by Tim Green
"She deserved it," he heard himself mutter before he plunged into a stupor.
Madison pulled on a pair of faded jeans. She haphazardly tucked one of her husband's soft cotton undershirts into the waist and cinched down her braided leather belt. She crossed the hall and knocked on Chris's door. His phone had been busy. She assumed he was talking to his wife. Chris came to the door looking even more destitute than Madison in a pair of washed-out red running shorts and a moth-eaten T-shirt. He looked so out of place coming out of a room in the Ritz-Carlton that Madison had to stifle a grin.
"I, uh . . ." she stuttered, "I'm going to drive over to Clark's."
"Clark's?" he said, looking at his watch. "Madison, it's ten- thirty."
"I know. But I've called five times and haven't gotten an answer. I'm worried about him."
"Worried? Like what?" he said.
"I don't know. I told him I'd call him. He said he'd be there. I don't know, Chris. That was a lot today. I. . ."
"You think he'll do something?" Chris said.
"Maybe."
"Hang on," he said. "Let me get dressed."
Chapter 45
Trane hadn't lied. The VIP lounge was like a Hollywood magazine turned inside out. Weaving in and out of the celebrities was one beautiful woman after another, page after page. They were all there to celebrate the exoneration of an innocent black man. Ike wandered self-consciously through the crowd and the noise with a glass of Coke in his hand. Finally he lit on the corner of a leather couch next to two stunning Asian girls with short skirts and long glossy hair. After a disinterested assessment of Ike they turned to each other and chattered away in a language that was beyond his recognition.
Trane appeared, much like the appearance of royalty, in a black tank top and lots of gold. He had his typical entourage, a handful of homeboys and Conrad Dobbins in a deep purple suit talking and gesticulating boisterously. All heads turned, and the Asian girls stopped their conversation to point and stare. The small crowd broke out in spontaneous applause that rose to a level above the thumping music. In return, Trane wagged his tongue. Without being asked, a cocktail waitress brought the star player a glass of chipped ice swimming in good scotch. Trane casually massaged the girl's rump as his way of saying thanks. Ike watched this and shook his head dubiously. Maybe this crowd was too fast for him. Despite his affinity for women, Ike was like flypaper. He just sat and waited for them to come to him.
After most of the crowd had paid their personal tributes to the guest of honor and his agent, Trane spotted the rookie through the crowd. Grabbing two women on his way, he crossed the room and filled up the rest of Ike's couch with himself and the two women. The Asian girls were pressed into the other corner now, where they lit up cigarettes and pretended not to gawk. Suddenly Ike was a close personal friend of Trane's and the taller of the two flashed him a discreet smile. Ike felt the thrill of Trane's power and hoped it didn't have anything to do with the devil.
"Hey, little brother. What's up?" Trane said, holding his fist out so he and Ike could touch knuckles.
"Hey, Trane. Just chillin'."
"How 'bout these two?" Trane said, grinning lecherously and jerking his thumb toward the two girls he'd brought with him. "Fine freaks."
Ike nodded that they were indeed fine freaks. They were thinner than he really preferred, but their faces, one light brown, the other milky white, had that magazine quality.
"My boys!"
Conrad Dobbins was suddenly in their midst. Beside him stood a Middle Eastern man wearing a suit and slicked-backed hair. Next to him was a man who looked so dissipated and shabby that Ike suddenly felt like he fit in. The man's crushed and dirty cap sat at a crooked angle on his head, and his sun-scorched face reminded Ike of a poor rural farmer. Only an eigh teen-karat gold Carder watch and a diamond pinkie ring suggested he was something more.
"Ike, my man," Conrad said, slapping hands with the young player, "This is Mr. Kurt Lunden, owner an' founder of Zeus Shoes and our partner . . ."
"An' this," he continued with a flourish of his hands, "is Prince Fasad, my man from Saudi Arabia, the newest partner in Zeus an the man that's payin' for this party."
"Nice to meet you," Ike said politely. He could see that his agent's eyes were glassy from liquor.
