The Best Possible Angle

by Lloyd Johnson

  His cell phone rang again. This was the fourth time his wife, Lacey, had called. This time he knew to answer. It was his own fault for telling her he would be home by 5:30.

  “Hey.”

  “I won’t bore you with the details of how much effort I’ve put into finding the correct recipe that you like for veal. I don’t even like veal, and yet, here I am running around like a mad woman trying to make a meal you’d find worthy to actually show up on time for.”

  VanDrunen gave a long sigh. He knew he was in trouble. Despite the futility of it, he said, “Honey, I’m sorry. It’s just this case is driving me crazy.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  VanDrunen could almost envision his wife rolling her eyes through the phone. “We’re at a dead end, and well, I’m really frustrated.”

  Lacey sucked her teeth. “It’s always something, isn’t it? Did you know that for years I used to tell myself at the start of every year that things would get better? That you’d eventually slow down?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Lacey, we’re talking about a little girl here!”

  Lacey was quiet, then sniffled as though she’d been crying. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  VanDrunen took a breath. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I’ll call when I’m on my way.”

  “Fine.”

  VanDrunen ended the call, looking at the phone as though he didn’t know what it was. He peered up at the pictures again. This time directed to a photo of a smashed headlight laying in the street. VanDrunen thought for a moment. The only person who claimed to see anything was a man who was about to walk his dog. He saw a large black vehicle whiz by, though he didn’t see the make of the car. His dog was still new to him, and was being especially difficult that day. The dog got lose and ran back into the house before the owner had the chance to close the door, thereby preventing him from having seen the hit and run take place.

  “What if?” VanDrunen said, still staring at the picture of the broken headlight.

  Just then, his partner, Det. Ramirez came into the room, holding two cups of coffee in her hands. She noticed a light go on in VanDrunen’s eyes. She liked the sight of that.

  “Tell me what’s percolating in that big noggin of yours,” she said, handing him a coffee.

  “Well, I got an idea of how we could possibly find out the make of the car,” VanDrunen said excitedly.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. And I think you could be a big help.”

  “I aim to please.”

  “Glad to hear it. Any good with puzzles?”

  Confusion flickered in Ramirez’s eyes. “Isn’t that what we do day in and day out?”

  VanDrunen realized his attempt at word play had fallen to their feet. “I meant actual puzzles, as in jigsaw puzzles.”

  Ramirez’s face brightened. “Oh sure. Back in high school. It was a picture of the Colosseum in Rome.”

  “I’m thinking we can get an idea of the kind of car the perp was driving if we piece together the shattered headlight.”

  The veil of confusion returned to Ramirez’s face. “How do you propose we put it together?”

  “Good ol’ fashioned glue or tape, I guess.”

  “Now, by ‘we’ do you mean me?”

  VanDrunen smiled sheepishly. “But don’t worry, you can get started tomorrow.”

  “I’m so thrilled.” Ramirez paused thoughtfully. “I guess I could take a stab at it.”

  “Good. Gotta get home to Lacey. She made veal for dinner, and I’m about an hour and a half late.”

  Ramirez grimaced. “I hate veal.”

  VanDrunen slipped into his overcoat. “So does she. Have a great rest of your night.”

  When VanDrunen took off towards home, he rang Lacey to let her know he was on his way. He hoped to hear an enthusiasm in her voice, but there was none. He knew there was no chance of Lacey greeting him at the door with a glass of wine from the boxed merlot, and piping hot veal awaiting him in the dining room. And there was even less chance of a little up and down in the bed afterward. It was his juvenile way of asking for sex, and it usually put a smile on Lacey’s face. That night of all nights, he could have used some up and down in the bed, because the Kayla Jones case was like a vice grip on his brain.

  As VanDrunen continued onward, he turned to the jazz station on the radio. Billie Holiday was singing “You’ve Changed.” He laughed at the irony. He hadn’t changed at all—not in any way that mattered to his wife.

