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Authors: Eric Pete

BOOK: Crushed Ice
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Chapter 27
“Got a reason for blowing up my phone?” I queried after putting on my boxers and quietly slipping onto the balcony. Conventioneers several stories below had gathered in the atrium for a morning buffet while scrolling through their BlackBerries. Collette was still asleep, but I'd already ordered room service. We needed to get our energy back after expending so much on each other.
“Huh? Who dis?” Peaches asked, yawning in return. Bitch was groggy. Figuring the time difference, she'd probably been off work a few hours—or satisfying a late but well-paying customer from The Standard.
“Taylor,” I replied low, not knowing just how much I'd rocked Collette's world. She didn't need to know any names for me other than Chris.
“Hmph. Doesn't sound like you,” she grunted as I heard her rustling through her sheets to better position herself.
“Got a cold,” I replied, realizing I'd slipped up with my accent and cadence, which I quickly rectified. Sloppy. “Now, what the fuck do you want?” I continued.
“I was trying to tell you about them people.”
“
People
?”
“Yeah. People been coming around The Standard. Asking what I know.”
“About?”
“You.”
Sometimes you start to believe your own press clippings: that you can do no wrong, that you're always five steps ahead. The guise Peaches knew could be discarded, but it still bothered me that someone was this close to be asking her about me. “What about me?” I asked further.
“Who you are, where you live, how they can get in touch with you.”
“What's that all about?”
“Probably something to do with San Antonio.”
“What happened in San Antonio?” I asked, worried that someone had tracked me to the right state, even if the wrong city.
“No,” she answered, “San Antonio Jackson. The football player. He was the last dealings I had with you. You heard what happened to him, huh?”
“Of course,” I lied without missing a beat. I hadn't heard shit. My laptop, normally at my side, was back at my place, and I hadn't checked the news. I'd been wrapped up in Collette, and had voluntarily cut myself off from the usual resources for a full twenty-four hours.
“I'm scared, baby,” Peaches offered. I could tell she truly was. “My uncle owns the club and is keeping them off my back, but I might have to give them something. These motherfuckers ain't the kind to play with. Ya feel me?”
“Yeah, I feel ya,” I replied, knowing our relationship was at an end. She'd never see or speak to the man she knew as Taylor again. The phone number she'd used to reach me would be turned off. “You seen them fools around The Standard before?”
“Nah, baby. And I don't want to see them again if I can help it.”
“I gotcha. Thanks.”
“You're welcome.” She sighed. “Anything you want me to do or say . . . if I have to?”
“Nah. Just do you.” Through the curtains I thought I saw Collette stirring in the bed. “Take care of yourself, Peaches.”
“You too, baby.”
I hung up, composing myself before returning to our suite. Maybe putting all of this behind me might be for the best. Become Chris full time for Collette. I had enough money saved up.
Who was I kidding?
Destruction flowed through my veins. Chaos was the crown I proudly wore.
“Good morning,” Collette called out while wrapping the sheets around her body. Her hair flowed wild and free, as unrestrained as she'd been in giving herself to me. Made me want to get all up in it again. “Did you return your call?
“Yeah. Didn't want to wake you,” I offered, unaware whether she could've heard my conversation . . . or my intent.
She yawned then stretched her trim ebony arms. The sheet slipped away, exposing lovely breasts and erect nipples. “Anything urgent?” she asked, pulling the sheet back up.
“Just a little,” I replied as I crawled back into bed. “My agent says my deadline has been moved up.”
“And I'm keeping you from your writing?”
“No, not at all,” I answered. “You're more inspiration than distraction.”
“Silver-tongued devil,” Collette joked. “I don't know why I ever doubted you were what you say you are.”
“What else would I be? A secret agent? A serial killer? I'm hurt that you doubted me.”
“Don't be. It's just my questioning nature. Well, that and your never letting me read any of your books. And I still don't know your pen name.”
“How about if I promise to tell you all about this one when I'm finished?”
“I'd like that,” she replied, coming in for a friendly peck on the lips.
A knock came at the door. Breakfast was here.
“You surprised me with breakfast too?” Collette guessed.
“Who said I ordered for you?” I teased, to which she playfully shoved me. “Be right back,” I said, exiting the bed.
“Your paper, sir,” the hotel staff member said with a distinct West African accent when I answered. I took the courtesy copy of
USA Today
, signing the receipt with my other hand, the one opposite my usual, before rolling the loaded cart in myself. I ordered continental for her, with a cup of fresh fruit. Although I'd ordered a heartier choice for myself, I no longer had an appetite, thanks to my conversation with Peaches. The unknown was nagging at me. After placing Collette's tray beside her, I sifted through the paper instead.
