Offside Trap Page 14
“What the hell is this, man?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
He glared at Buzz and waved the bag in the air. “What the hell you thinking, bringing this clown onto my turf with this stuff?”
“Hey pal, I just want to know —“
“You a cop?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
“Bad shirt, bad attitude. Yo, I think you do.”
Touché.
“I’m not a cop. I’m a PI.”
“You bring this trash onto my turf, and you think you just gonna walk out of here?”
“Listen, Tang.”
“It’s Cool-aid.”
“Whatever. I’m not here to mess you around. But I need to know about that tablet.”
“What, I look like Wikipedia.” And so into the twenty-first century we jumped.
“No. You look like Shaggy from Starsky and Hutch. But I don’t care. You see, I know a kid. Good kid. Took some of that stuff. Now he’s dead. I know it’s not your stuff. And I don’t bring it here to disrespect you. But I need to know whose stuff it is.”
Cool-aid stared me down. He wasn’t good at it. He didn’t have the attention span for it. But I was under no illusion that he was a nasty piece of work who would kill me and bury me under the cricket ground down the road, before I could hum the Hawaii Five-O theme.
“What makes you think I give a damn, man.”
“Because here’s how it is. I know people. People from New York type people. Italian. I have been tasked with one job, and that job has one word. Payback. Someone is going down. And to be clear, when I say down, I mean all the way. Their business, their house, the whole enchilada. If I don’t finish the job, if for example, I don’t take out the house, someone else will take my place until the house is gone. You see what I’m saying? It never ends. So the only question is who goes down? The guy who is responsible for this junk, or the guy currently holding it.” I gave him my impassive pitcher staring down the batter face. I’m told it’s pretty effective. I breathed deep to hold my form. Cool-aid looked at me, assessing my story and running it through his BS meter. In the end he must have figured there was lots of downside in not talking, and lots of upside in telling me what I wanted to know. He shrugged like he didn’t care either way.
“Whatever, man. Stuff’s called Maxx. I know it. The white kids love it. It belongs to a cat called Pistachio.”
“Pistachio? Jesus, where do you get these names?”
“He got a fancy office on Brickell,” he said, ignoring me.
“Brickell?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Thanks.” I put my hands out and he threw the baggy back to me. I nodded to Buzz and we headed for the door.
“Hey, man,” said Cool-aid. I turned to him.
“You don’t want to mess with Pistachio. The man, he be mean. I talking real mean. Those things you said you’d do? He’ll actually do them.”
“I appreciate the heads up.”
“And, man? You a PI. I helped you out. Maybe someday you do something for me.” I took a card out of my wallet, and tossed it on the chair next to me, and then I walked out. Bedfellows are often strange. We stepped into the small corridor and the linebacker stepped into the room. Buzz fell back against the wall. He took a sip of his rye whiskey.
“Brother, I was seconds away from soiling my good trousers.” He took a long breath. “You really work for the Mafia?”
“No,” I said.
“But you know some.”
“Not really. Just Sally.”
Buzz smiled. In the dim corridor I could see his mouth full of teeth.
“Man, you made that stuff up?” He let out a low whistle. “You are one cool cat.”
I leaned across the corridor and grabbed the half glass of rye from Buzz’s grip. I threw it back in one gulp.
“Yeah, I’m a regular iceman. Let me buy you another one.”
As we walked back to the bar, I noticed the band making their way back toward the stage. Buzz held up two fingers to the bartender.
“Cool-aid do a lot of business here?”
Buzz shook his head. “No, man. This crowd ain’t into that. Cool-aid comes here for the cred. Like white folks go to the opera.” The bartender gave us a rye whiskey each, and Buzz headed back on stage. I returned to my lovely lady, who was into a daiquiri the color of a tree frog. She sniffed my drink.
“Rye?” She frowned.
I don’t like rye whiskey. I don’t like the taste of NyQuil either, but I still take it when necessary. The band played two more sets and Danielle got as jolly as a fat man in a red suit. The vibe was grand and the mood was easy. I slowed up on the drinks to ensure safe passage home. I wasn’t the only one. These were smart, happy people, and I enjoyed them immensely. After the final set I thanked Buzz and he told me to practice my scales. Danielle got a hug from every woman in the place. The men had the good grace to be furtive in their looks at her. I didn’t. I couldn’t take my eyes off that dress. We walked to the car and as I fished out my keys she leaned into me and gave me a wet, fruity kiss. I helped her in the car and then slipped in myself.
“Home, James,” she giggled.
Then my phone rang. It was Angel.
“Miami? Sorry, I know it’s late.”
“What can I do for you, Angel?”
“My roommate said you came by Friday.”
“I did.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“I’ll drop by tomorrow.”
“I really need to see you. Can you come over now?”
“Like you said, it’s late.”
“Please, Miami? It’s a matter of life or death.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
WE WERE AT Angel’s dorm in ten minutes. Danielle said she would wait in the car, and I didn’t dissuade her. I knocked on Angel’s door, and she answered wearing a gray Panthers soccer T-shirt and tight red shorts. She had a Bud in her hand.
