by A. R. Case
“You look nice. Were you going somewhere?”
“Silly you. I thought we’d go to a club. I brought my makeup so I could freshen up.”
Sure enough, the large-small Gucci bag was on the floor by the door. He moved it out of the hallway and into the small bathroom. His bedroom had a master bathroom with two parts, but he wasn’t going to assume Vi wanted it there. She’d thrown a fit at least once about that. It didn’t stop her from planting a tube of lipstick in his medicine cabinet, though.
“I don’t want to go out. That was the whole point of the rental.” He was beginning to regret coming home.
“Oh come on, you want to go out. It’s your birthday. You celebrate.”
“Maybe I want to celebrate at home.” Where it’s quiet, he thought.
“Then I’ll call some friends, we’ll have a party here.”
“No, don’t bother.”
“It won’t be any trouble. Sean and Jill didn’t have plans to go to Chi’s party, you know he wasn’t invited, poor thing. And Natasha is back from her boyfriend’s, so she’s free.” She started texting.
“I don’t want a party.”
“Of course you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then why did you invite me over?” Her bottom lip poked out. It wasn’t the least bit cute anymore.
“I didn’t. You invited yourself. I thought you…oh never mind. If you’re not going to stay here, alone, with me, alone, then you can leave.”
“You’re being weird, Chris.”
“Ya think?”
“Yes, weird and rude. I just got here and you’re kicking me out.”
“If you’re staying then do, just don’t invite your friends over. I’m not having a party.”
“You’re not having it, I am. You know, for your birthday?” She coaxed.
The buzzer from the lobby interrupted Chris’s answer. He answered it in order to break the circle this conversation was going in. “Can I help you?”
“Hi, Chris DeSantos, Agent Mills. Remember me?”
“Been a bit.” Mills wasn’t his favorite person, but he’d helped his brother out. That put him on the same side, he guessed.
“May I and an officer from Longport talk to you?”
Longport was where the rental was located. He glanced at Vi, who was texting someone. “Sure.”
“Chris, we were talking.” Vi had interrupted her typing to glare at him.
He deliberately buzzed the officers up, and her glare went to a frown.
“No party. Whoever you’re texting, tell them that.”
“But Chris, we could cater a mini crepe bar and tell everyone to bring their own alcohol.”
It was his turn to glare at her. “A mini crepe bar? No.”
His condo was on the fourth floor, so the telltale ding of the elevator had him opening the door. Sure enough, Mills and a heavy-set guy in an ugly brown coat stepped out.
“Over here.” He motioned them inside.
Vi threw on her gracious hostess face and fussed about, offering them coffee or a drink, which they declined.
“Everything okay with the rental?” Chris asked.
“Not really, a boat crashed into the dock.”
“I was kidding, seriously?” He looked back and forth from Mills to the other guy, then a light bulb went off in his head. Mills wouldn’t be here if it was as simple as a reckless boater. “Why are you here, Mills?”
He smiled. “Remember Conrad Whitehead?”
Chris remembered Whitehead very well. “Do I need my lawyer?”
“You might.” Mills replied. The other guy was asking Vianne her name, which she helpfully supplied.
Then the bombshell hit. But like those wonky ones in WW2, it didn’t explode right away. “How did you enjoy the house Chris rented?” the detective asked her.
“I didn’t go,” Vianne replied.
“No? So Chris went there alone?”
“Of course, he was in an evil mood last night.”
“Is that true, Mr. DeSantos? Did you go to the rental alone?”
Chris wanted to kill Vi.
Mills looked at Chris. “Call your lawyer.”
“Chris, what’s this about?” Vi’s question echoed in his head.
Somewhere deep in the recesses of a past life which didn’t care about society or money but did care a lot about freedom, a mad man resurrected and answered. “I went there alone but picked up a girl. She can vouch for me up until about one p.m. today when I dropped her off.”
“You. Did. What?” Vi’s voice shifted from light and sweet to a shrill acid-dripping fire alarm pitch that shrivels a man’s balls. In his head, Chris imagined the top of her head blowing off and the explosion wiping out half the Jersey coast.
In reality, he calmly answered, “I picked up a girl who was walking along the road. I don’t know her last name or much about her. I spent the night with her and it was a hell of a lot more fun than any birthday bash or mini crepe bar extravaganza you could possibly arrange on short notice.”
In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t have brought the mini crepes into play. Before everything finally quieted, and it was just him and Daniel Mills sitting on the barstools of his kitchen island, Vi had been threatened with arrest. Chris had a long scratch on one arm. Detective Katz from Longport called the local police and Vi was escorted from the building. The detective helped the local team remove her and her luggage. She wasn’t escorted in handcuffs, however, which would have made Chris go to the balcony to watch, but she was escorted all the same. All the way out, he was loudly accused of cheating on her, picking up prostitutes, and numerous other things that made at least one of his neighbors on the floor poke her head out to find out what was going on.
“So, that’s your girlfriend?” Mills accepted his offer of a bottle of root beer and took a long swig.
“Was, I hope.” In his head, he recalculated how to cut costs on the casino install so he could save the account.
