There were no sounds except the steady race of doomed waves to the rocks and the jeering of seagulls. The tranquility filled me with dread instead of peace. Everything around me urged me to turn around and go back to familiar ground. I didn’t belong here. People became mesmerized by places like this.No wonder he brings Chela here.
I tried to recall Chela’s face from Club Magique, but my usual talent for faces deserted me. All I saw was large eyes slathered in mascara and a slender, underdeveloped frame. Except for her youth, Chela had barely registered to me that night. I was risking my life to rescue a girl whose face I could hardly remember. But there was always thatMaybe, dangling right in front of me. Maybe I would learn something about who killed Serena. Serena was the only reason I was there.
I climbed over the fence and felt my shoes sink into the sand. No one was in sight. There weren’t many lights on inside, so I wasn’t sure anyone was home. If there was a car, it must be parked in the detached, vine-covered garage on the far side of the house. I hunched over, taking stealthy steps to keep clear of the staring windows. With late-afternoon sunlight reflecting against the glass, I would be lucky to spot someone inside before he saw me. I hoped he didn’t have a dog.
There was a deck above me, and pale flesh caught my eye. A petite foot dangled over the balcony, and I had no doubt that it was Chela’s. Either she was sunbathing on the deck, or she was lying there for a reason I didn’t want to think about. But I could hear tinny strains of hip-hop music, a persistent beat: Chela was listening to music on headphones with the volume turned way too loud. She probably wasn’t hurt, but even if I shouted out her name, she wouldn’t hear me.
Just as well. Before I made a move, I wanted to know where M.C. Glazer was.
I only had to take three more steps, toward the front door. Through the ceiling-to-floor window, I saw him plain as day, sitting in what looked like a living room with a view of the ocean. He was easy to spot because the room was so spare: white leather sofa and loveseat, mounted plasma TV, and large speakers on either side. M.C. Glazer was sitting in the center of his sofa, his eyes glued to his television screen. He was animated as he talked on his cell phone, so I guessed he was watching the Lakers with a friend on the other end. I was close enough to see the Corona label on his bottle of beer. I could also see almost every corner of that empty room.
So much for privacy.
For a full five minutes, I stood frozen, breathing hard as I watched him watching his game. After three minutes, he hung up his phone. I reminded myself that it could still be too good to be true. Jenk and Kojak might be in the kitchen getting snacks. Or sitting on the toilet, like John Travolta inPulp Fiction. Or maybe Glazer was strapped. That was likely, considering his reputation. My heart thrashed.
How the hell would I pull this off?
I was wearing a fanny pack with just the basics: rope, a small toolkit, a flashlight, and a pocketknife. No gun, unfortunately for me. My Nine was in its box, at home. I don’t have a permit to carry, and haven’t fired a piece since I left the police academy; to me, a gun is just part of the uniform my father used to wear. Besides, my plan was to stayout of prison for killing Serena, not to get arrested for a shooting a major rap star.
I wanted to slap Mother’s face. Or my own. I was acting like somebody who wanted to die.
I gazed up at that dangling foot again. Chela had shifted slightly, almost out of sight. I played with the idea of throwing a pebble to get her attention.And then what? She’ll skip down to meet you and leave happily on your arm? I couldn’t count on that. Maybe she didn’t want to leave. Chela seemed to have made herself comfortable.
No, I had to get to Glazer first.
I flipped open my new disposable phone, my only weapon. Mother had not only gifted me with an address, but divulged M.C. Glazer’s personal cell phone number, the way she contacted him when she had girls she thought he would like. I could only think of one way to get him out of his house, and it felt so flimsy, I almost changed my mind.
Then, I dialed his number.
I heard the ring first in my ear, and then, two seconds later, muted through the window from inside. I saw Glazer look at the Caller ID on his phone, trying to decide whether to pick up. He didn’t recognize the number. The phone rang again.
“Speak,” M.C. Glazer’s voice said, already pissed.
“Yeah, Mr. Gaines? Alphonse Gaines?”
“Who is this?”
“This is Roy from Westwood Auto Body. Sorry to disturb you, but we’re calling to make sure you’re satisfied with the car. We’d like to keep your business, sir.”
