by A. J. Lape
Zander hovered my every move. I moved an inch; he moved two toward me.
“First of all,” Kyd grunted, “we’re going to have a conversation about what ‘life’ did to you. That statement is too morose and fatalistic for my liking, Legs. And secondly, Zander has to stay with me. It’ll never fly with him going inside.”
“What?!” Zander yelled.
I scrunched my forehead together, frustrated that he had a point. In retrospect, it possibly was for the best. Plus, if I conceded this point, then perhaps he’d lighten up on the demand to psychoanalyze me. I blew out a sigh, touching Zander on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Hot Stuff,” I smiled. “I’ll tell you everything.” Zander grumbled that he should’ve stayed in bed where he could’ve at least dreamt of naked girls.
Not shocking, the boy’s first word was boob.
After a few moments of explicit instructions, checking to see if cell phones were charged, and what resembled a Come-to-Jesus Meeting from Kyd, he placed his hand at the base of my neck and drew me close. “I’m going with you,” he murmured.
Kyd was a master at the serenade. When he parted his lips just a hair, my mind went blank and got stuck in a lightheaded swoon. “You feel it, don’t you?” he grinned.
Bracing my hands against his chest, I deliberately pushed off. I’m not sure what I felt, but it included sweat and a film I’d watched in Human Sexuality class. Kyd didn’t need to go there … no, no, no. “Lola will rr-recognize you,” I stammered.
“She’s right,” Tricky agreed. “I’ll go.”
Kyd’s frame suddenly riddled with anxiety. He acted as though he knew this part of the conversation was coming, and possibly that’s what they’d planned anyway. “If anything happens to her,” he threatened Tricky, “you’ll answer to me, Neptune.”
Tricky stifled a laugh. Without saying it, he implied he could take Kyd with one arm tied behind his back and blindfolded. “I’ve got it covered,” Tricky said.
Kyd grumbled, “Thirty minutes and I’m following.” Kyd tipped my chin upward, kissing the end of my nose. Before he could expand on his goodbye, I grabbed Tricky’s hand and pivoted toward the back of the warehouse.
“Hey!” Kyd shouted. Tricky and I simultaneously turned on our heels. “Lola goes by the name Lynx. I love you…” Kyd might’ve finished the phrase with “both”—after all, Tricky held the title of his best friend—but whatever the case, I had a momentary pang of guilt. My body stopped doing everything. No breathing, no heartbeat, no brain waves, no nothing but a 15-year-old girl stuck in the middle of the biggest guilt trip imaginable. My behavior blatantly screwed my best friend code of ethics—don’t take advantage of your friend’s unwavering faith in you—but I ran on OCD adrenaline and very rarely did I make my way back from that.
The thought stung.
Tricky towed me across the gravel lot, ushering me into the darkened building. The metal door cracked open on the first push. Odd, I thought. They’d either expected someone, or everyone knew it would be stupid to go inside, so why bother with a deadbolt. We hooked a left around a forklift and swung a right back toward the far end of the building.
The first floor consisted of cardboard boxes piled four-high. Rat poison surfaced in the aroma of the damp, musty smell. A set of stairs lay in the back left corner, with a double-door freight elevator in the right.
I took off toward the elevator when Tricky clutched my wrist. “No,” he refuted, firmly shaking his head. “I prefer the stairs. That way I have a full view, and I’m never backed into a corner.”
Made sense, I guess.
Tricky’s arm circled my neck, pulling me to him when I got that oh-crap look. “My job is to keep us safe,” he winked. Tricky had some sort of potent virility thing going on. His silky, brown eyes looked even more furious with his black as night clothing. Currently, my heels placed me a good inch or so taller, but I had a feeling tall women weren’t on his personal list of intimidations.
“M-maybe we should be brothers,” I sputtered as we hit the second floor. Tricky dropped his arm, walking over to a window to canvass our surroundings. I followed as he palmed away grime, peering down into a flat-bottomed truck with a red cab that had two old mattresses piled on top.
“You’re scared of me,” he murmured. “I don’t bite … unless you want me to,” he added in a laugh. I was afraid … a little. What he happened to be capable of, I wasn’t sure, but my gut said it included the fine art of the shamma lamma, ding-dong. Before he could decline, I performed the brotherhood ceremony when I discovered a pink Band-Aid on his index finger. Every once in a while I threw in real blood, and apparently Tricky had a four-year-old little sister who liked all things pink.
