“You think I killed her ’cuz of trash-talking on her CDs? That don’t mean nothing. That’s just more money in everybody’s pocket. Melodrama for the masses.”
“Why’d you hook up with her sister?”
“What?”
“Tyra said she laid down some tracks at your studio Tuesday morning. Funny how that studio is only a couple of blocks from where Serena’s body was found.”
M.C. Glazer’s eyes widened. “I don’t know nothin’ about that. I wasn’t in the studio with Tyra. You know how many projects I’ve got popping? I use studios all over the country. Chicago, New York, Memphis…wherever the music is. I’m gonna put Tyra in my video, too, like a joke. Caricature? Parody? The night they say Afrodite got killed, I was at a party that went until breakfast, and a whole house full of niggas can tell you that, including two of the Lakers. Just ’cuz I hired her sister to do some voice work don’t mean I killed nobody. If you’ve got some questions for Tyra, then you need to be talking to her.”
“But I’m talking to you,” I said. “You knew a lot about Serena’s past. Serena’s business. Maybe she knew too much about yours.”
“I don’t know what you—”
“How many guns are you moving, Glazer? How many rocks?”
Glaze’s face hardened into a wall. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t? You’ve got all those badges on CopKilla’s payroll, so you must like cops. Especially dirty cops. Is that what Jenk does? He helps you stoppretending to be a thug and be one for real?”
“You’re delusional, man. You need professional help.”
I pulled out M.C. Glazer’s cell phone, a stylish Nokia N90 that made my throwaway look like a toy from a bubble-gum dispenser: seven hundred dollars, with a top-notch camera. The first thing I saw when I flipped it open was the photo he’d posed for with Honey at Club Magique. His screensaver, just like he’d vowed.
I aimed the camera and shot a picture of M.C. Glazer bound to the stairs naked, his arms above his head. I held the camera up so he could see the shot: not the best lighting, but his features were clear. I snapped more photos, all from different angles. He turned his head away, trying to hide.
“Can’t you see it on MTV News?” I said. “You know what the headline will be? ‘M.C. Glazer Is a Bitch.’ Will that help sales, too?”
I saved the photos and played with his touchpad, navigating my way through his menus. I sent the pictures to my email address, one by one. Even if he canceled his cell phone account, the photos would still be in my mailbox. Those photos were the only insurance policy I had, and I didn’t want to lose them.
Next, I walked toward Chela and leaned over to show her the screensaver with M.C. Glazer grinning beside Honey. Chela looked away from the camera’s screen, stung. “I’m sorry, Chela, but…shouldn’t that be you? You’re his best girl, right?”
“Shut up. I am.”
“Is that true?” I asked, turning back to Glazer. “Is she your best girl, Alphonse?”
For the first time, Alphonse Terrell Gaines had nothing to say.
“Oh, I get it,” I said. “She’s your best girl, but you have to keep her a secret. The world wouldn’t understand. But once she turns eighteen, it’ll all be different. Maybe you two can even get married. Isn’t that right?”
Chela sought out M.C. Glazer’s eyes, but he was looking away from her, toward the ocean stretching across his windows. Then, Chela looked at me with accusation, as if I’d somehow turned her life against her.
“How old is she, you think?” I said. “I’d say fifteen. But even that’s a little old for you, huh, Alphonse? You’d like fourteen better. Or…thirteen? Is that best of all?”
M.C. Glazer’s lips looked sewn together. His jaw was steel.
“This man is not who you think he is,” I said to Chela, gently this time. I could see that Chela didn’t allow herself to shed many tears, but she was close. “Mother always calls M.C. Glazer when she has young girls. Or did you think you were special? How much money does he save if you cut Mother out?”
Again, Chela looked at Glazer, whose face was unreadable.
I leaned close to Glazer. “I know it all. I know your life story.”
“You think you do.” He didn’t meet my eyes, still staring toward the water.
The cell phone in my hand rang.JENKINS ,ROBERT , said M.C. Glazer’s Caller ID. I didn’t know where Jenk was calling from, but if he was still in the city, it would take him at least an hour to get here, probably much longer with traffic. I shoved the phone in my pocket.
