South by Southeast

by Blair Underwood

  Raphael batted away the notion. He didn’t glance at Chela to consult with her. “Call me when you return,” he said, leaving it at that.

  At the bar, all pretense of glamour fell away. Chela had studied slave auctions in her AP history class, when she’d felt the urge to raise her hand and share comparisons to her old life. Unlike a slave, an escort would be paid well, but she was not a person to these men, or to Raphael. Sex workers, maybe most women, were rented property to them, the way the johns were like children to her. How hard would it be for any of them to murder an object? A toy?

  Chela saw a row of suspects on bar stools, all of them drinking her in with eager eyes. Hopelessness swamped her again. Had she expected to detect Maria’s killer on sight?

  As Chela lost her will to flirt, she glanced toward the bartender, who was a woman in her late twenties, pretty despite the way she’d pulled her hair into a businesslike bun. She avoided looking at Chela. The bartender worked with her clothes on and probably thought Chela was a sellout to all womankind.

  Chela gave Raphael’s hand a soft tug. “I’m ready to go upstairs,” she whispered.

  “My lady knows what she wants!” Raphael said, kissing her cheek as if she were his girlfriend. Again, she fought not to flinch. “Ciao for now, gentlemen. Now you have met Chela. She is with me tonight. But tomorrow . . . ?” He left the future to their imaginations.

  A couple of the men scribbled down her name on bar napkins, tucking them into their pockets for safekeeping. One snapped a photo of her with his cell phone. Christmas shopping.

  “I’m sorry,” Raphael said as they walked toward the golden elevators. “Some of my friends need a lecture on manners. But you were perfect. The way you pretend shyness—I love it! Now, to the other girls . . .”

  Thirty more minutes, Chela promised herself. Then you can leave and take a shower. Maybe she would get a memory wash, too, like in a novel she’d read about a girl her age with telepathic powers. How could she face Bernard now?

  Raphael took her to the penthouse level, swiping a key card for access. Suite 800. Again, his key let him inside.

  Chela braced for deception. The room would be empty, and Raphael would expect her to sleep with him again. Shower with him. Let him tie her in handcuffs. And then what? Take her to the beach and drown her?

  Chela felt rocked with relief when she heard a din of voices inside the room. About fifteen people were having drinks, all of them dressed, most of them men, but Chela spotted three women she recognized swaying in a loose dance circle to low music that sounded like Brazilian percussion. Mouse Girl was there! The petite bleached blonde stood beside her and recognized Chela, too, but nothing friendly showed in their eyes. All of the girls suddenly stared at her with an intensity Chela recognized as envy.

  Right. Once upon a time, they had been the one Raphael seemed smitten with, his fresh meat. Other girls had been jealous of the way she’d lived in Mother’s house, with Mother doting on her, so Chela knew how envy looked.

  But she had to win these girls over to get information about Maria.

  Raphael had his own agenda, so his grasp on Chela’s hand felt persistent as he led her to man after man to introduce her and ignite fire in their eyes. It wasn’t hard to play the shyness card, since she barely wanted to glance at the men. But she did—searching for the one she and Maria had seen at Club Phoenixx.

  Too thin. Too tall. Too bald. Nose after nose was too small. A few of the younger men looked like actors, the kind she would have targeted in the old days. Handsome was always a plus. She might leave with nothing tonight except a secret.

  “Go with the other girls for a while now,” Raphael said finally. “I know you want to remember your friend. But come right back to me.”

  His true nature was bubbling out, already giving her instructions.

  “Of course, Raffi,” she said obediently, and pecked his lips.

  By the time Chela joined the three working girls, they had lost their pretend smiles.

  “You work fast,” Mouse Girl said. “I thought you had a boyfriend.”

  The room flared red. All of Chela’s fingers curled as she pondered how satisfying it would feel to smack Mouse Girl across her cheaply painted face. She closed her eyes, trying to remember why she shouldn’t, finding her breath the way Ten tried to teach her to meditate. What was the best response? She could break Mouse Girl in half, no problem. Would have been able to even before Ten’s patient, vicious lessons. But that wasn’t the right play. Dominating Mouse Girl would just mean having to climb over another alpha bitch in the room. And she could do that, too, but it wasn’t necessary, and felt distasteful to her. The opposite approach, then: roll over and expose her tummy, triggering a maternal response.