Once I ensured we were strictly platonic, I quietly followed him down the hall.
Of the several doors on this floor, only two were lit-up, muffled voices and the stench of heavy smoke flowing underneath both. I despised cigarette smoke, but Murphy smoked enough cigars that my lungs knew how to cope.
“Ready?” he murmured.
I really had no option but to hobo it back to the Taylors’, so I gave him a big, albeit nervous smile. “Ready,” I nodded.
23. X MARKS THE SPOT
TRICKY’S HAND CIRCLED THE FIRST doorknob on the left, twisting it open.
Four men and one woman sat around a round professional-play poker table with a female dealer standing in the middle. Two African Americans, about six feet tall and jointly 500 pounds, stood with arms crossed over their chests, hawk-eyeing the chips on the green felt-lined surface. The muscle that ensured fair play, I presumed.
The first male my eyes landed on was balding with small brown eyes and a face so round he reminded me of the Pillsbury Doughboy. All in all, he dressed nice enough. Khaki pants, khaki golf shirt, but something about him suggested he’d rather eat than work. The Bronco?
“Are you the entertainment?” he said gruffly to me. Oh boy, the pit of my stomach alerted me he didn’t mean song and tap dancing.
Tricky possessively dangled his arm around my shoulder, kissing my forehead. “She’s with me.”
“Pity,” Doughboy replied, sizing up my legs.
“Neptune, long time no see,” another man interrupted. “I gather you got my message about another job.”
Leave it to Tricky to provide legitimate justification when needed. Apparently, my newest brother was a contract-for-hire. Good to know.
Tricky answered with his best professional look and voice. “That’s why we’re here.”
This man smiled, saying, “We can talk once the game’s over.” Head-to-toe, he smelled of social climber. Dressed in a pinpoint cotton shirt, khaki dress slacks, and Italian shoes, you’d think he had a lot of money to burn but looked too itchy, restless. If he did business with Tricky, he obviously needed someone to acquire an object he wouldn’t—or better yet couldn’t—pay for … like a convertible.
Tricky met my gaze, and I knew he debated how to introduce me.
“I’m Legs,” I smiled, using Kyd’s nickname.
Tricky nodded, not missing a beat. “Legs is expanding my own personal business. Show them what you’ve got, babe.”
I recited their license plates numbers.
All of them.
Down to the county listed.
Top that, Doughboy.
Doughboy drew a long, deep snort on his stogy, white ash instantly snowing to the table. “I’m going to Vegas next weekend and could use someone with your particular,” he paused, “assets.”
Eeeuw.
“I don’t play the slots,” I grinned. This produced a chuckle from the rest of the room.
“I was talking about counting cards,” Doughboy grumbled. “Maybe that’s over your head.”
I bobbed my shoulders up into a cocky shrug. “I just memorized the plates on a million dollars worth of automobiles in less than five minutes. I think I can hang.”
I must say, I was proud of myself.
Social Climber plucked out the one empty s
eat. Tricky slid into it, tugging me onto his lap. The butter knife stabbed into my thigh, so I wriggled around replacing it in a more comfortable position.
Parked to my right was an older gentleman dressed in white linen pants and a short-sleeved linen shirt. He looked like he’d stepped off the pages of a historical novel. He scrolled through emails on his BlackBerry, letting out an occasional sigh while he checked his watch. He had that Great Gatsby thing going on—a Bentley would be fitting.
Seated beside him was a slim woman, slightly younger with short curly blonde hair. She wore a three figure haircut, four-figure dress, with a star-quality you were born with. In fact, the woman glowed. If Kyd was correct and Lola played with a congressman, I’d bet my life he meant “congress woman.” She looked too polished, not missing a thing, and other than Doughboy was the only one who greeted us professionally. Probably the Benz, I thought.
“Good evening,” she smiled.
“Evening,” Tricky smiled back.
Opposite Tricky sat a mysterious, distinguished-looking man—even older, he was markedly gorgeous. Wavy black hair crowned his head, while all-black custom-tailored clothing and loafers bottomed out the rest of the package. His features were chiseled to perfection, and his brown eyes looked like they belonged on some all-knowing creature.
