entire audience catches their breath as she sings. It is mesmerizing. And then it ends, and I am forced back into reality. I look back at the bartender, who comes over and tells me to ‘wait a few seconds sweet cheeks’. I do, and the place is empty by the time he comes over to tell me that her room is just through that door.

 “Thanks for that, sweet cheeks.” I mutter under my breath.

 I have to push past multiple clothing racks, a sofa and a passed out dancer to reach Electra’s door. I decide not to knock, incase she won’t let me in. Counting to three, I count to three and brace myself to open the door.

 One. Two. Three.

 Electra sits on a chaise lounge in her green dress, smoking a French cigarette. Her head jerks as I slam the door behind me. He eyes flicker to mine.

 “Fuck.” She mutters, rolling her eyes. I stand still, crossing my arms over my chest. I try to look, firm, authoritative, like she cannot push me down. She raises her eyebrows and purses her dark pink lips, exhaling a large, lingering puff of smoke.

 “ ’The fuck are you doing here, kid?” She spits. He eyes are hard, cold and terrifying. All my confidence is lost. For once, she is not smirking, instead her eyebrows are furrowed in a scowl and her lips are puckered together sourly.

 “We need to talk,” I begin, but she interrupts.

“No, you need to get the fuck out of here. Now!” She sneers, getting up from the chaise. She takes a step toward me, challenging me to go against her. As much as it sends shivers down my spine, I need to push her limit. I need her to listen to me.

 “I’m here for a reason, please Electra. I need you to help me.” I plead, taking a step closer to her and reaching to touch her shoulder, calm her down. She pulls away from my touch with a snarl.

 “Don’t call me that, you’ll ruin both of our freedom’s you little shit. I’m not a fucking helpline, now leave!” She barks. Her eyes are on fire and she spits her words like bullets. My first instinct is to put my hands up defensively and lower my voice to a small mumble. I decide it would be best to just tell her everything, make her understand exactly what I need help with. But she is snatching for the door handle, and in a few seconds she will most likely have me kicked out, I know that, and I have to act before that happens.

 “Grace was shot.” I blurt. She freezes. Turning her head and narrowing her perfectly made-up eyes, she looks into my eyes. She’s looking for signs of lying, but she will find none. After a few seconds, she puffs a large cloud of smoke into my face and steps back. She looks surprised, interested and a little sympathetic. She puts all of her weight on her back leg, and sticks her hip out the side, placing her hands on her hips.

 “And? How does this involve me?” She asks. The smirk is back, but it is less playful, now it has a dark edge, a troubled shadow of thought.

 “It was one of us, one of the Thirteen, from Everleigh.” I continue. She spatters and chuckle and pushes a strand of chocolate curls behind her ear.

“Well it wasn’t fucking me, so what do you want kid?” She shrugs. I nod and turn to pace the room. My shoes make loud clicking noises on the concrete floor.

 “I know it wasn’t you,” I say, looking at her for reassurance. She nods her head in agreement. “But I thought you could help me find out who it is. I know you like to act, like to intimidate people. We could interrogate them, find them and make them admit to trying to kill Grace, find out why.” I explain. Electra’s smirk grows, she likes the idea, likes the challenge. I explain that we’ll need to track all of them down at first, but it doesn’t seem to phase her. Her eyes are wild, and her expression is lively. When I look to her at the end of my explanation, she is turning to pack a suitcase.

 “I guess you’re in then?” I ask, but I already know the answer.

 “Fuck yeah.”