  “Uh . . . hello?” Mouse Girl said, unaware of how close she’d come to loose teeth.

  “I do have a boyfriend,” Chela said, allowing her voice to crack as she opened her eyes. She summoned the tears she’d fought earlier, her eyes pooling with moisture. “But he’s in Cali, and I need the cash. Maria told me Raffi’s good to know. So I’m sorry if I’m stepping on anybody’s toes.”

  Her tears embarrassed the other girls, who shifted uncomfortably away from her, as if tears might be contagious.

  “Whatevs.” Mouse Girl shrugged. She gave Chela’s shoulder a pat that felt more like a shove. “Keep your problems outside when you’re at a party. You know better.”

  Good. If Mouse Girl and the others behaved like big sisters, they might not feel threatened. Chela nodded, quickly wiping her eyes. “Sorry. I’m in shock about Maria. We were all just talking . . . and now . . .”

  Silence stole over them. The music played on, but none of them danced.

  “She said good things about you,” the third girl said. She was thin, sweet, a lollipop in a skirt. “Told us stories.”

  Good-natured laughter passed between them. Chela didn’t want to know what stories they had heard. Maria could have chosen from dozens.

  “Did you tell the police about Maria?” Chela asked Mouse Girl. “Like you said?”

  Mouse Girl’s eyes flicked around the room. The other girls gave Chela disapproving gazes, and Mouse Girl sighed. “Bathroom,” she said.

  The suite’s bathroom was nearly as big as a studio apartment, with a telephone and a mounted TV alongside the massive shower and marble Roman bathtub. Mouse Girl went straight to the mirror, running her fingers through her hair to spike it.

  “First of all,” she said, “if you’re gonna hang with Raffi, you don’t talk about cops near him—ever. Are you stupid?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I just—”

  “Second of all, I called without leaving my name just like anybody could’ve. Like you could’ve.”

  Chela hushed her voice. “Did you talk about the drowning part?”

  “Sure I did. Told them about Lupe, too. And now they’re not gonna do shit, which is what cops always do. Everybody’s happier if she drowned. Murder’s bad for tourism.”

  Chela wasn’t sure she could believe her. She’d been crazy not to call the police herself.

  “What about Raffi?” Chela said. “Could it be him?”

  Mouse Girl met Chela’s eyes in the mirror, unblinking. “So, what? You’re Sherlock Ho, now? Is that what you’re doing? Better watch your ass. Raffi don’t like games.”

  “Fine,” Chela said. “But could he do something like that?”

  “Raffi ain’t like that. Would I be here if he was psycho? He’s all about the moneda. Most of the girls call him El Santo. Never even raises his voice.”

  “What about that guy at the bar he tried to set me up with? Did Maria go with him?”

  Mouse Girl’s attention went back to her hair. “I never saw him after you blew him off. Maria asked Raffi about him, but Raffi said he only wanted you.”

  “Do you think Maria went looking for him?”

  Mouse Girl sighed impatiently. They had already discussed this on the phone, with Mouse Girl giving clipped a
nswers, but Chela wanted to pull more out of her or see if she would change her story. “Maybe. She said she was gonna look for him, I dunno. She had a couple drinks with us, danced with a few guys, and then she was gone. A bartender brought her purse to us. He said he found it under a seat cushion, and he thought it might be Maria’s. She always had the same one.”

  “Where’d he find it?”

  “The VIP room. We can go in and out of there. The bouncer knows us.”

  Damn. That was new! She’d never seen the VIP room at Club Phoenixx. She would have to go back.

  “Do you know who else was in there?”

  This time, Mouse Girl spun around to study Chela’s eyes. “You sound like a cop.”

  “Yeah, right,” Chela said. “You know how far back I went with Maria. If the cops don’t give a shit what happened, somebody has to.”

  Mouse Girl gazed at her a moment longer, then blinked and turned to the mirror again. “I don’t know who was there that night,” she said. “But lately, it’s a lot of movie people. Sometimes they show up dressed like zombies or whatever. They think it’s funny.”