“You’ve got two seconds to tell me what you’re talking about. Clock’s ticking.”
“Aren’t you the owner of the car Mr. Jenkins brought in with the scrape across the hood last Tuesday? My guys here damn near cried when they saw it. We just want to see if we matched the paint to your satisfaction.”
“A scrape? On what car?”
I had no idea what cars M.C. Glazer owned. I felt a surge of certainty that his bodyguards were about to fly out of the house and hunt me down, but he couldn’t hear it in my voice. My voice was a guy sitting calmly at a cubicle at Westwood Auto Body with a Diet Coke in his hand, making his last calls of the day. “You know what, Mr. Gaines? They just give me the names and numbers—”
“Whobrought my car in?” Suddenly, M.C. Glazer was on his feet. “And who gave you this fucking number?”
“Mr. Robert Jenkins signed the paperwork, and your number’s here on the invoice. Wow. I’m looking at the total. Holy moly. But he wanted us to get the job done right for you. He said it’s your favorite car.”
There was a long silence. “The Lex?” he said, and I held my breath.
He’s bought it.
“Can you hold while I check back with the guys who worked on your car?” I said.
“Naw, I don’t want to—”
“It’ll just take a second. Hold on, sir.” And I clicked off my phone.
M.C. Glazer moved faster than I thought he would, so fast that I had to sprint around the side of the house to keep up with him. He wasn’t going to wait for Westwood Auto Body to come back to the line. And he didn’t try to contact Jenk, either by phone or by yelling for him. M.C. Glazer was headed for the back of the house—the garage. My story must have had more than a whisper of plausibility. Even someone with luck as bad as mine has to catch a break once in a while.
The back door flung open too soon, surprising me in midstride. I jumped backward, ducking behind the house, and M.C. Glazer walked past without seeing me, pointing a remote toward the garage. I considered everything I saw near me as a weapon, even the clay flowerpots. A garden hose. A bird bath too heavy to move. A child’s sand bucket. Nothing.Shit.
Six steps took M.C. Glazer to his garage. As the door hurried upward, I saw a glimpse of chrome gleaming in the darkness. A Lexus convertible. Silver. No wonder he wanted to check on her.
“Jenk betternot have fucked up my Lex…” M.C. Glazer was muttering.
Should I slip inside the house, or take M.C. Glazer out first? Wait to jump him from inside, or follow him into the garage? Possibilities swam in my head. I had to make up my mind fast, and I did.Get in the house. I glanced back at M.C. Glazer, who was leaning over the hood of the Lexus with a powerful flashlight. Then, I trotted up three coral steps to the back door and slipped inside.
I found myself in the L-shaped kitchen, with its Mexican floor tiles and granite counters. The sound of the jeering crowd from the Lakers game told me where the living room was. The kitchen was spotless except for piles of Chinese takeout cartons on the counter. I glanced around anxiously, looking for a weapon again. A row of knives gleamed at me from a cutlery set, but I ignored them. If the only way I could subdue M.C. Glazer was with a knife, then I was in more trouble than I thought.
The cold realization came: I didn’t have a plan. I was a natural at improvisation on a stage, but this was different. A mistake now could cost me my life.
<
br /> I had to hide myself and wait, so I stood in the deep corner alongside the door frame. The door would open inward, so I would be hidden. I had to subdue M.C. Glazer as soon as he walked in, or I might not have another chance. He knew his house better than I did; if he saw me, he could vanish, and I could be trapped.
I waited, breathing harder than I wanted to. The house had an open floor plan, so I could see the living room’s winding staircase from where I stood; Chela couldn’t miss me if she came downstairs. One minute passed. Two. The kitchen seemed hot, suddenly. Sweat stung my eyes, but I didn’t dare move.
“…five minutes ago,” I heard M.C. Glazer say outside, on his phone again. Was he getting closer? “Westwood or something. Then how’d they get this number, man?”
His voice sounded muffled for a moment. Then, he was only a couple of feet from me, right outside the back door. “Yeah, I’m serious. I’m in Laguna watching the game, and this fool calls…” The doorknob turned.
