SANDY THE SAILOR

I have always loved reading mysteries and stories of murders.  As a writer, I wanted to write a short story about a murder.  The following was my first attempt at this type of fiction.  I have to thank my husband, Bryon, who’s an engineer, for the information about electricity, gas, and explosions.

SANDY THE SAILOR

            Carly gently laid a single yellow rose on her sister’s headstone, which read “Jodene Farris, 1981 – 2002”.  Those meager etchings were all Carly could afford to mark the last resting place of her baby sister when she buried her ashes.

            “Oh, Jody.  I’m going to get that son-of-a-bitch that did this to you.  He’s going to know the fires of hell and he won’t know what hit him.  You mark my words, Baby Sister.  Mark my words.”

            Carly slid to her knees in the grass of the cemetery as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.  Jody had been her only family, two young women orphaned in 2000, their parents killed in a car accident.  Carly had tried to look after her sister, but Jody had been so determined to support herself and not be a burden.  The tears continued to slide down Carly’s cheeks as she remembered.

            Her younger sibling had been as alive and zany as they come, always jumping in without gauging the waters.  Carly had misgivings when her little sister decided to work as an exotic dancer, but Jody had been so sure it was the perfect answer.  It was legal in British Columbia.  You worked for an agency that sent you out to the different bars and clubs.  You got paid by the bar, in cash, at the end of the gig, after expenses like music royalties and the agency’s fees were deducted.  You had a dressing room to change in.  You had a bouncer to protect you.  Touching by customers was not allowed.  If you didn’t spend it on booze or drugs, it was a perfect way to make a lot of money.  Many girls did it to pay for university.  Jody seemed to have all the answers before she really knew the questions.  Carly had tried to stop her, but with her own student loan and living expenses to pay, she had been relieved that she didn’t have to support Jody.  Her sister became a stripper, and Carly a junior accountant.

            Things seemed fine for a while, both girls working, sharing an apartment, although they were rarely home at the same time.  One worked weekdays, the other week-ends and nights.  Months went by before Carly realized her sister wasn’t well.  She was skinny, she was pale, and she coughed.  Before she even framed her concern, her sister ambushed her with the fact she had Aids.

            The dying could have been delayed, even though neither one of the girls had the money for life-prolonging drugs, and their having to live on just one salary would have been tough.  But Carly would have been there for Jody and she told her sister that, to no avail.  Fear of an early death kept Jody from hearing.  She cried for days, telling her big sister everything.

Carly persevered and made plans to take care of her sister.  She worked extra days and nights during tax season, to put more money away for them.    She made Jody apply for government funding for medications.  She told Jody they could make it together.  It was working out, until that day she came home from the office to find Jody’s suicide note, followed by a visit from the R.C.M. P. to tell her Jody had stepped off a curb in front of a tractor-trailer and was in critical condition at Royal Columbian Hospital.  And then Jody did die an agonizing death anyhow, taking her last breath two days later with her older sister helplessly watching.

            Carly stood up from the gravesite to look at Grouse Mountain in the distance.  Just as the mountain stood sentinel over Vancouver, Carly stood up and knew she would avenge her sister’s death.

            “He’s going to die tomorrow, Jody.  I’ve been planning this for six months.  And even if I get caught, it’ll still be worth it.  He won’t be able to hurt anyone ever again.  I promise you that.”

            On her way home from the cemetery, Carly stopped at London Drugs for a package of hair dye.  She didn’t want to look too much like her blond sister had, in case anyone recognized her.  She chose a burgundy-auburn color and went home to dye her hair, and shave her legs and groin.

After changing her hair color, Carly pulled out her costumes.  Some had been her sister’s, and some she had bought for herself.  All the outfits would tear away and come off as her strip progressed, even the bras and panties.  She would have the length of four songs, twelve to sixteen minutes, to do her set.  She would dance fully clothed for the first song, and would be totally naked by the end of the fourth. 

