“I was standing right here, and Antoine opened the door behind me,” Keenan says. “By the time I turned around, he had already closed it. He said Bashinsky and Monk were staying inside to talk about something, that they wanted privacy, and then he walked off. It seemed strange at the time, and I felt something was off, but like I said before, I had no reason to think that Antoine would’ve done anything like this. I didn’t know if I should go with him or stay where I was, but I had been told to guard the door, not him, so I remained at my post. I figured that Monk would tell me if I needed to do something different when he came out.”
“Why didn’t you check on them immediately?” Fischer asks.
“Like you said, it’s the fifth-richest man in the world having a private conversation. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“So why did you then?” asks Miles.
“I don’t know. I just knew something was wrong. Antoine walked away so quickly. It took me a minute to realize how fast he had gotten out of here, but once I did, and the two of them not coming out yet, I just felt like I had to check.”
Miles again: “How long between Antoine walking away and you going in?”
“I would say three minutes at the most.”
“And inside?”
“I saw the bodies. Pulled my gun. Cleared the bathroom. Then I ran after Antoine. Eventually I caught up to him in the parking lot.”
“Which is when you spoke to him?”
“That’s right.”
The conversation comes back to Keenan. He is grateful that the pistol-whip didn’t knock it from his brain, because there were things in there of grave importance. He has been so bombarded by this blowhard that he hasn’t been able to break down all Antoine said, but he knows that there are deep secrets to be teased out. Secrets that are essential to his own past. And Tyron’s. And, obviously, to Antoine’s. Their entire crew seems to be caught up in Antoine’s revenge plot.
Keenan has considered the fact that Antoine might’ve lied to him — lying would hardly go against the morals of someone who just committed first-degree murder — but he has discarded the possibility. Antoine had no reason to lie just then; he had never been a liar, even if he clearly knew how to keep a secret, and the release and fulfillment in Antoine’s voice and face could not be staged. And there was one other factor that persuaded Keenan of the veracity of his words: everything Antoine said rang true. As he heard the words, an inner voice said to Keenan, Yes yes, what you have always suspected, finally laid bare. Antoine has connected the dots for you.
“What did he say to you?” Miles asks.
Keenan looks between Fischer and Miles, debating how much to tell them. Already Antoine’s words have made him suspicious of anyone in Metro.
“Come on, Quinn,” Fischer says. “Out with it.”
Keenan watches for their reactions. “He said that Bashinsky had a team of corrupt cops doing hits and other assignments for him for over twenty years. He said that Bashinsky and Monk and one other killed his father.” Keenan draws in a breath for the final reveal, that Bashinsky and his corrupt cops were behind the killing of the Shaws, but this he holds back. Bringing the Shaws into this right now seems irrelevant. Besides, what he saw that day in the gym when his father warned Terrence Shaw against political activity right before his death might make him look suspicious. His father. Keenan doesn’t even want to think what his connection could be to all this.
There is no reaction on either man’s face. Just rapt stares with pinched brows.
“Where’d Deco come up with this idea?” Miles asks.
“That’s what I asked him,” Keenan says. “I said, ‘How could you know all this?’”
Keenan pauses, remembering the look of deranged satisfaction on Antoine’s face when he gave his answer.
“He said, ‘This is my life. My real life.’ It was creepy.” Keenan draws his tongue along his upper teeth, thinking about it. “Makes sense, though. There was always something going on with him, you know. He wasn’t like a regular kid. There was some hidden thing consuming him. You could tell. This was it, investigating his father’s murder. He also disappeared all the time, sometimes for days. And he’d get into trouble with the cops.” Keenan’s eyes widen and he looks significantly at Miles and Fischer. “He got caught breaking into a police station. This was right after I first met him. My buddy Tyron told me about it. He didn’t take anything, he was just charged with breaking and entering because all he did was look at their files.” Keenan almost gasps remembering this detail, while Miles and Fischer share a concerned look between them. “He’s been planning this a very long time,” Keenan says, to himself as much as to anyone else.
“No doubt of that,” Miles says, arms folded, leaning his long body against the wall. “He must’ve known that Bashinsky visited all the winners personally. Hell of a motivation to win a fight.”
Keenan turns sharply to face Miles, realizing that he is right. This is why Antoine never gave up on his boxing. This is how he could will himself to the upper echelon of the sport. This is what fuelled him against Konitsyn. He wonders how long ago it was that Antoine learned of Bashinsky’s custom. Antoine trained like a fiend from the beginning and he couldn’t have always known. Still, Keenan wonders how good the boxer would’ve been without this knowledge.
Thompkins says, from three paces behind and to the left of Fischer, “Sirs, I believe what Detective Miles has suggested is extremely accurate. I have read that internal motivation is a major factor in developing high-level performance. It would seem that Deco’s dream of having his moment alone with Bashinsky gave him the internal resources to rise so high.”
Fischer hangs his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Thompkins, just shut up.”
“Yes sir.”