“Maybe we’re finished, maybe we’re not,” I said. “I still don’t know who killed Serena. But I will find out. The next time you see me will be the last time.”
“You got that right.” For the first time, he sounded like M.C. Glazer again.
“Three things: If I start to think you’ve told anybody about today,trust me, it will be my last act on Earth to make sure the whole world sees you like this.”
M.C. Glazer met my gaze, eager for an end to his nightmare. “What else?”
“You say you didn’t kill Serena. Who do you think did?”
“I’m not a damn psychic—”
“Give me your best guess. Do it. Now.” M.C. Glazer sighed and shook his head, exasperated. “Man, I don’t know. Tyra talks a lot of shit about her sister, but would she take it that far? I can’t say that.”
“Anybody else?”
“Wasn’t Afrodite suing some guy in the Mob? That’s what I heard. Maybe Tony Soprano did it. Maybe it was whoever killed Shareef. Hey, maybe it was Santa Claus. I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. What’s the third thing to get rid of you?”
I gestured toward Chela, who was sitting on her hands. She looked cold.
“Look at her,” I said.
M.C. Glazer glanced reluctantly, as if the sight of her would blind him. Chela gazed back at him, and something shifted in her face. One way or another, she was seeing M.C. Glazer with new eyes.
“Don’t ever touch this girl again.”
M.C. Glazer shrugged, his gaze with Chela unbroken. “I never touched that little bitch. She’s just a fan following me around.”
Chela tried not to flinch, but I saw her cheek twinge. It’s hard to be denied to your face. I stayed quiet for a beat, allowing the moment to marinate.
“Touch her again, and it’s over. You’re done.”
Glaze nodded, agreeing. “Now get the hell out of my house.”
“Chela…go upstairs, put on some clothes, and grab your stuff. You have three minutes, starting now. I’m your ride.”
Chela made a dash for the stairs, not looking back at me or Glazer. I figured she would probably call Glaze’s bodyguards once she was alone, but it wouldn’t matter. We would be long gone before anyone got here.
M.C. Glazer and I waited in silence. A Lakers fan to the core, Glaze’s eyes went back to the television and he cursed when Kobe missed a free throw. His cell phone rang in my pocket, but I didn’t even check this time. I knew it was Jenk calling. Or Kojak.
Chela came tramping back down the stairs in two minutes, carrying a heavy duffel bag. She had two coats slung over her arm, one of them leather, one thick with fox fur. I also noticed several gold chains around her neck she hadn’t been wearing before.
“That little freak is robbing me!” M.C. Glazer said.
Chela gave him a slender, manicured middle finger. “You owe me,” she said.
She left, slamming the front door behind her. I almost went after her to tell her to bring back anything that didn’t belong to her, but ultimately didn’t have the will. M.C. Glazerdid owe her, and what he owed was far more than she could carry in two arms. My heart had been racing, and now it was slowing down. I’d come with no plan, and improvised my way through. I was tired, but I was alive. I could hardly believe it.
“Wait,” M.C. Glazer called, anxious. “Somebody’s gonna come looking if I don’t pick up my phone. I don’t want nobody to fi
nd me like this.”
That was a good sign. If he didn’t want his own man to see him tied up, he sure as hell wouldn’t risk allowing my photos to get out. I opened my bag and pulled out my pocketknife. It would take M.C. Glazer a while to fumble his way out of my ropes with such a small blade, but he could to it. I wiped the knife down and slipped it into his bound hand. His fingers grasped it.
“Maybe you can return the favor one day,” I said.
M.C. Glazer glared. “Countin’ the minutes, bruh.”
I shoved his bulky Smith & Wesson into my jeans. I would need it now.
Outside, Chela was waiting in my car, smacking gum. She didn’t speak to me as I climbed in. As soon as the engine was running, she commandeered my radio, filling the car with angry rock music. I backed out of the sandy driveway, and M.C. Glazer’s house vanished.