“Hi.” She smiled.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure, come in.” She brushed my arm with her hand and turned back into her dorm. I closed the door. The living area was empty. Perhaps her roommates were in bed. It was late and bed was where I wanted to be.
“You said it was life or death.”
“Isn’t it? Can I get you a beer?”
“No, thanks.” She didn’t listen and grabbed me a Bud from the communal fridge. She handed it to me with a smile and a flick of the hair, like an Andalusian tossing its mane after performing a particularly difficult trick. I put the beer on a side table.
“Isn’t it against dorm rules to have beer on campus? You are underage.”
“You want to come in my room.” It wasn’t a question. I treated it as such.
“No,” I said. “Angel, why did you call me?”
She stood in her bedroom doorway, pressed her back against the jamb. She tilted her head back. Perhaps she’d seen it in a magazine, or a Victoria’s Secret catalog. She was no Victoria’s Secret model. Her breasts were large enough, but everything else was out of proportion. Or perhaps she was perfectly proportioned and the models were out of whack. That one was going to keep me up nights. Either way, she was a girl, a kid, throwing pitches her body wasn’t capable of handling yet, so they were coming out all wrong and dropping short of the plate. A thirsty teenage boy might have taken a swing. But a lifetime in the game teaches us that patience is the most important quality at the plate. Knowing that it’s okay to see off pitches, to leave the inside fastball or the slider low and away. Because what you really want is a heater down the middle, a fastball over the plate that you recognize the moment it leaves the hand, and patience has you waiting and watching so when it comes you are ready, feet dug in deep, hips solid, grip firm. And you know that one hit, the perfect connection and the sound of pine on leather and then watching the ball sail high and long, over the outfielders, chins held skyward, as it plunges into the bleachers, smack into the cheap seats. You know the waiti
ng was worth everything, and the aimless swinging of youth was merely the expulsion of excess energy.
“Angel,” I said again. “Why did you call me?”
“You came by.”
“I did. Two days ago. What is it that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
“Tonight,” she said, turning to me. “Tonight couldn’t wait.” She strode over to me and threw her arms around my neck. It was a stretch so she went up on tippy toes, and she kissed me. Her lips were soft and fat and clumsy. She tasted like beer and bubblegum. Her breasts squashed hard against my chest as she pushed herself into me. I took hold of her by the elbows and she pushed in deeper. I pulled her away. She stared into my eyes, and then she moved to go in for more. My arms stayed straight, so she couldn’t get within a foot and a half.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“What?” She smiled, but the assurance was gone.
“What do you think is going on here, Angel?”
“You came over.” Her face suddenly looked as fragile as a butterfly.
“I did. I am investigating a death. Your friend’s death.”
“But I thought you liked me.”
I stood on the precipice, watching the ghosts of conversations past thrashing in the broken water below. A choice to be made. The easy way or the hard way. But it was a trick, always a trick. The easy way inevitably grew thorny, and the hard way was an illusion, like the reflection of a stone wall in a pond, daunting and impenetrable to the eye, but easily broken through by those with the courage to dive in and find salvation just below.
“I don’t,” I said. It sounded hard and mean and rattled around the dorm room for a while. I knew it would. But the other option was a sitcom of misunderstanding and Chinese whispers. I do, just not like that, was softer, but left hope when none should remain.
Her face was a kaleidoscope of confusion and anger and embarrassment.
“I need to go,” I said. “I’ll call you later.” I turned and walked away, into the corridor, toward the exit.
“Why?” she yelled. “Why the hell would you call later?” I didn’t stop walking, but I heard her heading down the corridor after me.
“Why?” she said again as I reached the door. I put my hand on it and opened it a crack.
“I told you. I am investigating a death. I may need your help.”
“Why are you doing this?” Her voice was thin.
“For Jake.” I pushed the door open and walked out into the crisp night air. Fall had arrived and brought what Floridians thought of as a chill. The mercury was ready to dive below fifty. I strode along the path toward the parking lot where my Mustang sat. I heard Angel running, bare feet slapping on pavement. I turned as she launched herself into me, arms flailing, fists slapping like windmills. She beat into my chest until she lost momentum and I’d had enough, and then I pulled her away again.
“Why?” she said again. Any answer was short change, unsatisfactory. But I gave her my hollow excuse again anyway.
“For Jake,” I repeated.
She bawled like a child, rapturous and exhausting. I didn’t console her. I dropped my hands from her elbows.
“Jake?” she sobbed. “What use is he to me now, huh? What good.”
“I’m sorry.” I was. Very sorry. Sorry she was young and slowly spoiling, sorry she thought she had found what she was looking for but didn’t know she had a lot of living to do before she even knew what it was. Sorry she was searching in all the wrong places, like Jake Turner and Miami Jones.
