doorways. Now look at it. You can practically spit to the Mississippi from here, and what do you have? Chop shops, heroin balloons, busted streetlights . . . If the city council had half a brain between the bunch of them, they’d steamroll this place and put up about fifty Starbucks.”
Magozzi turned onto a dark, sketchy backstreet that terminated at the club. “Then you’d have fifty Starbucks filled with drug dealers doing business over double mocha lattes.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He squinted out the window against the glare of a flashing neon crown that lit up an old, brick building. A colorful parade of characters dressed in elaborate costumes and gowns were lined up on the street, waiting to get in. “Are you sure these are all men?”
Magozzi shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess. What difference does it make?”
“Because if that she in the green dress is actually a he, then you could have fooled me and I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
“It’s theater, Gino. Try to stay focused.”
“Yeah, right. I’m kinda out of my element here. Let’s hit a side door. I don’t want to walk that gauntlet. We’re already getting weird looks and we haven’t even gotten out of the car yet.”
On the north side of the building, they found a bent-up metal fire door manned by a monolith of a security guard whose day job was probably chewing glass at carnival sideshows. “Out front, like everybody else!” he barked at them.
Gino was quick to pull out his badge and shove it toward the man’s face. “MPD Homicide, pal.”
The bouncer looked skeptical until his eyes landed on Gino’s holster. “Oh.” He pulled open the door for them and a throbbing wall of high-decibel dance music blasted them like a sirocco.
“Hang on,” Magozzi said, gesturing for him to close the door, then pulling out the photo of their river body that Grace had printed out. “You ever see this guy here?”
He took the photo, examined it for a second, then his eyes got huge. “Jesus. He’s dead.”
“Hence, the homicide part of our introduction,” Gino grumbled.
“Hell, I’m only here two nights a week, and I see about a thousand faces each time.”
“He was wearing a wedding dress.”
The bouncer shook his head. “Working a place like this, you just stop noticing the craziness after a while. You should talk to one of the bartenders. Or better yet, talk to Camilla—she runs this place, she’s always here, and she knows everybody. Go inside and head up the back staircase. Her office is at the end of the hall. God. I can’t believe you showed me a picture of a dead guy.”
The inside of the Tiara was sheer mayhem. Hundreds of people swarmed on an enormous dance floor in a riot of color, feathers, and sequins. Lights strobed in time to the screaming sound system. Magozzi and Gino didn’t even try to talk—they just shoved their way through the crowd toward the staircase, badges clearing a path for them.
It was no small blessing that Camilla’s office was soundproofed. You could still hear the din of the music, and the throbbing of the bass was turning Magozzi’s guts to Cream of Wheat, but conversation was possible without shouting.
Camilla looked like a she—a really pretty she, in a demure, well-cut skirt suit—but the booming voice told another story. “Homicide?” His/her hands fluttered at his/her throat like distressed moths. “Good grief, Detectives, tell me what’s happened.” She gestured to two empty chairs that flanked her desk. “Please, please, do sit.”
Magozzi pulled out the photo again and slid it toward Camilla. “Do you recognize this man?”
Camilla answered the question with a deluge of tears, and there was no question that the grief was genuine, and not just manufactured melodrama. “That’s Sweet Cheeks,” she finally choked out. “Oh, my God . . . she was just here last night . . . oh, God, what happened?”
Gino had a good heart and a fairly open mind, but a man in
Magozzi turned onto a dark, sketchy backstreet that terminated at the club. “Then you’d have fifty Starbucks filled with drug dealers doing business over double mocha lattes.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He squinted out the window against the glare of a flashing neon crown that lit up an old, brick building. A colorful parade of characters dressed in elaborate costumes and gowns were lined up on the street, waiting to get in. “Are you sure these are all men?”
Magozzi shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess. What difference does it make?”
“Because if that she in the green dress is actually a he, then you could have fooled me and I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
“It’s theater, Gino. Try to stay focused.”
“Yeah, right. I’m kinda out of my element here. Let’s hit a side door. I don’t want to walk that gauntlet. We’re already getting weird looks and we haven’t even gotten out of the car yet.”
On the north side of the building, they found a bent-up metal fire door manned by a monolith of a security guard whose day job was probably chewing glass at carnival sideshows. “Out front, like everybody else!” he barked at them.
Gino was quick to pull out his badge and shove it toward the man’s face. “MPD Homicide, pal.”
The bouncer looked skeptical until his eyes landed on Gino’s holster. “Oh.” He pulled open the door for them and a throbbing wall of high-decibel dance music blasted them like a sirocco.
“Hang on,” Magozzi said, gesturing for him to close the door, then pulling out the photo of their river body that Grace had printed out. “You ever see this guy here?”
He took the photo, examined it for a second, then his eyes got huge. “Jesus. He’s dead.”
“Hence, the homicide part of our introduction,” Gino grumbled.
“Hell, I’m only here two nights a week, and I see about a thousand faces each time.”
“He was wearing a wedding dress.”
The bouncer shook his head. “Working a place like this, you just stop noticing the craziness after a while. You should talk to one of the bartenders. Or better yet, talk to Camilla—she runs this place, she’s always here, and she knows everybody. Go inside and head up the back staircase. Her office is at the end of the hall. God. I can’t believe you showed me a picture of a dead guy.”
The inside of the Tiara was sheer mayhem. Hundreds of people swarmed on an enormous dance floor in a riot of color, feathers, and sequins. Lights strobed in time to the screaming sound system. Magozzi and Gino didn’t even try to talk—they just shoved their way through the crowd toward the staircase, badges clearing a path for them.
It was no small blessing that Camilla’s office was soundproofed. You could still hear the din of the music, and the throbbing of the bass was turning Magozzi’s guts to Cream of Wheat, but conversation was possible without shouting.
Camilla looked like a she—a really pretty she, in a demure, well-cut skirt suit—but the booming voice told another story. “Homicide?” His/her hands fluttered at his/her throat like distressed moths. “Good grief, Detectives, tell me what’s happened.” She gestured to two empty chairs that flanked her desk. “Please, please, do sit.”
Magozzi pulled out the photo again and slid it toward Camilla. “Do you recognize this man?”
Camilla answered the question with a deluge of tears, and there was no question that the grief was genuine, and not just manufactured melodrama. “That’s Sweet Cheeks,” she finally choked out. “Oh, my God . . . she was just here last night . . . oh, God, what happened?”
Gino had a good heart and a fairly open mind, but a man in
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