Casanegra

by Blair Underwood

  Chela didn’t speak for a while, shifting her weight from leg to leg. “Are you in trouble because of me?” she said.

  I shrugged. “You and a couple other things.” There was a chance that the police had wired my house, I realized. I would be a fool to think otherwise. But nothing I said would prove that I had killed people I hadn’t.Let them listen.

  “Did I hear somebody say Jenk got killed last night?” Chela said.

  I nodded.

  She seemed interested, but not upset. “And they think you did it?”

  “Not for long,” I said. “There’s no evidence.”

  “But Iknow you didn’t. I watched TV all night, so I would have seen you leave.”

  “That’s what I figured,” I said.

  “Then why didn’t you tell them about me to save your ass?” Chela said.

  “Because I haven’t decided the best thing for you yet. I’m still thinking about it.”

  Chela considered that, but didn’t object. She sighed, her voice quiet. “I thought for sure they’d find my ass. When they were moving those bottles…” For the first time, Chela allowed me to see some of the stress of her day on her drawn, tired face. All playfulness had vanished.

  I toured my house, ignoring the misplaced or damaged items, and locked the front door, my glass sliding door, and the door to my garage. Then, I armed the alarm and stuck M.C. Glazer’s gun in the band of my sweatpants. Under the circumstances, my house might be the last place Lorenzo and DeFranco would expect me to stay.

  Chela was still in the kitchen when I got back, draining tap water from an upturned glass. Water dribbled down her chin. The water was running at a full gush in the sink, so I turned it off, hearing my father’s lecture on wastefulness in my head.

  I decided to defrost some steaks. Chela hadn’t had a hot meal all day, and I would think better with something other than grease in my stomach. While the steaks were thawing in the microwave, Chela and I stacked the wine bottles again, handling them with care. Then, she sat on the barstool and watched me as I turned on my broiler. I didn’t have time to marinate the steaks in Italian dressing like I usually would, but I coated them with steak rub. When they were ready, I would melt feta cheese on top for more flavor. Next, a couple of baked potatoes and a salad with Romaine lettuce, dried cranberries, cherry tomatoes, and sunflower seeds.

  Chela’s legs swung from the barstool. She wanted to be near me. I wondered if she had ever met anyone willing to put himself on the line for her.

  “I’m from Minnesota,” Chela said. “Do you think that’s weird?”

  “Why?”

  “How many people have you met from Minnesota?”

  I shrugged. “Not too many.”

  “That’s why it’s weird. Prince lives there, too, even though it’s colder than frozen shit. I lived in Minneapolis with my grandmother—Nana Bessie was from Georgia a long time ago—but she died when I was eleven. My name is Chela Patrice Bryant. Patrice was my mother’s name, but I never knew her.”

  “I never knew my mother either.”

  Chela went quiet, watching me work, her elbows propped on the counter. She had just repaid me with everything she had to offer—a piece of her life—and the house smelled like Sunday dinner. No wonder we were both smiling by the time the food was done.

  TWELVE

  ONCE I HAD A FULL STOMACHand Chela had reclaimed her spot in front of the television set, I called April from the kitchen telephone while I washed dishes. The heavy black 1940s-style phone had a rotary dial, and I don’t think I’d ever lifted it from its cradle. Another one of Alice’s oddities I hadn’t changed.

  April’s relief washed over me in her breath against my ear. “What happened to you? I’ve been trying Lieutenant Nelson, but he hasn’t called me back.”

  “He was busy searching my house.”

  I told her the whole story—well, most of it. I left out Mother, since that’s not a chapter I like to share. I told April that I had heard about the underage prostitute at M.C. Glazer’s house from “a source.”

  “They think you killed a police officer now? That’s insane,” April said.

  “It’s been that kind of week.”

  “I’ve been leaving messages on your cell phone all day,” she said.

  “Then you’re officially a part of evidence.”

  “So much for my new police source,” April said, sighing. “Tyra called for you. She was trying your cell, and she gave up and called me. She wants a call back.”

