by Tina Whittle
I waved back, then crossed my heart seriously. “Not a word to Adam.”
Rico poured another glass of champagne. “We want to put Vigil back on the team.”
“Vigil the switchblade-toting felon? Is that a good idea?”
“Depends. He’s a good poet.”
“If you like anger and attitude.”
“People do. And he’s got community support.”
I remembered the PR materials for the team, which played up Vigil’s do-gooder status. Vigil shooting hoops with kids at the Atlanta Children’s Shelter. Vigil attending community initiative meetings and working voter registration drives.
Rico poured more champagne for me too. “Only one problem. He’s got it in his head that I was the one who set him up.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. He called yesterday, told me I’d be sorry for slipping that knife in his pocket and siccing the cops on him. I tried to call him back, but he’s not answering, and nobody knows where he is, not his sister, not his mama, not the team.”
“How did this happen?”
“We were at a middle school art show, all of us, team members and alternates and significant others, everybody. The damn metal detector goes off as Vigil’s walking in, so the cops search him, find the knife, haul him downtown.”
“Why does he think you’re the one slipped it on him?”
“Beats me. And now he’s threatening me instead of letting me help him figure out this mess.”
I knew better than to ask Rico why he hadn’t gone to the police. He had a philosophical stubborn streak about organized law enforcement. The fact that he not only tolerated Trey but also genuinely liked him said more about Trey than about Rico relaxing his prejudice.
“So you decided to put Trey on lookout duty?”
“We’ve all got a lot riding on this next week, as individuals and as a team. Not that I think anything’s going to happen. But you two were coming anyway, and I thought better safe than sorry.” He sent another look Trey’s way, like maybe he preferred risking sorry after all. “So will you tell him to sit down now?”
“Not on your life.”
“But you said—”
“You were threatened by a recently released felon with a vengeance issue, and you expect me to tell Trey to sit down? Screw that.”
Rico muttered a curse and tossed back the last of his champagne. Then he poured another glass, keeping his eyes on Adam, who still hustled merchandise beside the makeshift stage, empty except for a microphone stand. Rico was usually the crown prince of smooth, pure butter, but tonight he jangled.
I put a hand on his wrist. “Let Trey handle Vigil. That’s why you called him, right?”
“Vigil’s only a part of the problem. There’s another part right there.”
I followed his gaze to a table in the corner where two people sat, male and female. The guy was an ambisexual creature in black leather pants and a rivet-studded white tee-shirt, an artery of red highlights running through his ebony hair. The overall effect was art-kid and fey, but the details were pure goth, from the slant of eyeliner to the pendant around his neck, a grinning skull melded with an Egyptian ankh. It was as big as his fist, ostentatious, designed to provoke.
“Lex Anderson,” he said. “Vigil’s replacement. Frankie’s busting his chops for coming late to the photo shoot this morning and missing practice yesterday. Four days on the team and he’s falling apart.”
Frankie, I recognized. The team leader. Dazzlingly tall and built like a Valkyrie, she wore earth-toned flowing pants and a low-cut saffron blouse with bell sleeves. A massive curly mane tumbled in dark brown tendrils around her shoulders. She had eyes like sharpened pieces of topaz, and she never remembered my name. I was beginning to think that every time Rico introduced us, it was the first time all over again.
As she explained things to Lex, his smile froze in place. For a minute I thought the two would erupt into an argument, but Lex slid down in his chair and shrugged. Frankie leaned forward and tapped the table emphatically with her forefinger. Lex stared at her with slitted eyes.
Rico watched them over his glass. “Frankie’s two seconds from ditching him and putting Vigil back in, regardless of his vengeance issue.”
“But the competition starts next Friday! That’s—”
“A week, I know.” He shook his head. “It’s a gamble. But Lex is flaking out on us, and the team can’t compete without four people. And if the team can’t compete, then neither can its members in the individual competition. And I’ll tell you this about Frankie—she’s all for the team, but right now she’s got her sights set on that individual trophy.”
Of course she did. The winning team got a wad of money and a truckload of glory, but the team competition was merely a warm-up to the main event, the individual rounds. And this year, the first place individual finisher took home a lucrative prize—the starring role in a spoken word poetry documentary. Lots of lights/camera/action, plus the maraschino on the whipped cream—an all-expense-paid tour in the fall. Fifteen cities, featured billing, top venues.
“Is the movie business putting stars in Frankie’s eyes?”
“More like dollar signs. PPI signed the paperwork last night.”
“PPI?”
“Performance Poetry International, the umbrella organization. The big dogs. They made it official, so the film crew’s been setting up cameras at the Fox Theatre all day.”
The Fabulous Fox Theatre. Venerable, opulent, and capable of seating almost five thousand, it was the site for Friday’s team round and Saturday’s individuals.
Rico swirled his champagne. “Let me tell you, there’s serious money behind this, which means there’s even more serious money to be made. It’s making everyone a little crazy.”
Of course it was. Money sandwiched with fame was a performance poet’s dream come true. Let other poets have the clothbound books and juried awards. Performance poets craved the spotlight, the solo, the jazzed-up juice of a headline tour. Throw in hotels and plane fare instead of random sofa beds and packed vans, and I figured any one of them would toss his or her mother under a bus for the shot.
