by Dan Ames
21
The basketball star's living room reflects Demetrius’ ten million a year salary. Bearskin rugs, expensive leather furniture, strange African sculptures combined with Roman style columns between rooms. A big fire is going in the fireplace and the sound of loud hip hop music pounds throughout the house.
The house is full, but because it's so big, it doesn't seem crowded. Partiers range from Brooks Brothers clad businessmen to young brothers fresh off the street wearing unlaced sneakers and gold chains.
Demetrius is stretched out on a big couch, watching two of his friends play foosball. An incredibly gorgeous black woman is laying on top of Demetrius.
The friends playing foosball are nicknamed Hamburger and Hot Dog. As expected, Hamburger is short and extremely fat, while Hot Dog is tall and thin. Both are dressed like they're from the street; sweat suits, gold chains, gold rings and beepers.
“I'm tellin' you, D, index funds are the shit. Instant diversification, low expense ratio. No 12b-1 fees. No headaches. You go as the market goes,” Hot Dog says.
Hot Dog slams a shot on the foosball table to punctuate his point.
“That’s bullshit. With an index fund you’re just playing it safe. Blue chips are the way to go.”
Demetrius gives the woman another long, deep kiss, then breaks apart from her. He stands up and lifts the girl into his arms.
“Let's go somewhere private, baby.”
He carries her into a bedroom as one of her stiletto heels falls to the carpet.
22
Vincent is standing in front of a bookcase. In his hand is a glass of wine. The picture he is looking at is one of himself and Vicki, their arms around each other, standing in front of a beautiful sunset.
The phone rings, and Vincent puts the picture down, crosses the room and answer.
“Hello,” Vincent says.
“Vincent.”
The voice is male. Vincent doesn’t recognize it.
“Who is this?”
“What took you so long, Vince?”
“What are you talking about, I got it on the second ring. Who is this?”
“No, I mean what took you so long to help out our little friend Vicki.”
At the sound of her name, Vincent freezes.
“The way I arranged it, if you thought quickly, you had time to get down safe and sound.”
“Who is this?”
“What'd you do, stand around with your thumb up your ass?”
“I'm hanging up now.”
“You probably froze, like you always do.”
Killer laughs.
“Fuck you, I'm hanging up.”
“So what took you so long to get her down Vince? You didn't freeze up, did you? Did you choke just a little bit? Did your palms sweat? Breath get shallow? Did your hands shake, Vince?”
“I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. I'm calling the cops right now.”
“I'm sure Detective Ponko would love to talk to you.”
Vincent, about to hang up, suddenly brings the phone back to his ear.
“What did you say?”
The killer laughs again.
“Yeah, I know all about you Vincent. This Detective Ponko? I think she thinks you killed that little figure skater. And you know, technically, she's right.”
“Who are you, you bastard?”
“I'm the man who's going to teach you how to conquer your fears. I'm the man who's going to help you be the best that you can be.”
The killer laughs again, then all Vincent hears is a dial tone.
23
Detective Lori Ponko knocks on the door of Apartment 220. The hallway she is in is nondescript. The door is solid, but cheap looking.
She waits, then knocks again. Finally, the door opens.
“Who is it?”
“My name is Detective Lori Ponko. Are you Curtis May?”
The man hesitates before answering.
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to ask you a few questions regarding the death of Vicki Lee.”
The man unchains the door, then opens it. He is a slim, scholarly looking man with horn-rimmed glasses and a short haircut.
He is awkward, clearly not used to guests.
“I was wondering if you'd come out and ask me some questions.”
Ponko enters the apartment, and looks around, taking everything in carefully.
“Oh, really, why'd you think that?”
The man laughs, realizing he shouldn't volunteer anything too quickly to this woman.
“Do you want anything to drink? I've got some tea boiling.”
“No, thanks, this shouldn't take too long.”
May's apartment is drab and sparse, typical of a college student's digs. There is a table in the eating area piled high with books. A couch that sags in the middle.
“I take it you're a student?”
“Working on my Ph.D.. at UCLA.”
“What field?”
“Microbiology. I'm going to Costa Rica to study in the rainforest.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Don't worry, I'll be here for another six months. Plenty of time for you to find Vicki's killer. I would hope, anyway.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Hey, this is L.A., what do you want?”
“So how long did you and Vicki see each other?”
“Three years. We met when she was an undergrad at UCLA. I was her TA.”
Ponko takes out a notepad and starts writing.
“What class would that have been?”
“Life cycles of the Amazon.”
“Was she a good student?”
“Best in the class. Very bright, very articulate.”
“When did the two of you get romantically involved?”
“After the semester was over. She took another course and needed help, so she came to me even though I wasn't the TA. It continued to grow from there, until she dumped me about a month ago.”
Ponko suddenly looks up from her notebook. This is news to her.