Thompkins stares straight ahead, arms at attention like he is guarding the White House, and Keenan almost smiles looking at him. A Stanford grad, the rumours are that Thompkins only joined Metro to preface a career in politics. Still, as much as he looks like a nerdy suck-up, he did spend some time in SWAT. No small feat, thinks Keenan.
“I don’t give a damn why or how this psycho did what he did,” Fischer says. “We have to find him and find him fast.” His mouth twists into a grimace, and he takes a stride toward Keenan, jabbing his finger into his chest. “Do you realize how bad this looks? You of all people being asleep on the job while the highest-profile murder of the decade goes down behind your back? Fuck! Half the Black people in Vegas are going to be outside this building in the morning to protest you, you fuck. Why are you even here? You hadn’t brought enough bad press on our department? You thought, Let’s see if I can take the entire organization down single-handedly?”
“Easy,” Miles says. He puts a reassuring hand on Fischer’s shoulder; Fischer glances back and seems to appreciate the gesture.
“We need to find this other man Deco is after,” Fischer continues. “That’s one lead at least.”
“If there is another man,” Miles says. “Maybe Deco said that to make us think he’s still in the city. Not already on his way to the Mexican border.”
“For what it’s worth, I think he was telling the truth,” Keenan says.
Fischer levels a contemptuous glare at him. “You do, do you? You know your father was partners with Monk back in the day.”
Keenan’s face drops. The word “no” rises to his lips, but he cannot bring himself to say it. His father was partners with Monk. What else did they team up on? Keenan feels like he has to sit down.
“You were partners with Monk too, weren’t you?”
Miles asks the question of Fischer, who spins on him, growling, “What are you insinuating?”
Miles holds up his hands, palms out, and gives a slight shake of the head. “Nothing.”
Fischer stares him down, then turns back to Keenan. “There was nothing else Deco said to you?”
/> “No sir.”
“All right. Now, you don’t tell a fucking soul about your involvement in this mess. Understood? Anyone finds out about it and there’ll be pandemonium in this city. You burn that fucking beard that you were wearing, and that mysterious security guard who ran down Deco will remain anonymous. Got it?”
“Yes sir.”
To the others, Fischer says, “Thompkins, get an official statement from him; Miles, check on the investigators.” Then he walks away, eyes on his phone.
Keenan stops him with, “Sir, let me call my dad first.” Fischer looks back at him. Piercing through the graveness and stress in his small brown eyes is a glimmer of sympathy. He nods and marches off, putting the phone to his ear.
Keenan has missed two calls and several texts from his wife. Most of the texts express her excitement over Antoine’s victory and how they’ll have to celebrate with him later. A subsequent text asks where he is and lets him know that she is with Tyron at a nightclub in the casino and he should join them. He calls his parents before responding to her.
Voicemail on both their cells and the house phone. He leaves urgent messages on all three asking them to call him as soon as possible. Then he writes to Naomi, Something BIG has happened you’ll hear about it soon but I’ll tell you everything at home. I have to see my parents now.
Keenan puts his phone away and says to Thompkins, “Let’s do this quick.”
2
1:12 a.m.
A bead of sweat trickles down the back of Naomi’s neck. A touch of cool amid the heat of her dance. And his dance. And the girl’s dance. It seems they have been dancing forever — and will be dancing forever. Dancing and drinking in their own world. A world of darkness and flashing lights and famous DJs mixing to the pulse of the crowd. And shots, drinks, and more dancing, their young strong bodies pressed tight, and the world spinning, and Ty so close, so close once again, in her arms like he was always meant to be, back in her arms after all these years.
But she won’t kiss him. Even drunk, she won’t go that far. And he doesn’t kiss her, though she can see how it burns inside of him, that desire to press his lips to hers. He doesn’t kiss the girl either, which she thinks is kind of him. She can see how he wants to. What straight man wouldn’t, a girl like that? Layla rubs her hands, her hips, her ass against him; she kisses his neck, his earlobe, his cheeks; but when she goes for his lips, Tyron glances at Naomi, then turns his face away.
Naomi is caught between wanting Ty to get with the girl, to remove the temptation of being with him, and simply wanting Ty. Once she had thought he would be the father of her children. How can you be close to a person like that again without some of those old feelings returning? If she stays on this dance floor, things will go too far. “I need a break,” she shouts, and she thinks she will leave them there but they both follow her.
On the far side of the fountains and pools, near the bar where they have been getting their drinks, there is space and relative quiet for Naomi to collect herself. She takes out her phone, more to give her a reason to distance herself from Tyron and Layla than to actually check it, but as she grips the glossy black device she remembers Keenan. Like everything else that isn’t a part of this club, this self-contained magical place, Keenan has been forgotten. She wishes she had forgotten him for good when she reads his text. Something big has happened, he’ll explain later, he’s going to see his parents now? Typical Keenan. Half including her with half-truths that tell half the story.
She looks at Tyron in conversation with Layla, and thinks that she should sleep with him. It’s what she wants, it’s what he wants, and who gives a fuck about what Keenan wants? He deserves it after all he’s put her through.
She takes a deep breath and reads the text again. Keenan isn’t one to visit his parents normally, and he’s going to see them now in the middle of the night? Perhaps something happened to them. Concern vanquishes her anger. I’m here if you need me, she writes back. If not I’ll see you at home.