Carly chose the navy sailor’s costume.  Navy was her favorite color.  The costume was new and came with a white hat and white gloves.  Next she hunted through her professional cosmetics case.  She picked out contact lenses that would turn her blue eyes gray, and she chose body glitter and hair glitter to glimmer under the bar’s stage light.  From the floor of her closet she picked white boots that came up over the knees and had two-inch platform soles and six-inch heals.  The boots would stay on.  Carly liked the idea of standing tall in her boots.

After her choice of what to wear came her choice of music and dance moves.  For every song played, the dancers paid royalties to the music companies, same as radio stations did.  She had about ten pre-recorded sets of four songs.  The first song had to be a quick tempo to dance to fully dressed, and the fourth song had to be the slowest tempo to which she’d writhe naked on a blanket on the stage.  She would remove clothing during the two songs in between.  When she’d made her choices, Carly picked up the phone and dialed the agency’s number.

“Hi, Peter.  Sandy here, scheduled to dance at Hunters’ Inn tomorrow.  I’ll just use my Elvis music for all seven sets, so you can tell Hunter how much to deduct for royalties.  And oh yes, I want to book my own room for the day so I can take a nap between sets.  My first set is at noon tomorrow, right?   And then I start my first gig in Japan in a week?  Thanks, Peter.  I’m looking forward to all the money I’ll make doing the circuit in Japan.”

Next, Carly used her real name as she phoned Air Canada and booked a flight to Japan for the day after tomorrow.  The following few hours she spent packing clothes and costumes for Japan and writing out post-dated checks for rent and utilities while she would be away.  Then Carly put her navy costume on and a CD on the stereo.  She would practice her dance moves before the big day. 

Carly left early the next morning for Hunters’ Inn as she wanted to get there before the bar opened.  It was a long drive to the Inn, out in the valley between Mission and Harrison Hot Springs.  She drove east on the freeway to Abbotsford, then across the Fraser River to continue east on the Lougheed Highway.  The further east she drove, the darker the morning sky became.  Heavy rainclouds pushed up against the mountains. They were promising lightning, thunder, and an angry deluge in revenge.

It was 10:55 when Carly pulled into the empty parking lot at Hunters’ Inn.  The first flash of lightning slashed the eastern sky.  The thunder followed her as she entered the door to the tiny Lobby.

She set down her boom box and accessory case while she held her garment bag and handbag.  Her right hand shook slightly as she hit the bell to summon Ross Hunter.  He was the owner, and the manager, and the bartender, and the bouncer, and the all-round prick who co-erced the dancers into sleeping with some of his cronies before they could collect their pay for performing on stage.  Needless to say, the girls were never paid for sex.  Had to keep things legal and above board.  And who cared that his pals spread STDs like manure on a field?  Condoms weren’t even sold at the Inn, much less supplied to the girls.

But Carly cared.  She cared that was how her sister came down with Aids.  She cared it could happen any time to any other girl desperate for her pay.  She cared enough to stop it from ever happening again.  As she recalled Jody telling her everything about the man and his place before she died, Carly felt her resolve hardening.  Her hand stopped shaking.  She stood straighter as Ross Hunter came down a set of stairs to the front counter.

“You’re early.  The first set isn’t until noon.  The other girls aren’t here yet.  Shit, I haven’t even opened the bar yet.”  The big man looked Carly up and down and took a drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in an ashtray on the counter.

“I know.  But I’m Sandy.  I booked my own room.  Thought I’d come early so I’d have time to paint my nails.  Give me the key and I’ll get out of your way till noon.”

“I guess.  Here.  It’s #208, end of the hall upstairs.  Since you’re first here, you can do the first set.  Twelve sharp.  I’ll be in the bar.  Have to open up now.”

Carly watched him light another cigarette as his six-foot, beer-bellied frame shuffled through the doorway into the bar.  As he went, he started pulling chairs off table-tops and setting them hard on the floor, getting ready to open.  Quickly scanning her surroundings, she noticed a labelled key on the wall behind the counter.  It said “Manager”.  From what Jody had told her, she knew it was the key to Hunter's own suite upstairs.  And she knew it would hang there until the bar closed tonight.

