Blackbird, Farewell

by Robert Greer

  “It's slipped my mind, I'm afraid.”

  “Of course it has. And has Wordell Epps's name slipped your mind too?” Connie asked, wondering how Alicia planned to deal with the man who'd sent her scurrying up to Fort Collins in fear.

  “On the contrary, I've been thinking about him ever since you burst in here demanding that I help shake him off your leg,” Alicia said, failing to mention that she and Epps had talked twice since he'd ambushed her at her health club the previous day.

  “And your solution is?”

  “I'll have one before you leave.”

  “Good, because Epps has me scared.” Connie picked up another sheaf of papers and began feeding pages into the shredder.

  “You scare too easily, darling. Epps will be no problem. No problem at all.”

  Connie glanced at the woman who'd first introduced her to the world of superjock sports, a world ripe with money, power, out-of-control egos, and prestige. And a world filled with liars, cheaters, sex, and drugs. She realized now that in terms of their sensibilities, upbringing, cunning, and intellect, she and Alicia were miles apart. She should have known that someone who'd come from the primitive, raw, ranching world of eastern Montana, someone who talked with pleasure about stalking and trapping wolves and shooting them as they tried to wriggle free, a person who laughed about putting a bullet in the head of a lame horse, would have no trouble dealing with someone like Epps. “So I should forget about Epps, then?”

  “Yes. Just like you should forget about the papers we're shredding and the money you've earned.”

  “And what do you plan to forget about, Alicia?”

  Phillips tapped the papers she was holding together on the desktop. “I plan to forget about being someone I never intended to be. To forget about having to nuzzle up to lamebrain athletes, lecherous coaches, blind-eyed athletic directors, and provosts and presidents with half my brain. But most of all, I hope to forget about losing an opportunity that will probably never come around again.”

  “We never should've picked Shandell.”

  “And Lincoln never should have gone to the play. Life's a learning process, Constance. The key is to never let the same bad things happen to you again. It's the code I live by.”

  “So since I shouldn't worry about Sergeant Townsend or Wordell Epps, what about Damion Madrid?”

  “Now, him I'd be concerned about. In fact, you just shredded half-a-dozen sheets of paper profiling his type. Maybe I should've had you read those pages. In the end, Epps, and even Townsend, will probably simply go away. Damion Madrid won't. Epps's mission is fueled by self-important vengeance and the glimmer of a career that's long since passed. Townsend is just a flatfoot doing his job. Unfortunately for us, Damion's quest is fueled by a mix of principle, grief, guilt, and the genuine need for the answer to who murdered his friend. And that makes him dangerous.”

  “So how do you expect to rein him in?”

  “I'm not certain, but I will.”

  “Think we might need Asalon?”

  “Maybe. But again, that's not really my territory, is it?” An unmistakable look of jealousy spread across Alicia's face.

  Connie frowned, looking as if she needed to spit out a bad taste.

  “Why the frown, Constance? I only speak the truth.” Alicia's tone was mocking. “Asalon's partial to your kind. Large-breasted, tightwaisted, conniving, and above all submissive, especially when he needs them to be. And fortunately, he'll eat out of your hand. I think maybe you should call him, wet your lips, and purr.”

  “He makes my skin crawl.”

  “But we need him, dearie. So right now, if I were you, I'd get into a better frame of mind. Call the man and let him sniff it. He'll fall in line. And when he's all hardened up and champing at the bit, remind him that we need a little help with our problem.”

  “You think he'll listen?”

  Alicia fed the remaining sheets of paper in her hand into the shredder. “Of course he will. You're his prime cut of meat. His succulent, thoroughly educated, girl-next-door piece of ass.”

  Connie called Asalon an hour later at his Boulder home, fully expecting that he'd have gotten there by 6:30 to take his customary two-hour break from the office before he returned to tally the day's receipts. Craigy Theisman answered, and, knowing that to get through to Asalon she had to kiss up to Craigy, she spent a few moments making nice to a man she expected had used and sold heroin and very likely killed people. Asalon ultimately came on the line, sounding eager and virtually cooing into the phone. “So how goes it, beautiful?”