She walks back to the others and says, “I have to go. Something’s going on with Keenan.”
“Does he need help?” Tyron asks.
Naomi smiles at how reliable he is, then shakes her head.
She hugs the girl and kisses her on the cheek. “Great to meet you, Layla.”
“We’ve got to do this again,” Layla says, holding her hand above them and gesturing to them all with an encircling motion.
“For sure,” Naomi says.
She takes Tyron in her arms and kisses him on the mouth. She can feel through his lips his past love for her flowing from some hidden space deep within him to that hidden space deep within her, reserved for him alone. She wants to say, “I love you. I’ll always love you.” Instead, when she separates her lips from his, she whispers into his ear, “Don’t worry about me. Be with Layla if you want.”
He looks closely into her eyes, and she cannot tell what he is thinking.
She lets him go, retreats a step. “It’s great to have you back, Ty.” She smiles and lets out a huff of amazement. “What a wonderful night.”
1:29 a.m.
Tyron and Layla watch Naomi walk away through the crowd. She looks statuesque, so tall in her purple dress, her gait so long and athletic, even in heels. She passes out of view, and Tyron keeps staring after her, like a man on the ocean and she his horizon.
“Are you in love with her?” Layla asks.
It takes him a long time to answer. “I used to be,” he says, his gaze still far away.
“And now? Are you still in love with her?”
“Probably.”
“I see it. She’s got presence.”
He returns Layla’s probing look, then glances up at the bleached night sky and thinks, Didn’t imagine all this when I was in Aunt Trudy’s backyard today.
“What do you want to do now?” Layla moves closer as she asks the question and weaves her fingers between his.
“My boy is coming to meet me here.”
“The one from the blackjack table?”
“Yeah. Ricky.”
“And after that?” she asks, stepping even closer.
He stares into her green, cat-like eyes, feels her body grazing against his. “Not tonight, Layla.”
She nods. “I’m going to go, then. I’m working tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
She reaches her arms around his neck, and he thinks as he kisses her goodbye how long it had been since he last kissed a woman. Now he has kissed two in a matter of minutes. “Sure I can’t change your mind?” she asks, lips brushing his ear.
He cannot sum up the range of thoughts and emotions that rip through him like a desert wind to explain why he won’t go home with her tonight. So he awkwardly murmurs, “Another night,” and wonders if he is blowing a future chance with her.
But Layla seems unfazed. She softly kisses the side of his mouth and says, “Text me later,” and then she is gone. And Tyron is left alone, feeling like he needs to catch his breath even though he is rooted to the spot.
* * *
Ricky finds him ten minutes later, sitting on the stone barrier around one of the fountains, and plops down beside him. “Man, I just been striking out tonight. How you been doing?”
Tyron looks at his friend. “Nothing on my end either.”
Ricky sucks on his teeth and shakes his head. “Women, huh.”
“You enjoy the fight? The big one?”
“Ah, it was a bust. Defensive the whole way through. Everyone was saying that Antoine’s fight was the real deal. He’s really going to be big-time from now on. We got us a big-time hookup, baby.” He slaps hands with Tyron. “Big-time!”
Tyron grows pensive. “I’m not sure. With Antoine you never know.”
“Nah, man. Celebrity parties. VIP treatment. We got it made, dog. He needs an entourage, and we’re just the men for the job
.”
“I think he’s already got an entourage.”
“You can never have too big of an entourage. You should know that. I’m sure he needs an ex-military bodyguard, anyway.”
“Even if he does, what about you?”
“The ex-military bodyguard needs a sidekick, don’t he? Shit.”
They laugh and check out a group of women in a bachelorette party getting drinks at the bar.
Tyron says, “Marlon wants me to meet him at 6 a.m. tomorrow. This morning, I should say.” He checks the time on his phone. “That’s four hours from now. I got to get some rest, man. I’m still jetlagged.”
“You know what you should do? Just stay up the whole night. You’ve come this far, might as well keep pushing it.”
“That’s great advice. You should be a health guru.”
Ricky laughs. “I thought you were serious for a second. You got me, man . . . Wait. Why’s Marlon want to see you at 6 a.m.?”
“I don’t know. But I told him I would, so let’s bounce.”
Ricky throws up his hands, aghast. “Oh Ty, we’re here! We’re here, man. We’re here, the women are out, we’re here. People across the world are spending fortunes just to be where we are right now, and you want to go? Come on, man. You look good. I look . . . better than average. Let’s do this thing, let’s make it happen. Hook me up.”
“All right, man,” Tyron says, rubbing at his aching eyes. He heaves himself up. “Let’s do this. Another half hour, then I’m out.”
Ricky springs to his feet and stares up at Tyron. “You know you’re a great friend, don’t you?”
Tyron is about to brush aside the compliment as he does most sent his way. But he pauses, and looks at Ricky, some of his guilt over kissing Keenan’s wife assuaged. “Thanks,” he says. “You’re a great friend too.”
Undercard Page 13