  Hope stirred, however cautiously. With the holes in Tyra’s alibi and her proximity to Serena’s body, Tyra gave me a queasy feeling. “About Serena?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me anything. But I took her number.”

  I grabbed a pen out of my kitchen drawer. “I’m ready.”

  “Can I give it to you in person? I have something else I want to show you.”

  Always an angle,I thought. April was a master at trading information to her best advantage. I smiled. “Tomorrow. I still owe you lunch.”

  “No, it can’t wait. Tonight. It’s important for you to see it.”

  I didn’t bother asking her what it was, because she wouldn’t give up her leverage. I peeked over at my living room, where Chela was sprawled on my floor. If not for Chela, I would have gone to see April in a heartbeat. “I’m in for the night,” I said. “I feel safer looking after Chela here.”

  “You really think those cops will try to kill you?” She sounded intrigued.

  “I believe in taking people at their word.”

  “Then I’ll come to you, just for a few minutes. Give me your address.”

  I was sure of it now: April was a thrill-seeker. She’d grown up comfortably middle class in a small college town, and she craved an edgy lifestyle. She was a reporter, and but for family pressure would probably have been a cop or a soldier. Silly girl. I needed to send her on her way before she got hurt.

  “You should be more careful about hanging out with double murder suspects,” I said. “For your sake, I’m glad I’m not who they think I am.”

  “Maybe you are,” she said. “Or, maybe you’ll figure out who killed Afrodite while they waste time investigating you. You’ll be happy to know—Dad—that I always tell my roommate where I’m going at night. She knows who to call if I disappear.”

  I felt a prick I didn’t recognize. “Roommate?”

  “A girl.” April’s voice was smiling.

  My next words shocked me. “I’m at 5450 Gleason. Hollywood Hills.”

  Two hours later, at nine-thirty, April knocked at my door.

  “You’re crazy,” I said. I hadn’t really expected her to come. At least not consciously. To busy my mind, I’d spent the hours working out three chess puzzles, and every one of them involved the black queen. Go figure.

  “I’m glad to see you, too,” April said with a sarcastic grin.

  I wondered why I couldn’t look away from her eyes, and then I realized I had never seen her wearing mascara. Her sienna irises jumped out at me, large and bright. She had also taken care in choosing her clothes, wearing tight-fitting jeans and a lacy peach camisole that glowed just right on her gingerbread skin. Her chest size was modest enough to get away with wearing no bra, and between her freed breasts lay a necklace of large brown Hawaiian kukui nut shells, which shone beneath my porch light. She laughed as I gently pulled her into the house, as if she couldn’t believe her own nerve.

  April hadn’t come to my house just to talk about Serena.

  I gazed up and down my street for unfamiliar cars, but I didn’t see any. Still, there are no streetlamps on Gleason, so it was dark except for bubbles of light from front porches and spotlights showcasing spring gardens. I locked the door behind April.

  April looked like a hallucination standing beside Alice’s wood-carved Ghanaian umbrella stand. Some kind of fragrant oil she was wearing made my house smell like gardenias.Nice. I noticed the cute bulb of her nose, her lips brushed with gloss.

  “Wh
ere’s the girl?” April whispered, breaking my silent appraisal.

  “In the living room. She fell asleep.” I gestured for her to follow me.

  On a whim, I grabbed the bottle of Gaja and a corkscrew, and I handed April two wine glasses. It was a three-hundred-dollar bottle of Alice’s I’d been saving, but if I didn’t drink it now, I might not get another chance. I led April to the living room, where Chela was asleep on the sofa with her headphones on. She’d pulled one of my oversized terrycloth bathrobes up to her chin as a blanket, her hair still tied in a ponytail. Without her height to feed the illusion, she was just a birdlike young girl asleep on my sofa.

  April covered her mouth. Her eyes flared with horror.

  I held my finger up to my mouth and motioned again. We went past the stairs, toward the southeast corner of the house. My screening room. It was one of the few rooms that had been left virtually untouched during the police search.