As I turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway, my eyes were overwhelmed by the beginnings of a sunset that had turned the sky and ocean orange, with dapples of blue and violet exactly where they should be. Chela gazed through the windows as if she was afraid she would never see the sky again. We savored it together.
“You’re taking me back to Mother’s?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Where, then?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I’ll run away from state care. And I can afford a lawyer.”
“I said I don’t know yet.”
Seagulls marched across the sky, almost close enough to touch.
Chela switched the radio station. She found Will Smith’s “Summertime” and let it rest there. Then she sat back in her seat, hiding her face behind sunglasses, and we both bobbed our heads to the music. I’ve always liked that song, but never as much as at that moment. It sounded like happiness. Innocence.
Somehow, it was a beautiful day.
TEN
IT WAS NEARLY DARK BY THE TIMEwe made it back to my neighborhood, and I was so hungry that my head throbbed. I never explained to Chela where we were going, since I had never quite decided. The absence of a decision meant that I ended up pulling into my driveway. I didn’t know anyone in the kid salvation business, and I couldn’t chase Serena’s killer with a teenager in my care. I was ready to be back at 5450 Gleason. To me, the sight of the clay-colored paint on my fortress walls and the familiar forest of cactus plants was a return to a lover’s arms. There is no place like home.
“Nice house,” Chela said. It was all she’d said in ninety minutes.
We trudged inside with her armful of loot from M.C. Glazer and a fragrant pizza from Barone’s I’d ordered from the road. Chela planted herself in front of my TV and started blasting music videos on MTV without a word. My refrigerator was stocked almost exclusively with beer and protein shakes, but I found a hidden can of Coke. She took it without a word, mesmerized by the gyrating bodies on my television screen.
I’d left my business cell phone on my kitchen counter that morning, and the red light was flashing. Twelve messages. I hadn’t checked my PO box in several days either, so I probably had a stack of mail to match. Tomorrow, I decided. I wolfed down a slice of thin-crust pepperoni and checked my voicemail.
The first message was from the production office where I’d auditioned Monday. A callback. I laughed. The part was pretty much Buppie Number Three in Bookstore, but there were six lines of snappy dialogue and it was a big-budget romantic comedy, so I dutifully scribbled down the time they wanted to see me again: noon Monday, in just a few days.If I’m not in jail or dead, I’ll be there. Something to look forward to.
There were four anxious messages from April I ignored, but her fifth had come after I called her last. Two hours ago. She said she was on deadline and asked me to call. I wondered if she would keep her word and leave police suspicions about me out of her story. Would she tarnish Serena’s legacy? I couldn’t imagine enjoying a job where I might casually print things that could change people’s lives for the worse.
I was about to call April back when the next message made me hold my breath. I knew who he was even though he didn’t say his name. It was Jenk.
Jenk sighed into the phone. “You were asking questions about Serena…” His voice dropped off. During his long pause, my mind raced. His tone was calm and measured, so he couldn’t be calling in response to my most recent visit to M.C. Glazer.Could he? “You’re looking in all the wrong places, so step off for your own good. While you’re getting your ass kicked, Serena is still dead and her killer is still free. Who wins? Nobody. You seem like a smart guy: Start acting like it.”
His voice clicked away. I double-checked the time stamp: He had called only five minutes after April, about two hours ago. Jenk’s Caller ID and number were visible, but I decided not to call back. I saved the message. Better not push my luck. Maybe I would call him tomorrow, when I’d have a better idea of how Glaze handled my visit.
It hadn’t been my imagination at Club Magique: Jenk knew something, or he thought he did. Maybe he had called because I was getting too close. But if Jenk was involved in the killing, would he have called me? Not likely.
I played the message twice more, listening to the way his voice rose and fell, where he paused, how he chose his words. What I heard didn’t quite match my assumptions. His sigh at the beginning of the call sounded grieved. His words could have been threatening—step off for your own good—but his tone was carefully neutral. More than anything, it sounded like a courtesy call. A favor. Why would Robert Jenkins want to do me a favor? I might never know. That ship had probably sailed.