“Tell me about this mystery girl.”
“You mind if I get my laptop?” Chris asked, hesitating.
“Sure, we’re just talking here. There isn’t enough evidence for any kind of arrest yet, so feel free.”
His nonchalance didn’t put Chris’s mind at ease. He got the laptop from the little coffee table next to his chair and pulled up a search engine. “The only thing I know about her is she wants to be a singer. It looked like she might have been at a show.” He typed “Alexis” then “singer” and finally “Atlantic City.” To his surprise, the search had several hits, including videos and images. He went to the image search tab and there she was, in vibrant color. In the top photo, the blue was a lot lighter, almost blonde, but it was her, ripped lace stockings and all. Living color, with a last name and several social media links. “That’s her, Alexis Canens.”
“Cute. Not your usual type.” Mills swung a thumb toward the door.
“Yeah. Which is why nothing happened. We talked, shared the food I got to impress the banshee, and went to sleep. That’s it. When the snowplows came through, we cleaned up, packed our things, and left. I dropped her off at…” he paused and pulled out his phone, retrieving the address Alexis had given him,”…here.”
Mills didn’t write it down.
“You going to write this down?”
“Nope. You might want to save the information, but it’s not my case. I’m just riding along.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
Chris stared down at his phone. He had an address and website hits, including social media. Alexis wasn’t exactly secretive online. In fact, one of the images was from a public account. He clicked on it. She blogged and posted videos. It listed her band’s name and several upcoming appearances.
“If I lawyer up, will it look bad?”
“Gee, thanks.”
Unfortunately, Detective Katz from Longport wasn’t as convinced as Mills.
Chapter 5 — The Cave
Chris disconnected the call. It was the fourth message he’d left with the law firm he used. This was the third time in twenty-five years he’d had to use a law firm for advice on criminal matters. Twice in the last two years. He’d convinced the detective from Longport he’d come in on Monday for a full statement. But he wasn’t going to go in there without a lawyer, and he hoped, Alexis. Now the trouble was, where was she? The diner he’d dropped her off at knew who he was talking about when he asked for the girl with the blue hair, but other than that, they weren’t helpful. She came in at least twice a week. As far as other information, other than being a nice customer, nada. No one knew more than he did. She was a musician. Sometimes the entire band dropped in, sometimes she’d come alone. There wasn’t a set schedule, they didn’t know the name of the band, or where she lived, or where she worked. He’d hoped the diner had been her place of employment. It would have been something to give the police so they could track her down.
Mills wasn’t helpful either, that asshole. He had the whole strength and breadth of the FBI database at his fingertips and could probably tell Chris where she had last bought groceries, but since it wasn’t his case, he found the entire thing funny.
It wasn’t funny. Chris worked hard to distance himself from the past. This shit with Whitehead wasn’t connected to him at all, and it seemed the universe was conspiring to frame him for murder.
What he wasn’t going to do was take this lying down. He had Alexis’s Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and YouTube accounts. There was a message to her on each one. He didn’t care if he looked like a crazy stalker, this shit was serious.
So serious, for the first time in at least twenty years, Chris was going to walk into a bar that claimed to be the best underground source for local music. Also on the web page was mention of summer bike rallies. While there wouldn’t be any rallies going on now, it stood out to him. There was a time long ago when Chris sought those out. At eighteen and nineteen, with a prospect patch and family who were full outlaw, he drank at every one. It didn’t matter he was underage. All that mattered was the wide path the jackets and reputation cleared. Once he left the life, places like these were off his radar.
Just like the place itself.
The GPS wasn’t much help. The second circle around the block, Chris spotted a sign. The burned-out neon light hung over what looked like a basement egress. He parked the Mercedes toward the back of the closest lit lot and walked closer to inspect it.
Sure enough, the Cave was at least partially underground, making the web page’s claim literal. The music was loud enough to reverberate through his shoes. He braced himself for the onslaught and opened the door.
A wall of sound hit him. It distracted him, and the bouncer at the door grabbed him as he walked by.
“Cover is five bucks.”
Chris dug out his wallet and handed off the money. The bouncer grabbed his hand and stamped an ugly black smear on the back of it.
He looked down in partial disbelief. Higher-end clubs used UV or wristbands. Some clubs just knew if you belonged or didn’t. Even in his late teen years, underage, the jacket or the company had gotten him in. Getting smeared with ink was foreign.
“Uh, thanks.” He looked up at the bouncer, who had dismissed him. That too was foreign. Usually, he was reviewed, the clothes he had on cataloged, and put into a mental file that spoke of his power or his value, or lack of either. Here though, he was just another nobody.
It shook him. The vulnerability seeped in as he made his way closer to the music. On a low stage, a group of people looked like they were enjoying what they considered a performance. Alexis wasn’t one of them. Chris weaved through the warren of progressively more claustrophobic and lower-ceilinged rooms.
He caught a flash of blue hair disappearing around a corner. He followed. It was a back hallway or storage. Boxes and clutter obstructed most of the path. He heard her voice.
“Dylan, it’s just one night.”