  Alice had entertained often, mostly viewing parties. She delighted in getting copies of films for private viewing before they were available in video stores—Oscar screening copies, often, since she was a member of the Academy—and she invited her actor, artist, dancer, and writer friends to her house to eat popcorn from the traditional popping cart that still stood in the corner. They watched the film du jour on her impressive screen from two rows of four movie-theater-style seats—bright crimson, each with its own cup holder. The room’s walls are lined with autographed eight-by-ten smiling head shots of Alice’s friends. Almost anyone you can think of is on that wall.

  April admired the room only halfheartedly. Her forehead was creased with worry after seeing Chela. “You have to call child welfare, Tennyson.”

  “She said she’ll run away.”

  “You can’t control that. But you should give her a chance to find a family. What are you going to do? Raise her yourself?”

  My face grew hot. I’m not used to answering to anyone, and the question annoyed me. I was sorry I’d told April so much. “Of course not.”

  April took a deep breath, realizing she sounded harsh. She pursed her lips. “Anyway…” she said, softening. “You’ve really invited a lot of chaos into your life.”

  “Yeah.” I popped the cork and let the wine breathe. “I’m not thrilled with some of the decisions I’ve made these past few days. I just…” I sighed. Grief was closer to the surface than I’d thought. “Serena is dead. No one can change that. But they have to get caught. There has to be a…reckoning.”

  “Yes,” April said matter-of-factly. “But maybe less breaking and entering?”

  I laughed ruefully. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Can I get your word on that?” She offered her hand.

  I smiled and shook her hand, and I didn’t let go. I held on for a while. I poured two glasses of wine with my free hand, my left, and didn’t spill a drop. “How much do you know about wine?” I said.

  She smiled, her head inching closer. “Red with beef, white with chicken?”

  “This is Italian, a legendary vintage,” I said. “Flowers and berries.” I raised the glass to the soft berth of her pink bottom lip so she could sip it and watched her face as she closed her eyes. Her smile relaxed. I hadn’t had Gaja with anyone except Alice, who taught me everything I know about wine. I felt her ghost watching us.

  “Mint?” April said.

  “A little aftertaste, yes. Very good. I’m surprised you noticed.”

  She opened her eyes to gaze at me. “It’s amazing,” she said.

  April swam in my eyes for a while, but she pulled her hand away just when I was trying to decide whether to kiss her, contemplating the strength and direction of the currents a kiss might sweep me into. A kiss is never just a kiss, no matter the lyrics say in the song Dooley Wilson sang in Serena’s favorite old movie.

  “I…wanted to show you something, but it might be painful for you,” April said, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a DVD. “A friend of mine works at the studio…”

  “What is it?” I took a healthy swallow of wine. Alice always scolded me for drinking wine like I was taking whiskey shots, but I was thirsty for a warm buzz.

  “Excerpts. Dailies from Afrodite’s last movie, the one she was shooting before she walked off and got sued. I’m writing about it in my follow-up story.”

  I sat up straight. “The movie with Stan Greene?”

  “Exactly. He’s supposed to have Mafia ties, by the way.”

  “I heard that rumor,” I said. “Have you called him?”

  “A dozen times. I don’t think his office will call me back.”

  We traded thoughts so quickly that we might have been sharing one mind. It was a startling feeling, our unexpected partnership.

  “Can you play a DVD in here?” she said.

  I gave her a look.Negro, please.

  The screen is 114 inches tall and nearly 200 inches across, so when I turned off the lights and hitPlay, we were transported into a neighborhood movie theater. April and I sat beside each other in the front row, although I didn’t take her hand this time. We sipped our Gaja and waited for Serena’s face.

  At first, all we saw was jumbled film splices without coherence. No Serena.

  “What was this called?” I asked April.

  “Uptown Moves.Like an urban remake ofPretty Woman.”

  I rolled my eyes. That was predictable.

  An upscale hotel room set appeared.Pretty Woman, all right. Nicolas Cage, wearing business attire, opened a bathroom door and found Serena up to her chin in bubbles, singing while she luxuriated in the bathtub. The sound was uneven because it hadn’t been mixed yet, but Serena’s voice undulated with real power even when she was hardly trying. Why had she been a rapper and not a singer? Her voice was lovely.