  “Not as good as it could be.”

  “Well, how about telling Daddy what's the matter?”

  “Alicia's concerned about this Shandell Bird thing, and so am I. She thought I should give you a call.”

  “Why all the uneasiness, sweetness? My sources tell me they buried everybody's Mr. All-American this very day.”

  “Burying him won't stop the murder investigation. Alicia and I spent a good part of the late afternoon purging files, and in case you haven't heard, to make matters worse, Shandell's father was killed this morning.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did hear. Shame.” Asalon drew a deep breath as if he expected somehow to be able to inhale Connie's perfume. “So what can I help you with?”

  “I'm worried that Shandell's teammate Damion Madrid and some washed-out hippie who was a friend of that reporter who was killed are going to cause problems for us.”

  “Wordell Epps, you mean?”

  Surprised that Asalon knew Epps by name, Connie said, “Yes.”

  “Epps has already dropped by. Yesterday, in fact. Quirky little man. He's merely trying to connect dots that can't be connected. I wouldn't worry that beautiful little head of yours over him.”

  “He scares me, Garrett.” Connie's response came out in a near whine.

  “Let me handle Epps and Madrid.” Asalon eyed Theisman, who stood a couple of feet away looking eager to serve. “Any other problems?”

  Connie thought hard before answering. “None other than the fact that although she hides it well, Alicia is close to panic mode over the possibility of losing her reputation and maybe her job because of this Blackbird thing.”

  “Maybe the good professor should've looked before she leaped.”

  Recalling Alicia's caustic similar advice to her, Connie said, “She's a country girl from Montana, Garrett. I don't think she was ever really ready for your kind of prime time.”

  “And you're just a schoolgirl. A schoolgirl with the kind of hidden talents it takes to launch a man's dreams. I want you to come up here to Boulder tonight.”

  “I can't.”

  “Sure you can. I'll send Craigy for you.”

  “I said I can't.”

  Asalon sounded peeved. “Remember what I've told you about denying me before? You don't want to do that.”

  Knowing that Asalon always meant what he said, Connie, who'd been sitting on the edge of her bed dressed only in panties and a bra, exhaled slowly and stood. Her response was a weak “Okay.”

  “Be ready in an hour, and bring your box of sex toys with you…. Did you hear me, sweetness?” Asalon asked when she didn't immediately answer.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Because I need a good fuck. The kind I would expect to get from an NBA superstar's woman,” Asalon said sarcastically, cradling the phone.

  Feeling sorry for herself, Connie walked across her bedroom and stepped into the massive walk-in closet. That closet had been the principal reason she'd leased the condo. It was a closet that she'd expected to fill with clothes—a superstar's woman's clothes. She and Shandell had even talked about how, after he began playing pro ball, she'd have the perfect outfit in which to be seen with him morning, noon, and night. Now that possibility was gone. She wasn't even certain how she'd pay the next month's rent. Her salary at the PR firm she'd been working at for less than two months certainly wouldn't cover it, and she couldn't ask Asalon for the money, although he'd offered. That
would make her a common whore.

  Glancing at herself in the closet's door-mounted, full-length mirror, she shook her head and muttered, “Hell,” as she thought how inexplicably naive she'd been to let Alicia Phillips talk her into latching on to Shandell. It had been Alicia who'd convinced her to relax, set aside her inhibitions, and have the courage to do “a black thing.” Alicia who'd conned her into thinking it would be healthy for her “suburban white-bread” psyche. And Alicia who'd urged her to hang in there with the game plan when Shandell had become so paranoid and fearful of things crashing down on him that he'd talked about killing himself. Alicia was the one whose pants got wet whenever she set foot near a black man, the one who'd had affairs with black athletes during truncated stints at two other universities, and the one the CSU administration had had to warn about purported unhealthy relationships with student athletes.

  Studying her reflection in the mirror, Connie shook her head. She'd let her beauty and her body do the talking for her for most of her life, and what had it gotten her? A life that was now lost, an unwanted affair with a mobster who very likely had had a hand in killing at least one and maybe even two men, alienation from her family, and a boatload of guilt. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, she thought as she turned to search for something to wear that would please Asalon. As always, she knew it would be painful to acquiesce to him, but in the end she had to look out for herself.