“And you are?” he murmured deeply. Smitten, I thought. This man oozed unbottled charisma and class. Aston Martin, I thought, no doubt about it.
“You own the Aston,” I grinned.
Aston Martin did some sort of flirty thing with his eyebrows. “You are an unbelievably perceptive, beautiful, young,” he emphasized slowly, “woman. Go away with me.” Tricky’s hand stiffened on my knee, but his easy breathing said he’d allow the conversation to play. In one breath, I flipped from impressed to 100 percent grossed-out. This man appeared old enough to be my father, and apparently this group might share their earnings in every way conceivable.
“Tricky and I are exclusive,” I explained.
“Every man has his price,” he winked to Tricky.
“Not this one,” Tricky warned.
“If you give me your card,” I shrugged, “I’ll call if that changes.”
He belted out laughter, pulling a black leather card holder out of his back pocket, placing a thick, white card in my palm. My skirt had no pockets. Earlier, I’d hid Colton’s one hundred dollar bill inside my right sandal, underneath the heel. Stooping over, I slid the card on top of it.
“What goes on in the room down the hall?” I asked. Tricky squeezed my leg, giving me a bite-your-tongue look.
Aston Martin appeared totally disinterested. “Out of town business,” he murmured.
“What kind of business?” I pushed.
“Any number of possibilities,” Tricky answered, squeezing harder.
I decided to embrace my blondness. “You can never have enough business.” I threw in a pause. “So why aren’t you playing now?”
Aston Martin tilted his head to me. “We’re waiting for Lynx.”
“Lynx?” I repeated dumbly, knowing full-well he referred to Lola.
He crossed one well-muscled leg over the other, straightening the seam. “The best card counter around, Legs. Lynx has a lot of problems right now, and she’s promised many things she’s having trouble delivering. She swears she’s taking care of them, but if it bleeds onto me, I’ll have to get involved.” My body longed to nervously giggle, but surprisingly I kept my inner idiot in check.
Blackmail, I gulped?
“So if she counts cards, don’t the others she plays with object?” I asked out of curiosity.
He narrowed his eyes, not answering.
Not a heartbeat later, Lola strutted in. Dressed to kill.
What the mother of all mothers had I walked into?
Her black hair was meticulously styled, swinging in a modern cut that grazed her jaws and landed shoulder-length. She had an hourglass shape, poured into a tight, red dress that lengthened her petite frame. When she performed a triple-take on my face, I stopped breathing. Logic said this woman wouldn’t recognize me, but I still reminded myself she’d heard my voice over the phone.
Tugging my hat down over my eyes, Tricky and I abandoned our seat, scooching up against the wall. When Lola eased into our empty chair, I zoomed in on her left wrist. Sure enough, a color headshot of Cisco decorated the skin. No sooner had she crossed her legs, though, than Elmer Herschel waddled nervously behind. I stagger. Fall into Tricky. Verbally say, Beam me up, Scotty. I was right. The Pinto definitely belonged to him, but I didn’t know what to think. Frankly, I didn’t think anything and just dropped my jaw, but the fact he accompanied Lola convoluted my perception of a grieving mother.
Elmer bow-legged it over to the corner and watched her every move.
After a few hands that Lola won, followed by a few taken by Doughboy, Aston Martin folded and retreated to the wall to stand by us. A quick glance at my watch showed the time as 1:15AM. I didn’t have anything, and I’d already eaten up the half hour Kyd allotted and then some.
Lola undoubtedly was an interesting person. If she dressed like this, no way in the world had she arrived to the party in an average ride. She was the Turbo, I thought.
The car with the “X” license plates.
“Who’s X?” I whispered to Aston Martin. Aston Martin sucked in a subtle breath, lightly frowning at my question. “I read the plates,” I explained as benignly as possible.
“X watches the play through her gorilla’s eyes over there,” he murmured, nodding toward Elmer. Good comparison. Elmer had enough hair for a congress of baboons. Still, I had to think X might be the most stupid individual on the planet. Elmer wasn’t intelligent; plus, he dripped of sweat, and his brown t-shirt had a rim of perspiration underneath both arms. X must use him for something else, but at least I knew X was a woman.