The door swung open, farther back than I’d expected. The doorknob jabbed me, and I shrank back so it would open unobstructed. Holding my breath.
“…I was thinking it’s that Kutcher bitch onPunk’d or somebody fucking with—”
When the back door closed again, M.C. Glazer and I were face to face in his kitchen. He froze, his mouth open in the O of an unfinished sentence. Only his right hand moved, fishing toward the back of his jeans. I rammed the point of his jaw with the heel of my hand, hard enough to loosen teeth. Glazer’s head snapped back. As the shock scrambled his brain’s switchboard I slid behind him, snaking my arm around his throat, my wrist bone constricting his carotid arteries in the classic blood strangle Brazilians call“mata leão,” meaningto kill the lion. Performed properly, it renders a man unconscious in seconds. Glazer thrashed and bucked…and went limp.
His phone clattered beside him on the tile.“Glaze? Glaze…?” I heard the voice on the other end of the phone growing alarmed.
I dropped M.C. Glazer and grabbed the phone, hardly thinking. “Yo, man, call you after the game,” I said from my throat, hoping my imitation was credible enough for one sentence. I hung up the phone and waited. It didn’t ring right away. I must have fooled him, I thought.Either that, or Jenk is on his way here with backup.
I wasn’t winded, but I couldn’t help panting. I felt dizzy. Superstar rapper M.C. Glazer was lying unconscious on his kitchen floor, drooling blood from a bitten lip, and I had no idea what I was doing there. This was not the way I lived my life.
His face was slack on the floor, but I heard his voice:Yeah, I killed her. Suddenly, it took all of my willpower not to stomp him until my anger dissolved in his blood. I wanted him to hurt, badly. I knelt and patted down M.C. Glazer, and my palm touched something solid against his lower back. When I pulled up his basketball jersey, I saw another kind of chrome gleaming, and yanked out the gun fast: A Smith & Wesson .44. My heart tumbled. He’d been going for his gun. I felt Death blow on my face like hot wind from a speeding train. I stepped away from Glaze, leveling the gun at him in case he might roll over and try to fight for it. But he was out cold, like a college kid passed out on his frat house floor. I glanced behind me, toward the living room. That stairway caught my eye again. The railings looked solid. That would be a good place to tie him.
But first, I had to strip M.C. Glazer of both his defenses and his dignity. His clothes were coming off. Everything.
I had almost finished my last knot, with Glazer slumped nude over my shoulder as I tied his hands in front of him to the banister in the living room, when I heard footsteps above me. I looked up. Chela was on the top landing staring down. Her hair was damp, hanging lifeless across her shoulders, and she was oily and red from the sun. Her bikini only showed how much growing her body still had to do. The sight of her made me feel sick to my stomach.
Slowly, Chela pulled off her headphones. Her eyes widened, focused on the gun I hadn’t realized I was pointing at her. I snapped the gun toward the window instead.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You are inso much trouble,” Chela said, twirling her curls around her finger as she took a step down the stairs. She sounded like the perfect schoolyard tattletale.
“I hope you like it in prison,” Chela said.
“Quiet, please.”
“But forget prison, since his guys are going to kill you. Just so you know.”
“I said quiet. Please.”
“You better hurry and get the hell down to Mexico. For real.”
Chela stood beside me like a bystander at the scene of a car accident, and she hadn’t stopped talking. Everything she said was already in my mind anyway. This was insane.
The duct tape in my hands squealed as I yanked off the last piece to tie M.C. Glazer’s feet together, binding him to the legs of his dining chair while his hands were still strung above his head. He was breathing faster now, eyelids fluttering, about to wake. But with his hands firmly knotted to the staircase and his feet tied to a chair, M.C. Glazer wasn’t going anywhere unless I said so. One problem solved.
“Let me explain the rules, Chela,” I said, waving the .44 to get her attention. “I do the talking for both of us. The only time I want to hearyou is when and if I ask a question. Then, all I want to hear is the answer. If you don’t understand that, there’s plenty of tape left for you and your mouth. Nod if you understand.”