  Zombies!

  “You mean that movie Freaknik?”

  “I don’t know what it’s called,” Mouse Girl said. “Yeah, Freak something. Raffi knows all about it. He hooks those guys up.”

  Chela felt her mind whirring to put pieces together, but too many were missing. “How long ago did that other girl drown? Lupe?”

  “Two weeks. And another girl the week before that, but she worked Biscayne, not the beach. I didn’t know her. Just heard about it.”

  Ten had reported to his set two weeks before, the same time Lupe had died. Was there a connection? Chela wasn’t sure if Ten had arrived at the start of the shoot or not; some of the cast and crew might have been in Miami longer. The man with the big nose might have been just another tourist having nothing to do with Maria’s death.

  Maria had been watching the movie shoot the day they had seen each other! Why hadn’t she considered that connection before?

  Before Chela could ask the next question, a knock came at the door.

  “Shit,” Mouse Girl said, alarmed. “Probably Raffi.”

  She was right. Raphael didn’t look angry, but his presence was significant. He was keeping a close eye on his new investment. He ignored Mouse Girl.

  “Chela,” he said, glad to see her. “I thought you had vanished into the air.”

  Chela gave him her brightest smile, apologizing. She took his hand and allowed him to introduce her to the party’s newcomers. Chela hoped to recognize people she had seen on the movie set with Ten, but the new men were from Latin America, dressed sharply in business attire, probably fresh from the airport. Like the others, they beheld her like a prize.

  It was almost midnight, and Chela was ready to go home. She wasn’t sure what she had gained for the price she had paid, but she hoped it was worth something. She might have earned one answer about Maria from Raphael, but she wanted to choose her question carefully. Should she ask about the man with the big nose? Or maybe the guy Maria had been hanging out with, the one she’d said was a pilot who would fly her to Jamaica?

  But instinct told her not to ask him anything about Maria. She kept thinking about the VIP room and Freaknik.

  “How will I find you tomorrow?” Chela said, signaling that she was ready to leave.

  Raphael glanced at his watch, irritation shadowing his face. “It’s early yet.”

  “I’ll be back. No worries.”

  Raphael gave her specific instructions, the way Mother used to. He dialed a number into her phone and let it ring once so it would register in both of their phones’ memories, explaining that it was an answering service. She was to call that number the next night at eight precisely and wait for a return call. He warned her not to go back to Club Phoenixx or the hotel on her own, meaning that she shouldn’t try to capitalize on her introductions without him.

  Was that what Maria had done? Had her independence gotten her killed?

  “Do you have any questions for me?” he said, walking her toward the door. She guessed that he would walk her downstairs and all the way to a cab, or his driver, just to make sure she didn’t double back without his knowledge. And his percentage. They had yet to negotiate, but he’d hinted she would make two thousand per client—which meant he would charge much more.

  “What if there’s a guy I want to pick?” she said.

  “Name him,” Raphael said. “Anyone you saw tonight?”

  She pretended to consider the question, scanning the room. “Well . . . not anyone right now. But I hear there’s lots of movie people around. From that zombie movie?”

  Chela realized she might have made a mistake to sound so star-struck. She’d told Maria that Ten was working on the movie, and Maria might have mentioned it to Raphael and the other girls. She didn’t care if she burned her bridge with Raphael—she had no intention of calling him again—but lies might tip off the killer to her first, especially if Raphael was involved. Wasn’t it possible, even likely, that Mouse Girl would tell Raphael everything they had talked about to win favor with him?

  But Raphael’s brow, which had been tightly knitted since she said she wanted to go, loosened again. His smile returned, amused. “Everyone loves movie people,” he said. “Is that what you want, my angel? Your big break?”

  Chela pursed her lips, glancing at the carpeted floor. “Not exactly . . . I just . . .”

  Gently, Raphael pinched her cheek. “I’m teasing. You deserve that and more. Call me tomorrow night. I am the one who will make you a star.”

  BY MIDNIGHT, I was in a bad mood.