  Chapter 20

  The fire Niki had started in the massive river-rock fireplace in the great room of her uncle's mountain cabin was largely uncalled for, given outside temperatures in the mid-40s. Nonetheless, a fire was part of the ritual she and Damion enjoyed whenever they visited the cabin, and since it had been a chilly 57 degrees inside when they'd arrived following a brief detour to nearby Brainard Lake, a fire was roaring.

  Niki thought the side trip to the nearby mountain lake, where Damion and Shandell had honed their fly-fishing skills under the tutelage of CJ Floyd and his friend Billy DeLong, a legendary Wyoming cowboy, had seemed to temporarily soothe Damion's spirit and quiet his grief.

  Barefoot, down on one knee, and dressed in form-fitting jeans and one of Damion's faded CSU athletic department sweatshirts, Niki stabbed at the fire with an antique poker that her uncle had brought with him from Nicaragua twenty years earlier. Spikes of flame rose from a bank of four aromatic piñon logs as Damion, shoeless, dressed in sweatpants and a ratty-looking wool sweater, and seated on a footstool a few feet from Niki, eyed the leggy woman in front of him and wondered how on earth he'd been the one to capture her heart. Rubbing his injured arm, he tapped Niki's thigh with his foot. “Ever thought life is preordained?” he asked as Niki scooted over to him and began massaging the foot.

  “No.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “Not even.”

  “Then you subscribe to the theory that shit just happens?”

  “No. Generally we make shit happen.”

  “Do you think Shandell was responsible for what happened to him?”

  “To answer you honestly, I think he has to bear some of the responsibility.”

  “Why?”

  Niki shook her head. “Sometimes I think you were purposely blind to Shandell's idiosyncrasies, and vice versa. His standoffishness, his absolute love affair with secrecy, his inability to blend in. It's as if the two of you were trying your best to play Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid—Blood and Blackbird against the rest of the evil world, and loving every moment of it.”

  “Could be,” Damion said matter-of-factly. “So what's your take on whether Shandell was actually shaving points and selling drugs?”

  “It hasn't changed since the last time you asked me, Damion. I think there's a good chance he was.”

  “Okay, okay.” There was agitated disbelief in Damion's response. “Let's say he was. Why? There had to be a reason, and it couldn't have been the money.”

  “That's where I think you're wrong. Just because money isn't the holy grail that motivates you, don't think for one second that it isn't a motivator for others.”

  “But Shandell was worth millions.”

  “He wasn't worth millions while the two of you played for CSU. Take off your rose-colored glasses, Damion. How many times did Shandell borrow money from you while we were in school?”

  “So you think being poor is what set him up?”

  “You're putting words in my mouth, but to answer your question, I think there were lots of things that would have made Shandell vulnerable to the performance-enhancing-drug peddlers and game fixers of the world. His shyness, his dependence on you, his ever-present need to prove himself. It's almost as if, his quirkiness and basketball skills aside, he needed to prove that he was just like everyone else. Didn't you find it strange that someone who couldn't afford a pizza our junior year was buying Connie diamond bracelets the next?”

  “Could be some NBA scout helped him out with a loan.”

  “Damion, please. You know Coach Horse wouldn't have allowed that.”

  “Yeah.” Damion looked disappointed as Niki placed his foot back on the floor. “Any more comets falling from the sky you think I missed when it came to Shandell?”

  “Not really. Except that Connie claimed that he wasn't very affectionate. She never elaborated on it, at least not to me.”

  “Talk about kicking a man when he's down.”

  “Maybe, but you have to admit that Shandell was a little bit quirky when it came to women. Running through half the girls in the freshman class our first year, pretty much swearing off them altogether the next, and then after our third year settling in with Connie like some suburban insurance salesman with a mortgage, a dog, two kids, and a station wagon.”

  “It's a little strange, I have to admit. But no stranger than in high school. I don't think that during the first three years he ever had a date. Then our senior year, it was wall-to-wall women.” Damion leaned over, kissed Niki softly on the cheek, and teased a hand beneath her sweatshirt. “But what do you expect? It's hard to find Ms. Perfect.”