Dobbins turned to the prince and the sneaker magnate with a playful grin and said above the din, "How 'bout this boy? He's a polite country motherfucker, but he's gonna be a star. Boy's got moves and hands!"
Dobbins sat down on the arm of the leather couch and tucked Ike's head in the crook of his elbow. "It's good to see you, litde man. My man Trane was tellin' me you was hanging with that motherfuckin' Bible crowd an' that ain't no way to live in this town."
Ike shrugged bashfully but didn't bother to defend himself. His agent was talking without listening.
"Bible shit didn't do that Cromwell motherfucker no good, did it?" Trane said mischievously, arching his eyebrows. "That cat blew a fuckin' fuse an' put my bitch on ice."
Conrad let out a careless drunken chuckle and said to Ike, "feah, an' ain't suicide a motherfuckin' sin, Ike? Bible don't go fo' no suicide . . ."
Ike looked at him seriously and shook his head. "Naw," he murmured. "That's a sin."
"Well. . ." Conrad said with a devious grin, "we may be sinners o one kind, but we ain't suicidal motherfuckers so I guess you're with the right people tonight."
Lunden grew sour-faced on that note and excused himself and the prince for a drink.
Trane glowered. "Fuck's his problem?"
"Aw, don't mind that," Conrad said, waving it off. "That motherfucker made us too much money to care about his goddamn manners. Made you a litde money, too, Ike! Shit yeah, I got you in on that Zeus Shoe stock early. We're all doing good on that."
"When d I get in?" Ike said hopefully.
"Shit!" Dobbins replied, taking a long swig of his vodka tonic. "You got in same as the rest of us... at thirty motherfuckin' cents!"
Ike was no Wall Street Journal subscriber, but even he knew the stock was way beyond that now. "How much of that did I get?" he asked. He had no idea what was happening with his money, just that Conrad had invested it.
"About ten thousand shares," the agent said.
"Man, that's about three hundred thousand," Ike said, beaming. "That's phat as a hog, Conrad."
"That's why you with me," Dobbins said. "That's why all these athletes is with me."
Even Trane had to nod his assent to that one. He was looking at ten million dollars on the deal and, like Conrad, hoping the stock was on its way to fifty.
"Man, everybody loves those shoes. Almost everybody I know back in Titus already asked me to get Trane to sign a pair. It's a good investment," Ike ventured.
"It's mo' than that," Conrad told him after taking another large gulp of vodka and signaling one of the homeboys to get him a refdl. "It's about orchestratin'! That's what it was. We massaged that motherfuckin' stock ... That's the only way to make real money. That's how the white man does it on Wall Street, but now we're doin' the same damn thing in L motherfuckin' A."
Chapter 46
Zee dropped to the concrete beside the pool and looked warily around as he backed himself into a clump of high shrubs. After a moment he worked his way around the landscaping until he had a good view of the glass doors from where most of the light was emanating. He squinted and peered hard through the night. It looked like Clark was passed out on the couch, just lying there spread-eagled in front of the glass doors. The white fuck was dead drunk. It was too easy.
Slowly he stalked around the pool and across the open space toward the glass. He knew that even if Clark were awake he would see only his own reflection since all the light was coming from inside the house. Still, he was cautious. Five feet from the door he could see that it was open a crack. The phone rang and Zee froze. His blood surged with adrenaline, but the shrill ring elicited no response from Clark. A smile sneaked onto Zee's face and the corners of his eyes crinkled merr
ily. He wasn't going to have to wait around in the bushes until 2 a. M. He'd be home in rime to watch a Twilight Zone rerun at midnight.
Nevertheless, Zee continued to move carefully and quietly as he shed his black satchel. He set it on the concrete in front of him without taking his eyes off the comatose player. He undid the leather flap and felt through the various metal tools for the cloth rag sealed inside a plastic Ziploc bag. With his other hand he automatically felt into a side pocket for the little dropper of Versed. He found that and tucked it into the front pocket of his pants.
