Dead Letters(49)

“Jason? You know him?” I say quickly.

“Everyone does. His brother’s the manager. Jay takes care of the…side business.”

“Drugs?” I blurt out. She just smiles back coyly, like I’m a fucking idiot.

“Was she dancing? Here?” I ask, not able to completely conceal the note of anxiety in my tone.

Holly looks surprised, though not offended. “God, no. Zelda just wasn’t the type, you know. And her tits were too small.” She smirks and regards me sympathetically. My tits are no bigger than Zelda’s. She reaches over and plucks my cigarette away. She takes a long drag, eyes half-closed in pleasure.

“You smoke the same brand,” she says, amused. “She said you were every bit as crazy as she was,” she continues. “Damn. That girl was something.”

“Can I ask you something?” I say, lighting up another cigarette. She nods. “Why did you post that photo on Facebook earlier today? I mean, had you not heard about the fire?” I can’t bring myself to say “that Zelda is dead,” because I’m worried that it will sound like the lie I know it to be.

“No, I had. But a few days earlier, she asked me to post the photo at ten A.M. on the twenty-fourth. She was really insistent about it, said it was really important and she needed me to do it at exactly that time. Even if it looked weird.” Holly shrugs. “Zelda was pretty damn weird, though, so I didn’t think too hard about it. I owed her some favors.” She smiles that mysterious smile again, sleepy and supremely relaxed.

“And Jason? Is he ever here? I kind of need to talk to him,” I say.

“Is this because he went over to the house? Before the fire?” Holly says innocently.

“Yes. I need to know what he was doing there.”

“Well, how about you ask me?” a voice behind me says. I whirl around to face the man from Zelda’s Instagram photo. He’s only a few inches taller than me, but he is wide and muscular. His arms are huge, each one the size and color of a small ham, and his shirt is tight across an inflated chest. That has to be uncomfortable, I think. All that muscle. It looks unwieldy. The Maori tattoo from the photo curls out from under one taut shirtsleeve. I realize that he’s probably been lurking there for a while. Absurdly, I stick out my hand.

“Holly told me you showed up. Wanted to introduce myself,” he says, shaking my hand with a slight smile. He has a chin dimple. Of course he does. “And you are?” he asks coolly, rounding on Wyatt. Testosterone is thick in the air.

“Wyatt Darling. Old friend of Zelda’s. And Ava’s,” he adds, and I feel a slight niggle of hurt at being second.

“Huh. Zelda didn’t mention you,” Jason says casually, and I see Wyatt clench his teeth. He turns back to me. “But she did say you were going to pitch up here eventually.” He pokes my collarbone to emphasize the “you,” and I recoil. He’s standing too close. “C’mon back inside, I got something for you.” He turns and waves us back toward the strip club. He goes in through the back door, and the three of us follow, Holly confident, Wyatt and me tentative.

The dressing room is brightly lit and smells of perfume, cigarette smoke, and something chemically clean—feminine hygiene spray? I don’t quite recognize it. The blonde who was onstage when we came in is reapplying lipstick, and a petite girl with wide-spaced eyes is back-combing her hair, teasing it into a frizzy, voluminous halo. I try not to stare, but it is a wonderfully foreign world. I wonder if Zelda really has been back here. She would love its tawdry disarray. We’re led into a hallway, and through a glass door, I glimpse a small room bathed in red light. A completely naked woman is grinding mechanically, a spookily empty expression on her face, and I can see a pair of knees poking out from beneath her. Wyatt coughs behind me, and I know he’s noticed.

Another door opens back into the club, and we follow Jason through it. Several customers nod toward him, and he waves back before heading to a DJ station snugged up next to the stage. A song is ending, and a new girl is scooping up bills from the dance floor, letting men slide others into her garters.

“Zelda wanted me to play a song for you when you showed up,” Jason explains, fussing with the sound equipment. An old song comes on, incongruous here in the club. As the familiar tune gathers momentum, Zelda saunters onstage.

From the way Wyatt freezes, I can tell he’s fallen for the disguise too. For a moment, my heart stops; Holly has donned a black wig that resembles my and Zelda’s hair, and she is wearing one of Zelda’s kimonos. When I see her, I realize that I’ve been expecting Zelda to appear all along. Nat King Cole sings cheerily: “L is for the way you look at me, O is for the only one I see…” Holly dances coquettishly, mouthing along with the lyrics and baring various parts of her body in an imitation of old-fashioned burlesque. I find this much more sexy than the spangled-thong-and-pole exhibition, but that’s beside the point; I look at Jason in confusion.

“Zelda wanted you to play this? For me?”

“Yup. Don’t ask me why. She didn’t tell me, just said you’d figure it out.”

I frown and look over at Wyatt, who wears a similar expression. “Any ideas?” I ask him. “Did she ever mention this song?”

“I remember her singing it, a few weeks ago, but…I can’t think what it means,” he answers slowly. The trumpets blare, and Holly shucks off the kimono, revealing nipple tassels and nothing else. I watch her dance, wondering if there might be clues in the choreography. But the short song winds down, and Holly does a quick shimmy as she exits the stage.