Carly went to her room and painted her taloned fake nails dark blue.  When they dried, she inched on the long white boots.  She donned her costume and checked that everything would come off as expected.  She put her CD in her boombox.  She pulled on her white gloves.  Taking her blanket, her boombox and her own room key, she hurried downstairs, stopping at the front counter.  Nobody in sight.  She set down her stereo and blanket, put her own key in her pocket, grabbed the key marked “Manager” and ran back upstairs.  She hastily opened the door to Hunter’s suite, ducked inside, and shut the door behind her.

Standing in the entry by a desk with an old lamp on it, Carly’s eyes searched the suite.  She spotted the kitchenette and the old gas stove Jody had told her about.  Moving straight to the stove, she lifted the empty kettle, put some water in it, and set it back on the stove.  She turned on the burner under the kettle, but didn’t ignite the gas.  Twelve or thirteen hours of a slow leak should do the trick.  When Hunter came in and lit a cigarette, he’d be lighting his way to hell.  In expectation of justice, Carly shivered.

Anxious to leave, she knocked over the lamp on her way back to the door.    She set the lamp back on the desk but didn’t turn on the wall switch by the door to see if it still worked.  With any luck, it wouldn’t matter.  She ran back down the stairs and her gloved hand put the Manager’s key back on the wall just as Hunter’s voice on the loudspeaker in the bar gave the introduction for “Sandy the Sailor”.  Carly picked up her blanket and boombox and made her way to the stage.

After her set, she tented the blanket around herself and picked up her clothes and headed for her own room.  With a cigarette dangling from his mouth and beer on his breath, Hunter blocked the staircase.

“Slow down, little sailor.  You need to know the rules around here.”

“What rules?”

“If you want your money tonight, you have to do me a little favor.”

“What favor?”

“A pal of mine wants some ass.  You’re new around here.  That’s good.  You’ll do.  Get cleaned up after your last set and then come to my suite at the top of the stairs when the bar closes at 1:00.  I’ll introduce you and you can show him a good time.  Then you can have your pay and leave.  Understand?”

Carly pulled her blanket a little closer, hoping for some warmth, as she stared back at Hunter’s icy glare.  “Whatever.  Your suite, you said?”

“Yeah, Sandy.  My suite.”  Hunter blew smoke at her as he moved aside to let her climb the stairs and one fat, hairy hand slapped her on her bottom as she took the first step.

The hours dragged.  Carly performed her own set every two hours.  Three other girls also performed, after her.  Patrons could watch the revelation of flesh for fifty minutes.  Between sets, she sat in her room, staring at a stained wall and remembering her sister.  She could have gone down and had something to eat in the bar, but she had no appetite.  It took resolve and patience, waiting for someone else to die.  Carly had both.

           

After her last set at midnight, she hurried back to her room.  She took a quick shower and packed up all her gear and hauled it out to her car, dropping her room key on the front counter on her way out.  The manager’s key was still on the wall.

           

From her car in the parking lot, she could see through a window to the counter in the lobby.  The bar emptied quickly after closing.  Dancers and drinkers rushed to their vehicles through the pouring rain.  The neon light above the bar went out.

Carly could see Hunter and another man in the lobby.  She watched as Hunter put out his cigarette and led his friend up the stairs.  She knew that if Hunter smelled the gas before he lit another cigarette, her plan wouldn’t work.  He would just turn off the gas.  But she wasn’t going to stick around to find out.  She didn’t need the money.  Just as Carly turned the key in her ignition, there was a loud explosion inside the Inn.  With shaking hands, she put her car in drive and started for home.

           

Driving to the airport in the morning, Carly heard on the radio that an explosion from a gas leak had occurred when the owner of Hunters’ Inn turned on a light switch in his own suite.  Ross Hunter was killed instantly.  His companion suffered burns and lacerations and would have been expected to recover, but by his own admission he also had Aids.  As there were no signs of forced entry, the explosion was deemed to have been accidental.

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By Lisa A. Hatton