He straightened up and walked heel-to-toe toward the glass. Slowly he wrapped his fingers around the edge of the slider and pulled it open wide enough so that he could move inside. Clark's nose twitched and Zee froze again. Clark passed his hand across his face before it fell back to the couch. Zee was in the danger zone, too far in to go back, not close enough to get an immediate grip on his victim. There was still a good eight feet as well as a coffee table between them. He stayed still for a full minute before beginning to move again. The thrill was beginning to mount, and Zee let it wash over him. With a cat's patience he crossed the floor and skirted the low table.
When he was standing over Clark he held the plastic bag at arm's length and extracted the rag soaked in sevoflurane. Giddy now with confidence, he stuffed the corner of the empty bag in his pants pocket, then reached down with his free hand to take a sip of Clark's half-finished beer. As he lifted the bottle it clinked softly against one of the empties. Zee's eyes shifted to Clark's face. The player's eyes split slightly. Zee dropped the bottle with a crash and swung the toxic cloth toward Clark's face just as a foot shot straight up into his groin.
Clark was up and on top of the bigger man, pummeling his face for all he was worth. But drunk as he was, the blows weren't nearly as hard or as accurate as the one jab Zee shot up under his chin. The punch knocked Clark sideways and into the coffee table, shattering both wood and glass. Clark recovered quickly though, and before Zee could get off the floor he was back on top of him with his hands planted firmly around the bodyguard's neck. The rage flowed through Clark's body and out his hands, strengthening the death grip he had on the enormous killer.
Zee bucked away under Clark, but the player's grip only grew tighter and his knees were pinned to Zee's sides the way a cowboy rides a bull. With his eyes bulging and his head starting to spin, Zee suddenly felt peaceful and composed. With his left hand he groped about the floor until he touched the damp cloth rag. He grabbed hold, then crammed it into Clark's face. Clark's eyes went wide, but still he held on to Zee's neck. Zee fought against the chokehold to remain conscious. He knew the last one to go would be the one to live. Zee gurgled desperately for air. Then everything went black.
Chapter 47
Madison leaned on her horn until the guard came back out ol the guardhouse frowning angrily. He was a rail of a man with a heavy black mustache and dark curly hair that grew out from under the edges of his cap like untamed shrubbery.
"Listen, lady," he snapped, narrowing his beady little close-set eyes. "I'm not gettin' an answer. You're not on the visitor's list, and if I don't have approval from Mr. Cromwell you can't go in. That's my job, lady."
Madison was burning now. They'd been waiting more than fifteen minutes and she had seen how nonchalant the guard had been about the whole thing, talking and joking with someone on the telephone, letting several other people in before trying Clark's house a second time.
"You're not going to have a job if something's wrong and you keep me from going in there to help," she said menacingly.
The man crossed his arms and smiled in a way that let Madison know this wasn't a job he was particularly fond of anyway.
"I'll run through that arm if you don't raise it," Madison said calmly.
"And I'll have the police right behind you, lady," the man jeered. "So you go right on ahead "
Madison looked over at Chris, who tugged his mouth down at its corners and shrugged helplessly. Madison probably wouldn't have done it but for the guard's smart-ass grin. With an I-told- you-so nod of her head she threw the rental car in gear and punched the accelerator, leaving the guard with a wonderfully stupid look on his face. They could hear him screaming at her as the wooden barrier snapped into three fragments and they drove off down the road.
Zee's eyes rolled forward in his head and he blinked. He realized his tongue was hanging out of his mouth and he retracted it. Clark was lying on top of him with his hands still gripping Zee's neck. Zee slapped the player's arms away and staggered to his feet. The phone was ringing. Zee shook his large head and shifted his weight unsteadily back and forth, swaying like a mortally wounded buffalo as he collected his wits. When the phone stopped ringing he went into motion as if on cue. He took the dropper of Versed automatically from his pants pocket and tilted Clark's head back. Two drops went into each nostril. Once it was done, Zee absently wondered why he even bothered. There was nothing to remember when you were dead.