  FOURTEEN

  Kendrick Black was riding high on his publicity tour for the film, It Is What It Is. The local TV and radio personalities in both Chicago and Atlanta were charmed by the actor. Kendrick was especially pleased with how well things had gone in Atlanta that he agreed to meet with a gay YouTube blogger that was not previously scheduled on the itinerary. A few of the blogger’s questions related to the upcoming movie, but most pertained to how he was handling his sex symbol status amongst gay men.

  Kendrick’s smile was immediate and Mid-western humble. “It’s a blessing, really. Hell, I’ll take a compliment from wherever I can get it. But let me add that I’m thankful to my parents for giving me decent genes.”

  “So, it doesn’t bother you to have thousands, if not millions, of gay men wishing they could take you home with them at night?”

  Kendrick continued smiling. “Not at all. Look, it’s 2013. The world is a much different place then it was even twenty years ago. I’m grateful that anyone is paying attention to me at all.”

  Sabathany perched in the far corner of the coffee shop. She wasn’t the least bit personable. Her body language from the very beginning of the interview had been closed off, her face a seething pout. Kendrick did his best to remain light-hearted in an attempt to deflect her negative energy. The “Fabulous Flamboyant” Ja’brell Hunty didn’t pay Sabathany the slightest attention, which only unnerved her further.

  At the end of the interview, Kendrick took a couple of pictures with Ja’brell Hunty and a few of his friends. Sabathany approached the group, giving Ja’brell Hunty a full once over. He wore a voluminous, teal blouse, white skinny jeans and shimmering high heels. One side of his head was shaved, while long Brazilian waves cascaded down the other side. His face was a makeup work of art.

  “Your parents must be so proud,” Sabathany said.

  “They most certainly are! I make much coin being me! I sent them on an all-expense paid cruise for their twenty-eighth anniversary, darling. Now, catch that tea!” Ja’brell Hunty replied.

  Kendrick came from behind Sabathany and steered her away by her shoulders. “Thanks guys! I had fun!”

  Once they were out of earshot, approaching the waiting limo, Kendrick yanked her by the arm. “What was all that about?”

  Sabathany pulled away. “You’re hurting me.”

  Kendrick loosened his grip. “Why’d you say that to him?”

  “He looks like a clown with all that crap on.”

  “What business is it of yours what he does?”

  “Okay, I think you better get on the right team, Honey.”

  “No, maybe you should. Ja’brell Hunty is very influential in the ATL. Why’d you dig at him like that?”

  Sabathany saved her response until after they were inside the car. “Uh, is there something we need to talk about?”

  “Hell no! You already know that ain’t my thing.”

  “Do I?”

  “Don’t clown on me. What I want to know is why you’re so put off by them? They ain’t done nothing to you.”

  “Because those people disgust me. Sorry, but I don’t understand why they have to be everywhere throwing their buffoonery in my face.”

  “You sound just like Lenox. I get why he would want to…” Kendrick stopped himself.

  “No. Finish your sentence.”

  “I get why dudes act like that. But females have always been more open-minded.”

  Sabathany looked out the window, chased by a memory.

 
“Okay, babe, whatever is going on inside your head right now is a lot bigger than some ATL personality. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

  Sabathany could feel the corners of her eyes become damp. She tilted her head back in hopes of keeping those unwanted tears from spilling, but they were unrelenting.

  Kendrick sensed more to the story, and that Sabathany’s mind was taking her to a very dark place.

  “I had a foster parent named Tyrone. He worked at some cabaret as a drag queen, and a lot of times he’d come home still dressed up. He’d bring this guy named Silk home. They would sit up half the night drinking, then sometimes they’d go in Tyrone’s bedroom and close the door. They would turn on the stereo to cover all the noise they made.”

  Sabathany’s voice moved from sadness to disgust as she recalled the past. “Sometimes Silk would see me when I’d still be up waiting for Tyrone to feed me because he kept the food locked up. And there were times when I caught him staring at me as I ate whatever scraps Tyrone gave me.”

  Sabathany leaned into Kendrick for comfort. The memory continued playing itself vividly behind her closed eyes.