“You’re—“ She spat the first word and choked on the second. She stared over my shoulder, mouth agape, the words and sobs sucked from her. I turned to see what had captured her attention so completely, half expecting to see Jake Turner. I didn’t. What I saw was worse. Far worse. Danielle stood by the hood of the Mustang. The commotion had pulled her from the car. The door was open and the interior light gave her a soft glow. On another day, in another time, Angel might have seen the ghost of Christmas future, the potential, the opportunity. Everything that time and a healthy diet and a few miles on the clock could provide. Angel would never have Danielle’s genetics, but that was to a large extent moot. Kim Rose was by no means classically beautiful, but she radiated an attractiveness, a confidence born of experience and a truly fit body. Angel was all that and more. Or could be. And perhaps, had Kim Rose been standing by the Mustang, that is what Angel would have seen. But Kim Rose wasn’t standing there. Danielle, tousled hair, easy manner of a few daiquiris, in that black dress. She looked coy and playful, but had the confidence of an athlete and the coiled readiness of a law enforcement officer. Her puppy fat had long ago melted and with it the uncertainty. She looked stunning. She was every bit the woman to Angel’s girl. Angel took it all in, imprinted onto her memory, chiseled into her brain. Then she turned and ran, feet slapping, back into the dorm. I watched her go and considered chasing, but thought of sitcoms and Chinese whispers. I turned to Danielle. She came to me, moving like a ghost. She took my hand, kissed me and led me back to the car.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE MORNING BROUGHT dark thunderheads over the Bahamas. The clouds hung offshore, a mass of potential energy, like a football team in the locker room, anxious to take the field, cleats tapping on concrete, bodies crashing in preparation. It was cool out so we ate breakfast at the orange Formica counter. Danielle prepped so as to ward off a smoothie. Such things do nothing for a daiquiri hangover. She toasted bagels and fried eggs and bacon, and we ate sandwiches with coffee.
“You had a good night,” I said.
She smiled. “What does that mean?”
“It means you seemed to enjoy yourself.”
“I did.” She bit into her bagel. “Nice people.”
“Very. And one hell of a band.”
“For sure. You get what you wanted?”
I sipped my coffee. It was black and bitter and suited my mood. “Got something. Whether it’s what I wanted is yet to be determined.”
We ate in silence for a while, until I noticed Danielle watching me.
“What?”
“What?” she said. “What do you think, what.”
“Angel?”
She nodded and chomped into her bagel. I enjoyed watching her eat. It was all about quality, not quantity, and she ate with an intensity most people reserved for chess.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Sometimes we hitch our wagons to the wrong train.”
“Very nice, oh wise one.”
“Hey, what do you want from me?” I bit into my breakfast, salt and hickory.
“Did you lead her on?”
I swallowed and it hurt. “Give me some credit.”
“You have been known to use your charms as means to an end.”
“That’s Ron’s department.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“No,” I said. “I didn’t lead her on. She’s a kid.”
“She’s not a kid. She’s just not a woman yet.”
“So she’s young and she overthought things. Assumed facts not in evidence.”
“Don’t need to be young to make that mistake.” She sipped her coffee.
“So what do you think I should do?”
“What do you think you should do?”
“Leave her alone. I don’t want to send mixed signals.”
“That’s one plan.”
“You don’t agree?” I got up and poured us more coffee.
“Of course not. It’s a terrible idea.”
“Why?”
“She’s hurting. It might not be your fault, but you’re the reason. That and the death of her friend. But he can’t console her, can he?”
“I don’t think I should be consoling her right now.”
“I’m not saying lead her on, you knucklehead. You need to tell her what you are doing and why. Explain you are in a relationship and your dealings with her are professional. You can tell her she’ll get over Jake but it will take a long time, and that’s okay.”
“No, it won’t make it better. She’s heartbroken. You can’t fix that. But leaving her in the dark means when she comes out the other end, she’s just as confused. At least if you talk to her, she’ll have some knowledge for later.”
“I just don’t want to give her the wrong impression.”
“Then don’t.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Don’t know. I don’t want you to feel threatened by her.”
Danielle grinned. “I can handle anything any college girl’s got. Besides which, I have a sheriff’s issue weapon and the training to shoot off any superfluous bits of you from twenty yards.”
I crossed my legs. “Point taken.”
She sipped her coffee and looked at me over the mug. “It’s this other woman I’m concerned about. The athletic director.”
“Kim Rose.”
Danielle nodded. “What was the deal with you two?”
“We knew each other in college.”
“How well?”
“Pretty well. Nothing sexual, if that’s what you’re asking. But we were good friends.”
“Why nothing sexual?”
“Why does a relationship have to be sexual?”
“It doesn’t. But this was college, right?”
“Yes, but I didn’t sleep with everyone I met at college.”
“But you spent more time with this woman than most, yes?”
“Well, she wasn’t really a woman then. More a girl.”
“Is that why nothing happened?”
I had to grin. “No. If I had wanted to, that would’ve been irrelevant.”
“So you didn’t want to?”
“You keep putting words in my mouth—have you noticed that?”
She smiled and raised her eyebrows.
“We were friends. That was it. We were comfortable in each other’s company and liked spending time together. But there was no physical attraction there. Well, not from my side. Maybe hers, but I never got that impression. Now that I think about it, there just wasn’t much physical anything. Touching, hugging, anything. I’m not sure she was all that comfortable with being too physical, being touched. I mean on the soccer field sure, but not in an intimate way.” I shrugged my shoulders.