  Niki slapped his hand playfully before planting it firmly on his right thigh. “No you don't, Damion Madrid. We're going to air this out once and for all. You're not going to wake me up at three in the morning wanting to talk about Shandell's murder.”

  Pouting, Damion asked, “Think I should have a talk with Connie, then?”

  “I would.”

  “And I should probably talk to Dr. Phillips too,” he added, watching Niki nod in agreement. “When I think back on it, Shandell was in and out of her office a hell of a lot during our NCAA run, and I'm certain that most of their talks dealt with the fact that his father had appeared on the scene out of nowhere. No question, Leon made him uncomfortable. Shandell told me so more than once. Claimed Leon was the kind of person who'd turn on him in a second if it meant a possible payday. Strange that I never met the man face to face until a couple of days ago. I always had the feeling he made certain I didn't.”

  “Yeah. Makes it seem like Leon was either hiding behind a rock all that time or Shandell was hiding him on purpose. What does Aretha say about her and Leon's relationship?”

  “I haven't had a chance to ask her, but Jo Jo Lawson told me at the repast that just last night, Leon and Mrs. B almost came to blows over at the Satire Lounge. Jo Jo said he ended up nearly having to kick Leon's ass.”

  “Think she would've been angry enough to kill him?”

  “If she thought he'd had anything to do with Shandell's murder, absolutely.”

  “Have you said anything to Flora Jean about what Jo Jo told you?”

  “I mentioned it. But Flora Jean's still a little bent out of shape over me running off and trying to play Superman.” Damion eyed his injured arm. “She did mention on the limo ride from the church to the cemetery that Paul Grimes, that newspaper reporter who was killed, has a friend, some leftover hippie named Wordell Epps, who wants to find Shandell's killer as badly as I do. According to Flora Jean, Epps claims that Shandell
was shaving points.”

  “Think this guy Epps might've killed Leon?”

  “Maybe. But I've been told by both Pinkie and Flora Jean to keep my distance.” Looking frustrated, Damion stood and helped Niki up from the floor. “So I am—for the moment. Why don't we take a break? I'm starting to feel like I did a few hours ago.”

  “That's why we're here, Damion. To try and put a little of the sadness behind us. Think I'll make some hot chocolate to help out.” She ran a hand gingerly along the top of Damion's injured arm. “Hurt?”

  “Not at all.”

  “So what's next?”

  “We're going to look at some game tapes.”

  “Do you think they'll help you find out what happened?”

  “I'm not sure.” Damion stepped over to the fireplace and retrieved the poker, prepared to stoke the fire. “Warm enough for you to take off that sweatshirt yet?”

  Niki shook her head. “The word was hot chocolate, not sex, Mr. One-Track Mind. And no, I'm still chilly.”

  Looking disappointed, Damion turned and stoked the fire until flames were once again leaping. When he turned back around to see Niki, sans sweatshirt and bare-breasted, sitting on the footstool he'd vacated, he couldn't help but smile. “Thought you were cold,” he said, moving across the floor toward her on his knees.

  “I am. But I've got someone here to warm me up.”

  “What about the game tapes?”

  “Guess they'll have to wait.” Niki slipped off the footstool and down onto her knees.

  Towering over her and nuzzling her hair, Damion said, “Just remember, I'm injured.”

  As they kissed and collapsed onto the Navajo rug in front of the fireplace, Niki muttered, “I can fix that.” Soon they were making love. There was something, however, about Damion's part in that ritual that seemed to Niki to be tentative, almost unpracticed, and although their bodies melded as always, she could tell Damion's mind was elsewhere. As she sat astride him and slowly worked them both to climax, she knew that the pleasure would quickly take a back seat to Damion's search for his best friend's killer. As she reached her own point of explosion, squeezing her thighs together until they burned, she wanted to stop time, knowing she couldn't. Moments later, as she moved to slip off Damion, experiencing one final deep vaginal postcoital aftershock as she melted into his arms, she wanted to say, “Let's just lie here all night.” But she didn't.