She rolled her eyes, sucked her teeth, and nodded, staring daggers.
“Mother said you didn’t call on schedule. Why not?”
Chela’s eyes dropped quickly. She didn’t have to answer.
“Oh,” I said. “So you decided you liked it here and didn’t want to leave.”
“She can’t tell me where to go.”
“Hey,”I roared, and my anger was real. “What did I just say? You answer my questions, and that’s all I hear from you.”
“I’m staying here with Glaze.”
I gestured toward M.C. Glazer, whose head shifted slightly as he fought for consciousness. His bloody lips twitched as he groaned softly. “Oh, I see. You’ll stay here and be mistress of the manor. This isyour house now. That right?”
“He said I can stay as long as I want.”
“Forever, maybe. Is that what he said?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“And you believe that bull, Chela? I’m surprised at you. What happens when you’re too old for him? What happens next week, when he wants somebody else?”
“He said he won’t. He loves me. Get it?”
I laughed a sour laugh. “Oh, I get it. I don’t think you do, sweetheart.”
M.C. Glazer’s groan rumbled more loudly from his throat. The harsh rasping sound became words. “Don’t…say nothin’, Chela.”
“Don’t worry, Glaze. I won’t.” She gave me a triumphant grin:Now what?
M.C. Glazer blinked fast, trying to clear the clouds from his eyes. “You,” he said.
I pulled up a dining chair and turned it backward to sit in front of him, my arms folded across the chair back. The .44 was still in my hand. My finger was so tense on the live trigger, I didn’t dare point it in his direction. “That’s right, asshole. Me.”
“When I saw you…I thought you were…police.”
“Maybe you’ll wish I was, man. Time will tell.” I clocked the side of his jaw with my elbow, enough to rattle his teeth, let him know the pain wasn’t over yet. I needed him talking.
“Fuck!”he yelled, struggling against his binds. The chair scooted on the tile as he spat stringy blood out of his mouth. The pain panicked him. M.C. Glazer was used to other people fighting for him. He also noticed that he wasn’t wearing any clothes. He squeezed his thighs together, trying to hide his genitals. As for what I saw down there, let’s just say that I recalled Afrodite’s lyrics:M.C. Glazer ain’t no ladykilla…he might penetrate, but he’ll never fill ya…
Movement flickered in my peripheral vision, and I shot a look at Chela
. She was taking snail-like steps toward the kitchen, already five yards from where she’d been. “Go over to that sofa and sit down,” I said, and the look on my face made her obey.
“OK, man, you got me,” M.C. Glazer said, gasping. “What do you want?”
I leaned in, nose to nose with him, and he couldn’t mask the terror in his eyes. “You tell me,” I said. “What do I want?”
He tried to scoot away again, but his chair was trapped against the staircase. He pressed his face against the stair, smearing blood on the paint. “If it’s m-money, I got that. I pay you to keep quiet? Tell me how much, man. Just leave me alone.”
“Money doesn’t fix everything…Alphonse,” I said, drawing out his name.
“Thenwhat ?” He sounded more scared now. If I wasn’t after money, I might be a psycho, and only God knew what a psycho might do to a naked man.
“Who killed Serena Johnston?” A whisper.
M.C. Glazer’s body sagged, suddenly weary. “Oh, man…you’re back on that?”
“I never gotoff that. I was interrupted.”
“What you want me to say? I’m sorry she’s dead? OK, I’m sorry. She was goin’ places, cut down in her prime, the very definition of tragedy. We cool now?”
“Who killed her?”
“How the fuck would I know?”
This time, I hit him in the stomach. I didn’t want to leave bruises.
“You told me you killed her, Alphonse.”
M.C. Glazer gasped, heaving to untangle his diaphragm. “Wait. I just said that to mess with your head, man—some cold shit to say in front of my boys, you know? I ain’t never killed nobody. Why would I kill Afrodite?”
“I’m calling the police,” Chela said. For the first time, she sounded nervous.
“You go on and do that,” I said, not even looking back at her.
“No. Wait,” M.C. Glazer said. “No need for no police, girl. Just chill.”
“You heard the man, Chela,” I said.
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