Even Rico.
In the corner, Lex fidgeted in his chair, his boot-clad feet stretched in front of him. His hands tapped out a drum beat on the tabletop, then played with the salt and pepper shakers, rolling them through his fingers. The backs of his hands shone with glyphic tattoos, and his nails gleamed jet black in the candlelight.
“He looks nervous.”
“He drinks too much Red Bull. Probably does other stuff too.”
“Is he good?”
“His poetry is okay. His big problem is that he wastes his energy on stage work, like eyeliner is gonna win this.”
“He keeps looking our way.”
“That’s all he’d better do.”
The acid in Rico’s voice was potent. I caught his eye.
“Something personal going on?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s a team problem, and we’ll deal with it as a team. And we’ll do it tomorrow. As for tonight, drink more champagne and stop asking questions. My nine days of vacation leave started four hours ago, and I’m not wasting another second of it arguing with you.”
He tilted the Roederer bottle, and a few drops dribbled out. He started to stand, but I beat him to it.
“I’ll get another bottle. But only if you promise we’ll talk more after you perform.”
“I told you—”
“You told me part of the story, not all. You’ve still got something tucked in your back pocket, and I want the rest of it after the show. Okay?”
He didn’t contradict me. “Okay. Now go get some champagne. And maybe fix this mess while you’re at it.” He reached over and wrapped a thick finger around one dirty blond, tumbled-down curl. “You know, into a hairstyle or something.”
Chapter Three
I skipped the crowded ladies room out front in favor of the small private restroom in th
e back. Usually it was unmarked, but tonight it sported a handwritten OUT OF ORDER sign thanks to the leaky toilet. I decided I’d take my chances. Unfortunately, when I tried to adjust the tiny French hairpins, the whole hairspray-thickened tumble fell about my shoulders.
I dropped the pins in my purse. To hell with it.
I heard the voices the second I came out of the bathroom, both male, both of them coming from the open office ten feet away. I recognized one voice immediately—Jackson Bentley, the restaurant’s current owner. A former college football player, Jackson had a voice with a built-in megaphone. He was currently wielding that voice against someone in his office, and it was a firefight, harsh words flying like shrapnel.
“—and then you show up here wearing that!” he bellowed.
“I get to wear what I want to. And I have every right to be here. I’m on the team.”
“Not for long.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“You’d be surprised what I get to decide. Now get out.”
Low laughter. “What are you gonna do if I don’t, beat me to a pulp? Go ahead. I’m sure your wife wouldn’t be too mad. Cricket understands how you get, right?”
At the mention of his wife’s name, Jackson’s voice dropped to a growl. “Get the hell out of my restaurant.”
I inched closer. Oh boy, was I not supposed to do this. I was trying to go on the straight and narrow—no more eavesdropping, no more snooping, no more glancing at e-mail when someone’s back was turned. It was part of my rehabilitation into a girlfriend, someone a secret agent boyfriend could trust to leave in his apartment with his guns and secure files.
“I’m not going anywhere until you give me my stuff back.”
“Not until you cough up that missing two grand.”
“I didn’t take that money.”
“I don’t believe you.”
More laughter. “Do you really want to play it this way, Jackson? Really? Because you know as well as I do that I can make some serious trouble for you and Cricket.”
I heard a scuffle, then the door flew open, and Lex ricocheted into the hall, banging against the wall with a fleshly thud. The door slammed behind him. He winced and rubbed his side, his breath hitching. Suddenly I saw years in his face, hard ones.
“You cracked a rib,” I said. “Maybe two.”
He jerked. Instantly, the pain melted into cool. “No, a cracked rib feels like a broken pool cue in the side. This’ll make a helluva bruise tomorrow, but that’s all.”
“So I guess he wasn’t really trying to hurt you.”
“Jackson? Nah.”
The self-assurance was back now, even if he moved gingerly. There was something electric about him, and I could see how he made it sizzle, on stage anyway. But it wasn’t sizzling now. It was jittering and sparking, two degrees from shorting out.
He stepped closer. “That’s not bragging, you know. Jackson talks big—”
“Jackson is big.”
“Maybe around the mouth.” Then he smiled, though the look in his eyes was like flint striking flint. He gave me the up-and-down. “Nice dress.”
“It was a gift from my boyfriend.”
“Oh yeah. The guy at the door. I saw y’all arrive.” Lex pulled his phone out of his pocket, a sleek black number decorated with rhinestones. “I gotta take this, but listen, if you ever get tired of playing dress up with the mannequin out there, give me a call.”
He pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey there, lady friend.” Then he pushed open the fire door and left for the back parking lot. No limp, no hesitation, like nothing had happened.
I watched the door close behind him. So Rico and Frankie weren’t the only ones having problems with Lex Anderson. Jackson had problems too, money problems definitely. But from the way Lex had been tossing around Cricket’s name, I wondered if there were something more personal than financial conflicts going on. I could understand if there had been. All Lex Anderson needed was a motorcycle and a rap sheet, and he’d have been every guy I pined for in high school.