  Gustavo Escobar had sent most of the cast home and insisted on reshooting my sex scene with Brittany Summers, which I’d thought was already in the can. I’d spent an hour in the makeup chair being reverted back to my normal face, and instead of going home as I’d planned, I’d been asked to spend another two hours half-naked on the set.

  My contract had stipulated a single sex scene. Len and I had negotiated carefully to avoid exploiting any rumors about me circulating in Hollywood. By now, I was sure Escobar had already broken half a dozen provisions of our agreement, which had called for “a standard of tastefulness.” Like hell.

  Usually, it’s actresses who worry more about their sexuality onscreen. Some actresses refuse to shoot sex scenes unless they’re wearing a bra, and others, such as Angela Bassett, outright refuse. Whatever Halle had made for Monster’s Ball wasn’t nearly enough, Oscar or not. But my situation was unique. I’d begun to suspect that Escobar had only cast me to fulfill some kind of Mandingo imagery he believed would horrify the movie’s viewers, a brutish black man violating his lead actress’s milky blond treasures. That night, I believed I had my proof.

  My ego was at stake, too. I didn’t have a body double, and I hadn’t expected to shoot any scenes with my shirt off that week. Last time, I’d gone on a juice fast and doubled up on my crunches two days beforehand as usual, which helped define my abs. Movie standards for bare skin are much higher than in life. If Escobar had wanted to reshoot the sex scenes, he should have given me more notice.

  I know some actors who get off on building chemistry during sex scenes, rehearsing for real-life playtime later, but to me, there’s nothing sexy about it. Between the lights and the crew, it’s impossible to forget I’m at work. Sex, real or imaginary, didn’t have special allure to me anymore, unless I was with April.

  Yes, even with Brittany Summers. She’s a beautiful lady with a body she works hard to maintain, but I don’t have any particular taste for the Nordic look. And at twenty-three, Brittany was closer to Chela’s age than mine, so she was a kid to me. It also seemed likely that Brittany and the director were sleeping together—or they had—so I had nothing to gain from fanning any flames of lust for her. We were doing our jobs.

  And I was exhausted. The perspiration Brittany and I were drenched in was real, and I was more annoyed for Brittany’s sake than
my own.

  Despite limited acting talent and implants more suitable for a porn star, she’d been an island of professionalism. She covered her chest with a hand towel between takes and shifts for new camera angles, and we negotiated every touch. I always try to follow a director’s wishes, but when it comes to scenes involving intimacy or nudity, the actress has final say. I might look as if I’m rubbing an actress between her legs under the covers, but I’m probably just mimicking the motion or kneading her stomach or thigh. If the scene calls for a breast in my mouth, I keep my tongue far away if I can. I may look naked but am actually wearing a flesh-colored “modesty pouch” and my partner a flesh-colored latex pubic wig.

  The scene we were shooting seemed endless, and Escobar was pushing his R rating. The bed’s covers were thrown aside, leaving only our nudity, and I was miming thrusts while she wrapped her legs around me, arching her back. Was I aroused? Not even slightly, although our lower torsos couldn’t avoid contact. I worried that her pelvic bone might be getting sore. So sue me.

  Instead of clearing the set of all but himself and a cameraman, Escobar had a dozen sweaty guys standing around handling lights and sound. Escobar was practically standing over us, almost in the camera’s frame. I felt more self-conscious than I had ever been on a set. Black men don’t get much experience doing love scenes in Hollywood, so at first, I’d blamed my discomfort on inexperience. But as Escobar called for take after take, my hindbrain started tingling. Something didn’t feel right; he seemed more like a voyeur than a director.

  “No, no, no!” Escobar said, and moved closer to ruin yet another take. I heard the cinematographer sigh. “I said passion, Tennyson—animal passion. What is this choirboy nonsense? You’re taking her. You’ve lost control. Grab her. Hold her in place.”

  The word animal clenched my teeth. I might lose control, but not on camera. I climbed away from Brittany, coming to my feet, and a male intern immediately flung a robe over my shoulders so I could cover myself while Brittany’s assistant draped a blanket over her.

  “Gus . . .” Louise Cannon warned. “Look at the clock. They nailed this a week ago.”