  “One night, Silk had come over and he and Tyrone had been drinking like usual. I’d gone to bed, but got up at some point to use the bathroom. When I looked in the living room, Tyrone was passed out on the sofa and Silk was still up watching TV. When I went back to my bedroom Silk was standing in my room. He said, ‘Hey there! Why don’t you show me around your room?’ I told him to get out of my room. He said, ‘you better get over here and sit your little ass down!’ So I did. He took his shoes off and pushed me further onto my bed and started dry humping against me.”

  Sabathany’s cry turned convulsive. She lurched forward into a steady rocking. Kendrick hugged her to bring down some of the shaking.

  “At twelve years old I froze. I didn’t know what to say or do. He kissed all over my body, and felt my privates. It didn’t bother him at all that I didn’t like it.”

  “What happened next?” Kendrick asked, fully engrossed in the story, and fearful of what she would tell him next.

  “When I told him to stop,” she whispered, “Silk’s hand froze. I could hear his heartbeat thumping through all the gold chains hanging from his neck. He left and didn’t return until two weeks later. Again, he waited until Tyrone passed out, and snuck into my bedroom. That time he made me go all the way with him. He kept on until I was fourteen. Tyrone never knew, and kept letting the son of a bitch come over because he thought he had Silk all to himself.”

  “Tyrone never found out?” Kendrick asked in disbelief.

  “Eventually. Silk had warned me back when it all started that bitches who run their mouths get their throats slit. He said if I wanted to end up like them, all I needed to do was say something.”

  Kendrick squeezed her shoulders. “Goddamn him!”

  “But Silk started to get scared I was going to tell, so one day out of the blue, he decided to lie to Tyrone and say that on a number of occasions I’d been waiting outside the bathroom, ready to expose myself to him after he finished using the toilet.”

  “What?”

  Sabathany sat up straight. Rage swallowed sadness. “Yep, he sure did. And Tyrone said to me, ‘I guess you’re never too young to be a slut! Now I know why Silk be lettin’ me drink my ass to sleep! Here I am tryin’ to give you a place to stay and all the while you up here tryin’ to take somebody’s man!’ He tore through my room, throwing every piece of clothes I had into a garbage bag. He grabbed a couple of Ding Dongs and a juice box and put them into a smaller paper bag and threw it all at me and said, ‘Take your fast ass on somewhere! Go wave your little coochie in somebody else’s face!’”

  There was a break in Sabathany’s anger. She began to melt back into vulnerability. “He didn’t even bother to ask me if it was true or not,” she said, weeping into Kendrick’s chest.

  Kendrick held fast to her, rocking her into an eventual calm. But Sabathany’s confession cast a dark cloud on the ride to the airport. And what lie ahead in Miami did very little to make things any better.

  FIFTEEN

  October 25, 2013

  The Fontainebleau Hotel

  Kendrick Black walked into the conference room not expecting to see what he saw. The room was filled with media. TV cameras were set up everywhere. On an elevation located at the front of the room, there was a rectangular table with an elegant, burgundy fabric draping the front. Two bottles of water had been placed in front of each chair. Two easels with large movie posters of It Is What It Is were positioned, one on either end of the table.

  Kendrick sat down. Only a few members of the media bothered taking pictures, a rather subdued response given the number of reporters. A hotel employee approached the actor and wanted to know if she could bring him something to drink.

  “No, thank you. This bottled water is just fine,” he said with a wink.

  The employee blushed, touched her cheek as if it had been kissed, and walked away.

  The double doors opened and Shannon Dwight, Kendrick’s co-star, came through, surrounded by entourage. Every media person leapt to their feet, snapping pictures of the actress in her black vintage, A-line dress, a contrast against her milky white skin. She wore a string of pearls, and her hair was pulled back into a messy bun. Shannon’s red lips popped the perfect color.

  She seemed to float through, as though carried by her team. As she texted, she appeared oblivious to everyone there.

