Straight Silver. Darlene Scalera

      “Neither do I.” Aunt Peggilee put the licked-clean beater in the bowl soaking in the sink, took a swig of her sport drink. “But I will.”

      I adored my great-aunt Peggilee, too.

      I CHECKED IN with Luxury Limousines after my class in fundamentals of info processing, but midweek was always slow. Any jobs that came in went to the old-timers. They didn’t need me until the weekend. Adrienne was at her summer job at the university science library where she spent most of her time scouting out premeds. Auntie would be leaving for salsa class followed by Margarita Mania at the Elks. I headed into Memphis, going against the tide of rush-hour traffic. The Oyster Club was in a corner of the city that made respectable folks shake their heads, and campaigning politicians favor for catchy photo ops. But an upward transformation had begun, thanks to a new condominium complex three streets over, whose towers could be seen from the T-shirt stalls on the corner. Come in from the east, and you’d pass a freestanding zone of new construction that took up almost the whole street. The centerpiece was the residential towers that included a health club and underground parking. Enter from the west and you’d see the transvestite hookers, the homeless waiting for St. Francis’ shelter to open for lunch, and the exotic dancer marquees, the largest of which was the Oyster Club.

      The club was quiet. Peak patron time was hours from now. A thin-haired man sat at the bar, stirring his drink with his pinkie, more interested in the clear liquid than the women dancing on the catwalk. A woman in her cruel forties slapped a cardboard coaster down as I slid onto a stool.

      “Ginger ale.” Elixir of the reformed.

      She brought the drink, cast me a resigned look and waited. Thirty-one-year-old community college coeds, even ex-strippers, don’t stop in at Club Oyster at the end of the day for a soft drink.

      “I was a friend of Della Devine’s.” I held out my hand. “Silver LeGrande.”

      A flash of recognition sparked in her pale eyes. She took my hand, didn’t give me her name, but she left my money on the bar. “I heard you left Billie.” Her gaze took me in and spit me out. “You looking for a gig here?”

      I shook my head. “I’m going to college.”

      She nodded, no expression. Enough years behind a bar and you heard it all. She wiped the counter. “Sorry about your friend.”

      “Were you here this morning?”

      Her eyes lifted to mine. “My shift doesn’t start until noon. As it was, by the time the cops got done scouring this place, we didn’t open until four.” She looked around. “Not that it matters. Something like this scares people. Business will be off for a while.”

      “Police said the cleaning woman found her.”

      “Cindy.”

      A calico cat jumped on the bar. I started. The bartender backhanded the cat off the counter with a surprisingly elegant swat.

      “Damn stray. Throw it out every night, but the girls keep feeding it, leaving it milk.” The bartender moved away and, with a similar grace, grabbed a bottle, poured another several clear inches into the empty glass of the man at the bar with the pinkie swizzle stick.

      “Cindy works mornings. She doesn’t know many of the girls,” the woman said as she came back to me. “Couldn’t reach the manager. Called 911.

      “Police said the woman saw the tattoo. Made her remember Della’s name.”

      “Della Devine.” The woman smiled, her bridge work not bad. “I liked that name.”

      I smiled back. “Me, too.”

      “Police had Cindy find her file to see if there was family, friend, somebody to contact.” The woman paused. “Silver LeGrande,” she pronounced with the same surprising elegance she’d used to backhand the cat off the counter.

      I sipped my ginger ale. “Did you know Della?”

      “I knew her, but I usually work the early shift. She danced second shift. Better money.”

      “How ’bout the other girls?”

      The woman shrugged. “Sure, the late-night girls knew her. They’ll be coming in all shook up for a while, sipping something strong between sets. The ones that called in to see if we were open tonight said she was a good kid.”

      “I heard she had her problems.”

      The woman’s second shrug said, “Don’t we all?’

      “Some of the girls will be here in a couple hours. They might be able to tell you more.” I couldn’t fault the woman for clamming up. Self-preservation comes before sympathy.

      “What about them?” I looked at the girls working the poles. “They know Della?”

      “Lucy worked with her.” The bartender tipped her head toward a blonde, her breasts disproportionate to narrow hips and fireplace-poker legs. “The other girl hasn’t been here that long.”

      “Anybody else called? Been by? Family maybe?”

      “You and the cops. That’s it.”

      I finished my ginger ale and felt forlorn even with bubbles up my nose.

      “Get you something else?”

      I snapped the rubber band against my wrist. Two years ago I’d been on the cusp of being a drunk. Some people twelve-stepped their way out. I’d snapped myself sober. Today the skin above my pulse was a mean black and blue.

      “Thought I’d wait around, maybe talk to Lucy when she goes on break.”

      “I’ll send her over.” The woman walked away.

      “The girls have lockers? Some place to store their stuff in the dressing room?”

      The woman turned back to me. “There’s a few lockers. Not enough for everyone on the busy nights. The girls share.”

      “Mind if I take a look?”

      “Don’t know that you’ll find much, but go ahead. Police have already been in there, but that don’t mean squat. Strung-out stripper strangled with her own G-string. The boys downtown have probably already chalked it up to karma.”

      She was probably right. I doubted even Officer Serras with his sheet-smoothing hands would lose any sleep tonight over Della Divine.

      The back room smelled of smoke and hairspray. Three wooden tables with large rectangle mirrors were covered with makeup bottles, hairspray cans, brushes. A stained couch occupied one corner. The coffee table in front of it was littered with overflowing ashtrays. The lockers were a line of five, industrial brown and scratched. The first held an oversize man’s shirt, a black bowtie and a cowboy hat. Two whips and a dog collar hung in the second one. It was a stroll down memory lane. I didn’t even know what I was looking for. If there had been any clues, some cop in the crime lab was earning his daily wage going over them now. I opened the third locker, peered inside. It felt better than doing nothing. On a hook hung a long red wig.

      “Jane said you wanted to see me.”

      I jumped, hit my head on the door edge, and swore like a sailor. A girl slumped into a seedy-looking chair in the corner, lit a cigarette, exhaled. She crossed her bony legs, her foot swinging. She’d seen me jump like a scared rabbit. She was one up on me, and she knew it.

      “Silver LeGrande.” Emergency contact.

      “Lucy.” She didn’t give a last name. “Jane says you knew Della?”

      “We worked together at Billie’s.”

      “You dance at Billie’s?”

      “Used to.”

      “Where do you dance now?”

      “I don’t. I’m going to school.”

      “What for?”