“Someone’s playing for X?”
“Lynx always plays for her,” he explained.
So Lola counted cards and played for people. That statement corroborated what Hank told Kyd. All I knew was it sounded like a surefire bet for the person doing the hiring.
“Who is X?” I pushed. Aston Martin narrowed his eyes, regarding Tricky and me like a mongoose befriending a cobra. When he wound a strand of my hair around his thumb, Tricky gave me one of those looks like he’d drop him if I wanted him to, but honestly, I wasn’t sure how to proceed—tell Tricky to break his fingers or go with the flow because he seemed to be in the talking mood.
“X remains anonymous,” he murmured, “but I have my suspicions.”
Our host mindlessly rambled on how he admired my gumption and slim frame, asking me to fly to Paris for some foie gras. Foie gras, I almost snorted out loud. The liver of ducks that had been force-fed to their capacity … not what I’d want to eat, not to mention so inhumane that those doing it should rot in Hell. One breath away from vomiting, I blatantly interrupted, saying I needed the little girl’s room. Frankly, I wanted his hands off of me, and it’s possible something more exciting existed down the hall.
Aston Martin opened the door, motioning that the ladies’ room was at the end of the hall on the right. Tricky abruptly stiffened, wanting to accompany me, but Aston Martin pulled him back into a conversation. I tiptoed down the hall, stopping in front of the fourth metal door, cracking it open a few inches to the music of Nine Inch Nails—and the sounds of one man wailing, another demanding he cough up information.
Underneath a naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling, a middle-aged man sat bound and gagged at a square metal table with his hands outstretched before him. First thought: How would he give information when he’d been gagged? Then things slowly adjusted into view—those restraining him didn’t want any noise. Two men in street clothes held him down by the forearms, a bloody dismembered finger off to the side. His black hair lay in a mass of sweaty curls, and tears streamed down his swollen face as he fought off the urge to slump across his arms and pass out. Above his head, a silver meat
cleaver shone in the light, swung by yet a third man. The third man put the big in large. He was bald; his features so miniscule he didn’t appear to look like anything human. Add stitches around his neck, and I’d swear he was Frankenstein’s creation.
The victim’s eyes snapped back and forth between the cleaver and the bloody stub spurting fluid in a constant stream. It took awhile for my brain to catch up to my eyes. I focused. Shook my head. Tried to blink it away. I wasn’t sure what I thought I’d discover behind this door, but it certainly didn’t include an amputation-in-progress.
This was over-the-top … but in retrospect, what did I think I’d find when I snuck inside this building? A Bible study group?
Weight Watchers?
When the meat cleaver went up again, I screamed some animalistic sound, threw the door wide, and yelled, “Wait!”
Dumb beyond dumb…
Nothing from my mouth was ever scripted; obviously, I needed a publicist.
When everyone got that kill-the-blonde look, I knew I was in trouble. Something inside me immediately shuts down. Surprisingly, I get calm. Here are my thoughts: Persevere. Gather information. Watch everything. My eyes quickly dart to the corner where a man and a woman were kissing—going at it like cockroaches in the bottom of a trashcan. Next to them, three expensively dressed females sat on a burgundy leather couch snorting cocaine. Their minds drowning in cocaine-land, they didn’t care about my interruption, but a rear door opened with a brawny man well over six feet tall that did. When our gazes met, his eyes glowed a piercing ice-blue—a blue you couldn’t tear your sight from—and I had to remind myself this man probably had plans to kill me. Everything about him was immaculate, from his navy suit, and short, gray hair all the way down to his spit-shined shoes.
He exchanged a few whispers with the man holding the cleaver then made five long strides toward me. I froze. Didn’t move a muscle. Before I could back out of the room, he latched ahold of my wrist and angrily yanked me inside and slammed the door. That door slam would forever be emblazoned into my brain. It was a loud whap. Would it be the last sound of freedom? Once inside, he pulled me into a cloud of cigarette smoke, a switchblade immediately up to my neck. The smoke blinded my eyes … the burn causing them to blink automatically. I forced my lids to stay open because I didn’t want to give this man one second of me not being on my toes. Focusing on his face, even through the haze his intentions were clear. Shut her up. Make her forget. One way or another.