  “So…now I know one of your secrets,” he says. “You sing like an angel.”

  Cage said what I was thinking, as if I was talking to Serena through his mouth.

  She shrieks and slips down in the tub, her face disappearing beneath the bubbles. When she sits upright again, bubbles coat her face and hair. “Oh, God—don’t listen to me. I’m so embarrassed. You said your meeting was until five…”

  “I thought you’d be out by the pool drinking mojitos with little umbrellas.” Cage sits at the rim of the tub in his dress slacks. He picks up a dripping sponge and squeezes it above her head. Bubbles run away with the stream, revealing more of her face.

  She smiles, but it’s a hard-won smile, sour in the middle. She covers her chest beneath the mound of bubbles. “It’s too hot outside for anything except a little self-reflection. Sometimes that gives me sunburn.”

  Cage stiffens, slowly lowers the sponge. Awkward silence.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I wasn’t supposed to say…”

  “No, no,” Cage says, and his face brightens. He stands up, gesticulating with sudden energy, like a flagman at a race course. “I mean, YES. Don’t apologize. Yes—you should say whatever you feel. That’s what I’ve always wanted from you. THAT.”

  “What?”

  “Your heart. Your soul. Whatever’s underneath all that smiling and politeness and businesslike, perfunctory—”

  “No…I don’t really think that’s what you want. You like the mask. The mask makes you feel safe and comfortable. Makes you feel important.”

  “That’s not me,” he says. “You know it’s not.”

  “YOU THINK YOU WANT TO KNOW ME?” she says, suddenly screaming. It’s a scream so weighted with pain that it’s a howl. Her face is contorted, ripped in half by pain and fear. “You don’t want to know me. Believe me. YOU DON’T.”

  “My god,” I said. I couldn’t blink, watching Serena command the scene. She’d always worked hard to learn her craft, taking workshops no matter how busy she got recording and touring, but she’d started her lessons late. In her first two movies, she got by on charm, boldness, and name recognition. But this…

  She wasn’t just a star; she was an artist.

 
; April patted my knee, knowing.

  Suddenly, a man’s voice cut through Serena’s triumph, trampling her words:“Cut!” The director’s intrusion was so angry, so disrespectful, that I couldn’t believe he’d witnessed the same Oscar-caliber performance. “What thefuck ? How many times do we have to go through this, Afrodite? Explain to me why we can’t stick to the script!”

  Cage shouted something back at the director. The film sliced away with a beep, and my screen went white. Serena wasn’t in the next scene, just Cage. I cut it off.

  “You can see why she quit,” April said. “I hear the real script was a bunch of stereotypical girlfriend banter. Nothing real like that.”

  My thoughts spilled: “She wasn’t acting in that scene. She and Nick were talking, actor to actor. That role hit her close to home, and she felt like an imposter. Nick was helping her tap her emotions for the scene.”

  One scene had just taught me more about Serena than I’d known in ten years.You were trying so hard, Serena. You wanted to show your true self to the world—and the world would have recognized you no matter what.

  “Well, when Afrodite pulled out, Stan Greene took a financial bath,” April said. “They were coproducers, and she tried to get more control over the script. Since shooting had already started, it was a huge mess involving millions of dollars. He had to be pissed. Anyway…as soon as I saw it, I knew you should see it, too.”

  I glanced at April, almost irritated to be pulled from my thoughts. She seemed smaller than she had before. The sight of her so soon after visiting Serena had shrunken April’s bones. Her cheeks were round where Serena’s jaw had been vivid, and her eyes were missing Serena’s smoke and fire. In that instant, Serena’s absence felt so unjust that I wanted to break something.

  That was when April kissed me. Her wine-sweetened tongue darted into my mouth. But I didn’t kiss back.

  April drew away. I saw her embarrassment in the blood brewing beneath the paper-thin skin on her face. “I’m sorry. Did I…?” She didn’t finish. “It’s the wine.”