I knocked tentatively on the office door, and Jackson snatched it open. “I told you—” He frowned when he saw me, then forced a smile. “Tai? What are you doing here?”
“Using the bathroom.”
“The toilet’s leaking.”
“I only needed a mirror.” I leaned on the doorframe. “Is everything okay?”
“A little shorthanded, but making do. Cricket’s having to tend bar, but—”
“I mean about Lex.”
The smile crimped into a grimace. “You heard?”
“Not on purpose.” I hesitated. “Is it true there’s money missing?”
He looked up and down the hall. “Christ, Tai, don’t go throwing that around. Get in here.”
I stepped into his office. It was dark-paneled and messy, jumbled heaps of paperwork stacked on every flat surface—ledgers, receipts, promotional flyers. A box of swag from the Performance Poetry Internationals lay on its side in one corner, plastic cups and bumper stickers spilling onto the floor. The rest of the office was Georgia Bulldog black and red, including a poster-sized photograph of the 2005 first string team, with Jackson kneeling and grinning, his broad shoulders even more massive under the pads.
He sat behind his desk. Still built like a linebacker, but now as bald as an ice cube, he was prone to wearing bright citrus shirts and too-tight jeans. His boyish features sweetened up what would have been an otherwise fearsome package.
“It’s gone, all of it. Almost two thousand dollars.”
“Your money?”
“No, the money Cricket and I got from the team fund for tonight. I kept it in the safe.” He gestured toward a small square lockbox in the corner. “Only Cricket and I have the combination.”
“You think Lex took it?”
“I know Lex took it. He—”
The cacophony from the restaurant area intruded—the efficient swish of the double doors, the clang of pans, the rising clamor of voices.
Jackson stood. “I gotta check on the kitchen. Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, okay? Cricket’s freaked out as it is, and this is the last thing she needs to worry about.”
“If money’s missing, don’t you think—”
“No. I’ve got enough worries without bringing in the damn cops.” He looked at me with fake nonchalance. “What all did you hear anyway?”
I thought about the words flying back and forth between him and Lex. Something more than missing money was stewing, that was for sure, and I was betting it involved Cricket.
I kept my voice neutral. “Nothing that needs to go anywhere, right?”
“Exactly right.”
He moved from behind the desk, and I followed him out, my wet shoes leaving half-moon prints on the wooden floor. He shut the door to his office, locked it, then slipped the key in his pocket.
“I mean it, Tai. Not a word, not to anyone.”
I nodded. “Got it.”
***
Back in the main room, I made a beeline for Trey, who hadn’t moved from his spot at the door. Rico, however, was no longer at our table. In fact, I didn’t see him anywhere in the room. I stepped right in front of Trey and put my hands on my hips.
“All right, where is he?”
“Who?”
“Rico.”
Trey shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Aren’t you supposed to be watching him?”
“No, I’m watching the room. There’s a difference. But if you want to know where he was going the last time I saw him…” Trey pointed. “He left through the double doors leading to the back.”
“But he’s not there now!”
“Nonetheless.”
I made an exasperated noise. “Never mind, I’ll find him. Right now I need you to talk to Jackson. He’s in the kitchen. Or maybe follow Lex, he and Jackson were seriously into it, and then Lex left out the back way…” I grabbed Trey’s elbow. “Omig
od, what if he was heading to the parking lot for a gun or something?”
Trey put his Pellegrino on the table very carefully. “Say that again, more slowly.”
“We don’t have time for slowly! You have to do something!”
“Start by telling me who Lex is and why he and Jackson were…” He frowned. “What were they doing?”
So I explained. Quickly. I left out the part about the leering and the innuendo, but despite Jackson’s warning, I mentioned the missing money.
“How much is missing?”
“Don’t worry about that right now. Find Lex. Or Rico. Or Jackson. Whoever comes first.”
Trey scanned the room. “I’ll look for Lex first. But Jackson should tell the authorities about the missing money, especially if he thinks he knows who took it.”
This was Trey’s answer for everything—alert the authorities. He thought in hierarchies, top-down systems. But a flow chart wasn’t going to solve our current dilemma.
“We’ll lecture Jackson later, okay? Right now defuse whatever time bomb is ticking.”
Trey’s expression sharpened. “Bomb?”
“Metaphor.”
“Okay.”
“Wait! Should I come with you?”
“No. Stay here.”
He tossed that directive over his shoulder, already moving toward the back of the restaurant. I started to argue and then gave up. He had a plan, and once a plan was in motion, he would not deviate from it. I’d seen the x-rays and MRIs. They looked normal at first glance, and yet I knew that his cranium was a precise maze of binary functions. Left or right. Yes or no. Stop or go.
Two and a half years had passed since he’d crashed his Volvo into that concrete embankment, rearranging his right frontal lobe, permanently rewriting his circuits. He was making progress, slow and steady, as his brain re-knit itself into interesting new configurations. But my five months in his life—and in his bed—had taught me one thing. You can’t argue with the flow chart.