“Bullshit,” a male voice answered, “you’re a leech. I told you last night, I’m done.”
“Dude, we haven’t found a replacement singer yet.”
“Shut up. We’ll get one,” the first man responded.
There was another mumbled reply. Chris slipped through a door that was half-propped open by a microphone stand jammed under the weather stripping. Alexis had her bag in hand and there was a ripped garbage bag and clothes strewn on the ground. She looked tired and was still in the clothes she wore when he had dropped her off hours ago, right down to his coat. There were three guys in the alley with her.
“Hey, you’re not allowed back here,” one of the guys yelled at Chris.
“Bands only, dude,” the second male added.
Dylan had his back to the door Chris had exited but spun around at the same time Alexis spoke. “Chris? What are you doing here?”
“Do you know this tool?” Dylan asked.
“Go fuck yourself, Dylan,” she replied.
“Is this who you’re sleeping around with that you don’t want me?”
“Again, Dylan, go, fuck, yourself.” She pushed the stray clothes into the remnants of the bag and tied off some of the gaps. Some of the items she crammed into her already bulging duffel bag.
Dylan rounded on Chris. “You heard Bill, band only. Get the fuck out of here.”
“Alexis, you okay?” Chris ignored Dylan.
She straightened with all the bearing of a queen. “I’m fine. Did you bring the Mercedes?”
“It’s about three blocks over.”
“Would you mind bringing it around?” She almost had all the holes tied off, but another section of the bag ripped from the strain and the contents spilled out again. “Shit.”
Chris stepped in to help her collect the clothing. He snagged a bright pink thong from the pile and added it to the pile he had building up in his arms. “I’ll help you with this first.”
She looked up, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, “Go get the car. Please?” She whispered the very last word so the guys standing around couldn’t here.
“You going to be okay while I do?” he asked almost as quietly. That didn’t stop him from being heard.
Dylan grabbed his shoulder. “You fucking her?” He pulled backward.
Chris hadn’t fought since he was nineteen, but his entire youth was a series of gradually more dangerous bouts. First with his brother, who, despite being younger, could hit like a mule, and then as a prospect working to get his patch by twenty, with men who didn’t care what broke. His father had been the worst. There was no familial mercy. If anything, the bond between father and son had to be beaten apart and reformed as President and prospect. That said, it was instinct that pushed his left foot back into a bracing position, then the crouch turned into a pivot, the pivot turned into a punch that came up and through Dylan’s chin.
The musician was damn lucky there was a tangle of clothes between his flesh and Chris’s fist. As it was, the hit drove him into the wall. As he pancaked into the bricks, the lights went out in his eyes, and then his eyes rolled back into his head. Dylan crumpled into a heap, followed by a pile of black clothes and neon underwear.
“Dude!”
“Whoa, man, we don’t have a problem with you. Chill, okay?”
Both men were ignored. Chris turned to Alexis. “Sorry about that. You sure you’ll be okay for now?”
She smiled. Instead of answering him, she turned to the other two guys. “Bill? Jay? This is Chris. He’s my friend.
” She included Chris in her introductions. “Chris, this is Bill and Jay, my guitarist and keyboardist. That,” she pointed to the ground where Dylan was out cold, “is Dylan. He’s a bassist, but you shouldn’t hold that against him. Being an asshole, however, is a thing you can hold against him.”
Jay snickered. Bill just blinked and said, “Dude, you like dropped him with one punch. What the fuck are you?”
Chris didn’t answer. “I’ll get the car.”
The night got stranger from there. Alexis stored her things in the trunk and backseat of Chris’s car, then she led him back into the bar. He sat at a table with Bill, Jay, and a seething Dylan. Alexis got a towel with ice for Dylan’s jaw. Then she retold an amazing story about their weekend, lying about almost everything. She did, however, let slip that Dylan dumped her off in a snowbank after their gig was canceled, ending her statement with a glare directed at the bassist. But drinks were delivered, and even Dylan’s mood lifted. The guys took turns sitting in on songs with the band on stage. Alexis sang too.
“That’s one of her originals.” Jay pointed out to Chris.
“She’s good.”
Jay said something that started with “she sounds just like” and ended with “without the drugs that is.”
Chris nodded because it seemed like the thing to do even though he hadn’t caught the name Jay dropped. Alexis had a large range. It dug from raspy contralto to solid soprano. But the style was all Rock and Roll. The song shifted to a quiet ballad. The band backing her up played a simple blues riff, but the power behind her whispered lyrics still echoed in the club.
“Cool. I haven’t heard this one in a while.” Bill sat down on the other side of Chris, boxing him in. He didn’t like it much, but it seemed to be almost sacrilegious to interrupt his attention to Alexis to say something. Luckily, Bill got back up again. “I gotta shred.” He pushed through the crowd to get back up on stage. He jumped in on the chorus, then took over with a fierce solo that pushed harder when Alexis joined back in for the last verse. They blended together and the band on stage picked up the tempo to match.
When they ended, Dylan landed back at the table with yet another drink. He whistled and clapped along with the rest of the crowd but scowled into his glass when Jay commented that they should pick that one up in their set.