“Did she say why?”
“She said she met someone else.”
“Did she say who?”
May shakes his head.
“How did you first learn of her death?”
“On the news just like everyone else.”
“You don't seem very upset about it.”
“I can't say I was. And isn't that interesting?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we used to, you know. And then suddenly I find out she's murdered. And what do I do? Nothing. I just change the channel.”
Ponko absorbs this.
“Human beings are capable of great violence, but worst of all, tremendous indifference.”
May doesn't answer.
“When's the last time you spoke with her?”
“When she told me good-bye.”
“And that she was leaving you for this other man.”
“Yeah, it's funny, I've just about got my doctorate degree, and my fiancé leaves me for a doctor.”
“Pardon me?”
“What?”
“A doctor? I thought you said she didn't tell you who he was.”
“She didn't tell me his name.”
“Did she say what kind of doctor?”
“She just said he was a doctor. That's all. Believe me, it was enough.”
24
The party has ended, and there are empty bottles of champagne scattered around, as well as the occasional article of clothing. It's apparent that a good time was had by all.
Hamburger and Hot Dog are sitting on Demetrius' huge, L-shaped leather couch. They are passing a thick joint back and forth as they watch The Discovery Channel on the giant, big-screen television. A pack of hyenas are tearing apart a carcass.
“Reminds me of your Mom at Thanksgiving.”
Hamburger takes a deep hit, speaks on the exhale.
“Reminds me of your sisters figh
ting over my dick,” Hamburger responds.
A man walks toward the couch where Hamburger and Hot Dog are watching television. Hamburger and Hot Dog look up at him.
The man lifts his arm and in his hand is a pistol with a silencer attached.
He pumps three rounds into Hamburger's chest, which immediately begins seeping blood.
Hot Dog jumps up and reaches in his waistband for his gun, but it's too late. The man squeezes off five or six shots, all of which turn Hot Dog's white sweatsuit top into a perforated, bloody mess.
Hot Dog sinks to his knees and The Man fires one more shot that takes Hot Dog in the middle of the forehead. He drops onto his face.
25
A woman's legs are wrapped around Demetrius' muscular back. The rest of his body is covered in a sheet
The woman is calling out, moaning, clearly enjoying this.
“Yes!”
“You like it, baby?”
“Oh!”
“I said, do you like it, baby?”
“Oh, God! Yes!”
Suddenly, the door slams shut behind them, but Demetrius doesn't bother turning to see who it is.
Get the fuck outta here, Ham, I'm busy. Turn on the Playboy Channel if you have to jack off. Just don't get any on the carpet.
There's no answer.
Demetrius turns and sees someone he doesn't recognize.
He sits up in bed, as does the woman. Her bare breasts are visible and she makes no attempt to cover herself.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man raises his arm and fires off more shots from the silenced pistol.
The woman's body is thrown backward as several bullet holes appear in her chest. She slumps off the side of the bed, leaving a streak of blood that marks her fall.
“Fuck!”
The man lowers his pistol.
“What do you want? Everything's cool. There's cash in my wallet. Take my car. The Ferrari. Keys on the table.”
“Shut up. Put on your pants. You're coming with me.”
Demetrius hesitates and the man smoothly raises the pistol again and fires a shot that knocks a hole in the wall right next to Demetrius' head.
“Okay, okay.”
Demetrius climbs off the bed and starts putting on his pants. He looks down at the dead woman on the floor.
“Shit.”
26
Vincent is counseling Paul Giesen, a stockbroker. He's dressed in a power suit, Armani, and black leather Allen-Edmonds shoes. He's short, stocky, and highly strung.
As Giesen talks, Vincent writes on a legal pad.
“I just, don't know, I was so in the fucking zone, until everything started seeming less, less crystalline, you know what I mean? “
On his notepad, Vincent writes: "Vicki." And then, in columns next to her name, "Friends. Family. Enemies."
“Doc, you know what I mean?”
Vincent tears himself away from his notepad and looks at the stockbroker.
“What do you think happened?”
“I don't know. I was focused, it's like my brain wasn't calculating as fast as it should've been. Like my processor was malfunctioning.
“Was anything else bothering you, distracting you?”
Vincent continues making notes on his notepad under Vicki's name. "Who benefits from her death?"
“I got a date with Michelle.”
Giesen pauses, waiting for Vincent's response.
“The other analyst?”
Giesen nods. “The one I've been trying to bag for a month.”
“What goes through your mind when you think of her?”
On his notepad, Vincent writes: "Who benefits from my failure?"
“A challenge. A beauty.”
“Is she a better analyst than you?”
“Of course not. No one is.”
“Is she good?”
“She will be. She's younger, less experienced, but she's got all the right tools.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does that scare you?”
“Nothing scares me.”