“You're not eating?” she asked. Damn, she was too perceptive at times.
“Thinking about work,” I answered as I located the story on San Antonio Jackson. He was back home in Cleveland after breaking both his legs in some sort of accident. He'd walk again, but the sports writer was speculating that his career was over, reflecting on what that meant for Oakland as a team moving forward. A cold world we live in.
Despite what was out about Andre Martin, this seemed too vicious for him. For the briefest of moments, I considered who else was in those incriminating photos with Andre.
But no one had the unaltered photos except for me.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“Huh?
What did you say?
”
Collette chuckled. “Is there something you need to do, silly? You've been ‘off' ever since your call.”
“It'll wait,” I replied, taking a bite of my bacon. “It'll wait.”
Chapter 28
I revved the portable blower strapped to my back, guiding the gentle autumn leaves into a pile prior to winter's icy grasp that would soon be claiming these suburbs. The man had a big-ass yard.
San Antonio Jackson sat alone outside in his wheelchair, the bitter cold his form of therapy. Or maybe he didn't want to face the television coverage and ringing telephones inside. His wife left earlier in the limo, leaving him with bodyguards stationed on the grounds of his McMansion. More than just an accident had happened.
I could've left it alone. Nobody could catch me, but I wanted to know who had the balls to try. Having waited over an hour in the cold, hanging with the lawn crew, I came closer, chasing a renegade leaf all the way to San Antonio's back deck.
“Hey! Hey! Could you blow that thing somewhere else?” he yelled. I was close enough to see a black eye too.
“Sir?” I replied, easing off the throttle.
“I'm trying to relax, my man. Can you come back tomorrow ?”
I stepped up partially onto his deck, taking off my work gloves. Security was concentrated on the exterior and perimeter. I had actually worked up a sweat playing around. “Nah, my man. You won't see me tomorrow. You get today only.”
San Antonio freaked. Tried to back his wheelchair away, but had locked the wheels. Fool almost flipped. “What do you want?”
“Glad you remember me,” I said, donning the accent I'd used in Vegas during our meeting. “The better question is what you want with me.”
“Nothing. I don't want a thing. You've done enough,” he said, shuddering as I came closer.
“You're trying to blame your predicament on me? I just gave you what you wanted.”
“I . . . I didn't want
this
.”
“I'll make it quick then. Who did you send looking for me?”
“No one. I'm not—I mean . . .”
“You told someone about me,” I answered for him. “Bad business, Mr. Jackson.”
“I had no choice.”
“We always have choices. I just didn't think Andre Martin had it in him to be knee-capping folk to get info.”
San Antonio laughed nervously. What I said amused him. “You're right. He doesn't. This here,” he said, motioning to his legs, “this is from someone else that got riled up.”
“Because of the photos?”
“Yeah,” he said, glaring at me accusingly. “You brought down a ton of shit on me. I didn't pay for
this
, man. This is my career.”
“Who?”
“I don't know. Never seen them before. Honestly. Some thugs. Rolled up on me leaving the store. Took me somewhere. Thought I was going to die. I'm no punk though. Didn't talk at first, but they threatened my wife.
After
they fucked me up.”
“You still love her,” I muttered. If someone threatened Collette, I don't know what I'd say or do. That woman had become my life, so I understood where San Antonio was coming from.
“Fuck yeah. And she loves me. I know that now,” he said, his voice faltering just a bit. “Andre was a distraction because I wasn't doing what I needed to be doing.”
“Andre hired those thugs?”
“I doubt it. He's been crushed since I sprung your surprise on him. His heart isn't in anything anymore. You delivered what I paid for, but now I don't know if it was worth it. Maybe I should have just talked to him,” he said, shuddering as his eyes drifted off beyond me. He then returned to the present. “You've got somebody else riled up with those photos, and what they did to me is nothing compared to what they want to do to you.”
“Do I look scared, Mr. Jackson?”
“From my vantage point, you should be.”
I dropped the landscaper's blower I'd borrowed on his deck. “Be well, Mr. Jackson,” I said, genuinely meaning it as I hopped down onto the lawn to leave.
“You too, sir.”
 
 
“Sir, could you return your seatback to the upright position?” the flight attendant requested of me. We were on approach, descending into Dallas after our three-hour flight from Cleveland. Should've taken a few connecting flights and switched airlines, but I was weary. The hows and whys I was wrangling with in my head had nagged me since leaving San Antonio Jackson's home.
Before I left, I'd asked him a final question: Could he describe any of them that did the number on him?
He couldn't—except for one. The only one who didn't care if San Antonio could ID him. One who knew he wouldn't dare. One who wore a pendant that dangled in front of San Antonio's face while he threatened to do all sorts of things to the man's wife.