My heart drummed as I went through the rest of my messages, expecting a howl of expletives from either Jenk or M.C. Glazer. Nothing. Two messages from Dad’s nursing home—something about a problem with his insurance company and the last bill. One message from my cleaning lady, Elena. One hang-up.
Maybe I would live another night.
“You sound tired,” April said when I called her.
“I am. Long day. Anything new from the police?”
“No. Anything new on your end?”
“No.”
I hoped we weren’t both lying.
“I don’t know what it means yet, but there’s one thing…” April said. “I went by that nightclub, Mackey’s, where Tyra said she was Monday night.”
“And?”
“Tyra’s a regular. That’s true. But the bartender said he hasn’t seen her in a week. He asked around, and nobody else remembered seeing Tyra Monday either. I said maybe it was just too crowded, and he said Tyra’s not the kind of person who blends into a crowd. When she’s there, everybody knows it.”
While I’d been committing a string of felonies against M.C. Glazer, April had learned something that might be important. “That’s good work,” I said.
April’s voice turned teasing. “Now are you sorry you blew me off?”
“Very sorry.”
“And, uh…there’s something else I want to say, Tennyson.”
I braced, silent. Maybe Lieutenant Nelson had given her some news after all. “I’m not going to print what Tyra said about Afrodite’s past.”
I wished she was in the room, so I could hug her. “Thank you,” I said.
“I can’t get confirmation now, the paper’s lawyers will give me a fight, and it’s not worth it. If it’s true, it was a long time ago. She was a kid.” April sighed, and I heard Chela noisily flipping through my channels in the living room. “Besides…I’ve met a friend of Afrodite’s, and he asked me not to print it. Nobody tells me how to write my stories, but…” She was apologizing. I don’t know whether to credit the pizza or the friendly voice, but my headache was gone.
“Thanks, April,” I said. “I owe you lunch.”
She paused. “Make it dinner?”
I almost smiled. Almost. “You’re asking a suspect out on a date?”
“Innocent until proven guilty.”
I couldn’t think of any good that could come to April from dating me. A girl like April would expect a fi
rst date to lead to a second, and then a third. A girl like April would want a boyfriend, someone to hold her hand on the beach, someone she could call when she was depressed and anxious in the midnight hours. I’ve never met a woman who wanted anything less, no matter what she pretended. That wasn’t me.
“Let’s talk tomorrow,” I said, without a yes or no.
“I’ll look forward to it.” Her voice went husky in a sultry way, and I felt a shiver. I was looking forward to talking to her again, too.
I went into the living room and sat on my sofa. Chela was on the floor cradling the pizza box, not six feet from the television screen. My father would have skinned me for sitting that close to the TV, I remembered. Another painful memory to shut away.
Chela and I had to talk, but I still didn’t know what to say. Deep down, I was hoping she would let me off the hook by insisting on going back to Mother’s. The five thousand dollars Mother had waiting for me could make a big difference in my life. And what else could I do with a kid who had vowed to run away from foster care? Besides, she probably already had a record. She might slide straight to juvie, and no good would come from putting Chela in a cage.
I glanced at the fur coats and gleaming pile of gold Chela had left lying on my coffee table and remembered the Smith & Wesson I was still carrying. The last thing I needed was stolen property in my house. I picked up the duffel bag beneath the fur coat, which was heavy with more new acquisitions.
“That’s mine now,” Chela challenged me.
“We can’t leave this out in the open,” I said. “Come with me to the kitchen.”
“Thekitchen ? For what?”
My kitchen has two entrances; one from the foyer with a bar counter near the front door, and one on the side closer to the staircase. Between the kitchen and the stairs, an elegant wooden wine rack stands against the wall with rows of wine bottles Alice left behind. The rack is taller than I am, made from maple but stained a dark mahogany, a striking contrast against the white-brick wall. It’s a work of art in its own right, with fluted molding and rosette appliqués.
It’s also a hidden door. It leads to what Alice always called “The Pantry.”
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