“Now...”
“What do you mean now?”
“What I mean is, champions all agree that getting to the top was challenging, but staying there was even harder.”
“And...”
“And, you've got a date with Michelle, and suddenly, you start wondering if you’ll see her less as competition. And that might give her an edge. Maybe you start doubting the wisdom of pursuing her and maybe that's why you don't process the calculations as quickly.”
“Some form of performance anxiety?”
“Anxiety can be awfully distracting...”
On his notepad, Vincent has written "revenge" and proceeds to underline it twice.
27
The same notepad is in Vincent's hands but he’s now home. He is still looking at the word "revenge." He places the notepad on the bed and stares at the ceiling.
Suddenly, from somewhere else in the house, comes a noise. Vincent gets out of bed, goes to his dresser drawer, and pulls out a gun.
He passes through the living room silently, the gun in his hand. There is no one else in the room.
Vincent passes through the kitchen to the back door and stands half in the doorway, half out, looking into the darkness of the backyard.
There is nothing there.
Vincent goes back to his bedroom, places the gun on the table next to the bed. The clock reads 11:14.
28
Vincent is snoring softly into the pillow.
A skeleton key made of wax, the same kind used to unlock Vincent's black Mercedes, is inserted into the lock. With a deft twist of the wrist, the lock slides back and the door opens.
Demetrius Carr, with duct tape over his mouth and eyes is led into the center of the room. A straight backed chair with arms is set in the middle of the room.
Demetrius is seated in the chair. His arms are duct taped to the arms of the chair.
A stainless steel hatchet whistles through the air, followed by a loud thunk.
Vincent's eyes snap open.
The hatchet whistles through the air again, followed by another thunk.
Vincent swings his legs out of bed and grabs the gun on the table next to the bed.
Demetrius Carr's large hands are on the floor of Vincent's living room. Blood is spurting from the stumps of his arms.
Tears are pouring out from beneath the duct tape around his eyes. He is screaming, but it is muffled by the gag in his mouth secured also with duct tape.
A hand reaches up and rips the duct tape from Demetrius' mouth. His screams fill the room as a shadow races from the living room out the open front door.
Just as the shadow makes it out the front door, Vincent races into the living room, gun extended out in front of him.
“Oh God, no!”
His hands are shaking uncontrollably as he tries to get the duct tape off of Demetrius' arms. It is futile, as they are wrapped several times around.
Blood continues to pump from the stumps of the basketball player's arms.
Vincent races into the kitchen and comes back with some dishtowels. As quickly as possible, his hands still shaking, Vincent ties makeshift tourniquets on Demetrius' arms, then races for the phone.
I need an ambulance at 4328 Kingston Court. Hurry! A man's bleeding to death!
Vincent runs back to Demetrius who has now slumped forward in his chair, passed out.
Vincent scoops up the big man's hands and races to the kitchen.
Vincent gets a large bowl from a cupboard and goes to the refrigerator's ice-making dispenser. His hands continue to shake, and now his face is dripping with sweat.
He hits the button and ice cubes start popping out, he fills the bowl. Vincent scoops up the hands and places them inside the bowl, then piles ice cubes over the tops of them.
Inside the bowl, black fingertips poke through the mound of ice.
29
Detective Lori Ponko is facing Vincent and his attorney, Ken Lamm.
“Now, if you were fucking Demetrius Carr, too, you're more of a man than I've been giving you credit for.”
“Come on,” Lamm says.
“You're just pissed I didn't say anything about it without my lawyer present.”
“Well, the fact that you were fucking an Olympic hopeful, probably right on top of your desk, is kind of something you don't forget, right?”
“Get off it, Detective.”
“Really going for the gold with her, huh?”
“We don't have to stay and listen to this,” Lamm says.
“Okay, okay,” she says.
Vincent shakes his head.
“It wasn't like that. I was falling in love with her, and I think she was in love with me. It wasn't just a sex thing.”
“I want to know something, does this whole peak performance thing apply to sex, too? Are you some kind of Johnny Superwad in the sack, doc?”
“Detective, may I remind you that my client has posted his bond and is free to go. He is here to cooperate with the authorities any way he can. I don't believe he deserves to be insulted and ridiculed.”
“Fine. Fine.”
“Is there anything else?” Lamm asks.
“Just to make sure I got it straight, Doc: You were sleeping, and when you woke up, there was Demetrius sitting in the middle of your living room with his hands chopped off.”
“And the front door was open.”
“The front door was open.”
“Right.”
“But you didn't hear any car drive off, didn't see anyone else?”
“No.”
“All right, tell me again about the phone call.”
“It was a guy, saying he was going to help me perform under pressure.”
Ponko jots something down.
“You're a smart guy, right? Doctorate degree, all that stuff from big important colleges?”
“And your point would be?”