A pendant of a werewolf.
I returned back to my seat, knowing I'd been unable to relax the entire flight.
Chapter 29
Loup Garou.
Fuckin' Loup Garou.
Uncharacteristically, I lashed out, kicking the newspaper stand after deplaning.
“Hey! You wanna watch it!” the squatty worker yelled. Last thing I needed was an airport incident.
“Sorry. Just got some bad news,” I replied as I hastily walked away.
I'd protected Penny Antnee in those photos, so there was no way he and his people could be all up in this. Unless Andre Martin ran to Penny and told him. Or maybe Penny heard about the photos and figured he'd clean up things on his own . . . just in case. But he wouldn't know to go after San Antonio unless Andre told him or San Antonio had bragged about it.
So which was it? Chicken or egg? Rock, paper, or scissors?
A mad one was I, both in anger and state of mind. Shit was deeper than I thought, and I couldn't leave the terminal without knowing more.
An Asian man in his twenties, hip and of vintage denim, sat cross-legged at his gate while scrolling through images on his laptop. The writing on his jacket was in Chinese, so I took a gamble that he was waiting to return to Taiwan.
“
Who ker yee chia nee ter xi shang xing dian nao ma
?”
He reacted as he would in his country, looking to see who was making the request to borrow his computer. Then he recognized my face as not that of a countryman.
“Did you say what I thought you said?” he asked in his best classroom English.
“I certainly hope so,” I replied with a smile. “Otherwise I profusely apologize. May I borrow it? Please.”
“Sure,” he said with a shrug as he reached up and passed it to me.
Paying for Internet in the airport leaves a record, and I didn't want any government agency correlating movements and expenses of any names I operated under. I pulled up 4Shizzle's website on a hunch, thinking it, TMZ, or Media Takeout would be the places for gossip of the sort I suspected was in the wind.
When the front page of 4Shizzle displayed, I was greeted by a cherry bomb with a lit fuse—their idea of breaking and potentially explosive news. Being responsible for a few of their big stories, I was familiar with this format. I took a deep breath and clicked on the image, preparing myself for whatever story they were running.
I was greeted with:
BREAKING NEWS
:
IS
NFL
ER ANDRE MARTIN PLAYING WIDE RECEIVER TO WELL
-
KNOWN RAPPER
?
YOU DECIDE.
Timing was everything in their business. I couldn't have arranged it any better myself. Beneath their banner was an unaltered photo, Penny Antnee's prominent tat visible and on full display. Couldn't mistake the camera angle either. It was one of my photos from the room in Vegas. The ones I hadn't shared with anyone.
“
Xie xie
,” I said, handing the gentleman his laptop after deleting the website from his history file. I moved faster through the airport now, feeling equal parts rage and anxiety. My sloppiness had exposed me. I searched my phone for a number I had never used.
Dialing *67 first, I placed a call to the editor of 4Shizzle. She'd given it to me early on in our business relationship, but I valued the buffer of the Internet. That buffer be damned tonight; directness was needed to get these answers.
The mysterious editor picked up, rambling. “Not too many people have this number, so you can make me guess who this is, although I'd prefer not to.”
“Pull the photo.”
“You finally pick up the phone to call me and it's over a photo?” she teased, declining to play dumb. She knew it was me and that posting it would get this kind of reaction.
“Pull it.”
“Why would I? It's not like I got it from you anyway. You sent me that doctored shit, remember?”
Without admitting I was the owner, I asked, “Who'd you get it from?”
“Can't say. Sources 'n all that stuff, love.”
“Was it was a woman?” Sophia. Had to be, I thought, remembering the mistake I made by bringing her to my site.”
“If that's not the big story you're after, then why publish it?”
“Because it's a step toward something,” she offered. “A much bigger story. Something way more interesting than Penny Antnee or who he's fuckin'.”
“Indulge me then. What's the bigger story?”
She giggled. Not the harmless kind. “You,” she replied.
I caught myself, almost walking in front of a passing taxicab on my way to the airport garage.
“Hello? You still there?”
“Yeah. I'm here.”
“Remember when I told you I'd make you famous? Well, you're going to make me famous. You really should've taken me up on those offers to talk when you had the chance.”
“You don't know me. You don't want to know me,” I threatened, my voice dropping an octave.
“Are you sure I don't? What's the weather like in Dallas?”
I looked up at the billboard welcoming visitors to the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex. I'd landed in a web, not knowing who was doing the spinning. “Next time I go there, I'll let you know,” I replied.
“Aww, c'mon.” She laughed. “Like they say: the
truth
will set you free.”

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