He shook his head to clear the haze and grasped Clark under each arm. He dragged the player's limp body into the garage and hauled him up into the front seat. There was no need for a hose. It wasn't a large space. He'd just gas the whole place. The keys were in the ignition. Zee fired up the truck and walked back into the house, closing the door tightly behind him. Carefully he looked around the shambles of the living room, trying to think of any sign he might have left. Amid the beer bottles he saw the sevoflurane rag, and beside the couch was the plastic bag. He stuffed the rag into the bag, sealed it, and put them into his back pocket.
Because his head was still spinning, he sat down on a chair to look over the scene and think. The last thing he wanted was to leave something behind. It had to look like a suicide. The smashed table could be explained by a fit of rage on the part of Clark, but the rest of the mess had to be straightened up. It was obviously the result of two big men in a scuffle. With that thought he rose and began slowly to pick up the mess as best he could, straightening the furniture and putting the beer bottles back up on what was left of the coffee table.
Within minutes Zee had altered the scene from the site of an obvious brawl to a quiet place where one man had simply gone off the deep end. That's when the doorbell rang. Zee looked toward it and felt a lump of panic form in his chest. He did one last visual sweep of the room and let himself out through the back slider without bothering to close it behind him. The doorbell rang over and over again. Zee could hear it as he ran past the pool. With the help of a deck chair he got himself up into the shadows of the tree he'd come in on just as he heard a shout from the front of the house.
Chapter 48
Chris shook his head as they wound their way through the streets of the exclusive neighborhood.
"We're in trouble," he said.
"This is an emergency," Madison told him.
"Madison, what emergency? The guy hasn't answered his phone."
"Call it intuition," she said. She was shaking now and didn't know whether it was intuition or simply the residue of a foolish act.
"There's the police," Chris said, pointing to the darkened sedan across the street from Clark's house.
"They won't have far to go to arrest me," Madison quipped. She pulled directly into the driveway. Chris noticed the police perking up.
"At least they're on their toes," he said. "If something had happened they probably would have known about it."
"If Clark was gone," Madison pointed out, "then they would have followed. He must be inside. So why wouldn't he answer the phone?"
"Madison," Chris said as they piled out of the car and hustled up the walk, "the guy's upset."
"But he knew I was going to call. He said he'd be here," she reminded him.
Madison rang the bell once politely. When there was no response she rang it again and again, maniacally. Chris looked over at the policemen. They were both alert now and peering curiously out at them. Madison rattled the door handle. It was locked.
"Come on," sh
e said, starting back down the walk. "Let's check the back."
Walking quickly past the garage, Madison thought she heard the low rumble of a truck motor. She looked at Chris.
"His truck," she said.
"Maybe he's getting ready to go out?" he said.
"With the door shut?"
Madison pounded on the garage door.
"Clark!" she yelled. There was no response. She rounded the house in a sprint, climbed over the gate like a high school track athlete, and dashed into the back by the pool. The sliding door was wide open and Madison saw the destruction in the living room. Beer bottles were all over the coffee table. Two of its glass panels were shattered and the wood was fractured as if someone had tried to kick it in. A small noise of panic escaped her throat. Something was so wrong. She made her way past the mess and into the garage with Chris right behind her.
The door leading into the garage was shut, and when Madison opened it she was overwhelmed by the stench of fumes. She stepped back, flipped on the lights, and drew a deep breath. She plunged into the noxious space and searched frantically for the garage door opener. It was on the wall next to the door. She punched it desperately. As the door slowly opened, Madison made for the truck. Clark was slumped in the front seat, completely inert. Madison opened the door and began to tug at him. Chris was beside her, and together they pulled his body out onto the garage floor. Madison couldn't hold her breath any longer, and without thinking she took a large gasp of fumes and began to choke.
Together, she and Chris began dragging Clark's body outside onto the driveway. The detectives were out of their car now and running toward them. Madison fell to the pavement, choking and gasping, and Chris was doubled over as well.
"He's not breathing. You check his heart," said the first cop, who immediately began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
The second detective felt for a pulse in Clark's neck and found none. He began CPR.
"Is he dead?" Madison asked frantically.
The detective working on his heart looked up at her doubtfully. "Call an ambulance," he said.