  With four consecutively high-grossing films, Shannon Dwight carved out a spot as one of Hollywood’s most bankable actresses. Although she had classic beauty and sophisticated sex appeal, she took her craft seriously, often being labeled as the young Meryl Streep.

  Shannon was still texting by the time she sat next to Kendrick, who had been under the impression that he was going it alone on this press junket, and thought she was still on location shooting another film. She nodded a quick acknowledgment and muttered an even quicker, “Hey.” Hair and makeup people emerged from her little mob and tended to last minute touch-ups.

  Working with Shannon had been hell. Kendrick thought she was too young to take herself so seriously. But she was a brilliant actress, a true chameleon with great comedic timing. Kendrick was willing to put up with her sourness because he stood to benefit from her appeal and connection to the project. Bringing Shannon on this leg of the media blitz guaranteed more attention to the film, and to him, since she already enjoyed the mainstream celebrity Kendrick hungered for.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you,” Kendrick said, leaning into her as she clicked out her texts.

  “Just go with it.” Her tone was impatient, like someone chiding an amateur.

  When Judith Martin, host of the local TV show Today in Miami arrived ready to field questions from the press, Shannon Dwight turned “on”.

  “Shannon, tell us what drew you to this project?”

  “I wanted to do more romantic comedies. And I love that the obvious racial difference between the characters isn’t harped on. Yeah, Margaret is white and David is African-American. So what? The couple is allowed to be in love, and experience that love without their races playing a huge role in any of it.”

  “Kendrick, same question…”

  “Exactly what Shannon just said. Love is love, no matter what packaging it comes in. I see all kinds of interracial couples walking down the streets together. This film reflects the normalcy of it. That’s what makes the script so great. I think people knew they couldn’t hold up an entire movie on racial conflict. Not that it doesn’t exist, but I think they recognize the overall trajectory society is moving in, and wanted to create a film that showed that.”

  “What was it like to work with one another?”

  Shannon beamed as she placed a hand on Kendrick’s chest. “Let me tell you something about this guy. This man is absolutely fabulous. He’s incredibly giving. A true pleasure to work with. Not to mention that he’s incredibly easy on the eyes.”

>   Kendrick smiled, amazed with how fantastically insincere his co-star was. “Yeah, Shannon drives herself, man. She’s the ultimate pro. And she’s easy on the eyes, too.”

  The room turned warm. Kendrick swigged from his water. He relaxed and allowed Shannon to have her moment, figuring the media was mostly there to see her anyway. But he knew what to expect going forward. The next time they did press together he would handle her differently, going for his glory from the outset. No sudden slick conversational maneuvers, and no surprises.

  While Shannon flung charm to the reporters, Kendrick scanned the room to see if Sabathany had changed her mind and come down to show her support. She had not spoken since her revelation, opting to sequester herself in the large penthouse suite. Last he saw her, she was lying in fetal position with sheets pulled over herself. He did not want to pry any further, and regretted knowing the little he found out. Kendrick surveyed the room, noticing a scruffily dressed man in the rear of the room, holding a small note pad in one hand and waving his other hand to be called on.

  “Yes?” Judith Martin said, acknowledging him.

  “My question is for Mr. Black. I’m curious how he thinks leaking a sex tape is going to square with the release of It Is What It Is?”

  Kendrick straightened himself in his seat. “Pardon me?”

  The man grinned with satisfaction that he had everyone’s attention. “Better still, I’d like to know if you thought leaking a sex tape to coincide with the release of the film would help give you publicity since you’re considerably less known than your co-star.”

  “What sex tape? There is no sex tape,” Kendrick said, annoyed with the underhandedness of the question and its implications. There was no Brenda or entourage to steer him from trouble. Kendrick felt alone, sensing an even greater distance between himself and Shannon, who he knew was pissed because she was no longer the center of attention.

  “Shannon, what do you have to say about your co-star employing such tactics to become known?” the man asked.

  She looked at Kendrick, hoping for some indication as to how he would like her to answer the question, but he never met her gaze. Instead he nervously picked lint from his shirt.