Authors: Eric Pete

Crushed Ice (5 page)

BOOK: Crushed Ice

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Chapter 8

“Is that Kanye? Get his picture! Get his picture! Heeeeey, Kanye!” the shorter of the two glammed-out women yelled. They abandoned the slots they'd been playing, bumping me and several other passengers out of the way as we disembarked our American Airlines flight from DFW.

McCarran was brisk today with all the traffic arriving in anticipation of the music awards. As that day got closer, things would only get more intense. Downstairs, I grabbed my luggage then exited to hail a cab, ignoring all the limousine drivers picking up their VIPs.

At the curb, I only had to flash my watch while hailing to get one to stop.

“Are you in the music industry?” the bearded Turk asked as he checked his rearview mirror before pulling away.

“No.”

“With the television network?”

“No,” I said, adjusting the tie I wore. “Just in town for some meetings.”

“Bad time for meetings, my friend. Music awards in town. No work. All party.”

“Is that why all
these people
are around?” I asked, ensuring he would detect the false level of Ivy-league, buppie disdain I was projecting.

“Yes, yes,” he commented. “Rock stars, rappers, groupies. Lots of groupies. You'd be surprised at what I've seen them do. In this cab even.”

I grimaced, realizing my hand was resting on the seat where some of what he was describing probably occurred. I hoped he disinfected on the regular.

“What hotel are you at?”

“The Westin Casuarina. Somewhere quiet, off the Strip, where I can think,” I joked. “By the way, where are most of the music folk staying? Want to make sure I steer clear if I want to hit the slots or something.”

“Most of them are at the MGM Grand, where the event is taking place. Some want to be seen in that new hotel, Stratus. Beautiful.” He laughed, defiantly flicking his finished cigarette out the window. “If you need to do âsomething,' I recommend The Standard, on the outskirts of town, my friend. Prime ass . . . if women are your thing,” he said, catching himself.

“They are, my man. They certainly are. The women are hot, huh?” I prodded just to be silly. Most of the girls at The Standard, as well as the owner, knew me in one way or another.

“Incredible. I take many a fare out there. Trust me. A handsome black man such as yourself? You would be highly sought after for their attention. You like big titties, yes? Would make me leave my wife if she didn't have so many of my children.. . . I kid. My wife is a good one.”

My fun over, I checked into my hotel and went into work mode. The information I needed, I could've gotten from Jason through his On-Phire connections. Not wanting him to take any credit or know exactly how I worked, I passed.

Natalia was discreet. After an hour of calls and e-mails, I was still at square one. Most of my contacts at the hotels had nothing definitive either. But I had other ways of finding her.

“Who dis?” the voice asked, with blaring car horns in the background. I could tell he was hustling as he spoke. Busy day at the valet station.

“Certainly not a bill collector,” I said from the blocked number that failed to register on his cell phone.

“Ay, man. Didn't know it was you,” he said, his voice relaxing. “What up?”

“You seen Penny Antnee?”

“Yeah. They rolled up last night. This the new joint on da strip. Er'body want to be here, but management wants a
diverse mix
. Said they don't want no hip-hop heaven. We had to turn niggas away when we hit our quota in here.”

“Anyone else with him and his boys?”

“Uh . . . yeah,” he replied as he entered another vehicle, the familiar door chime pinging. “That girl Natalia, if you believe that shit about them being a couple. She and her people didn't count toward our quota, on account she's more pop 'n shit.”

Another car blared its horn. My valet inform-ant cursed in Spanish.

“You gotta go?”

“Yeah. I get my usual, right?”

“You might have the chance to earn a bonus.”

“For real?”

“Yeah. I'll call you back in a bit with what I need.”

I took a look out the window of my room. Gazed north at the back side of the Venetian and in the distance, the Wynn. My objective now lay just beyond those two beauties.

I closed the curtain and opened my suitcase.

“Time to go to work,” I mumbled as I had so many times before.

Chapter 9

Way
Back . . .

“Trent! Nooo! Don't go!” she pleaded, her throat raw and ragged from all her crying. He pushed her off him, determined to escape our tiny apartment. I don't know why. It was nicer than where we used to live. Still not Hollywood, but nice enough to have company over.

It had come to this.

To my mom, he was Trent Massey. That wasn't even his birth name. He would always be Randall Fischer from
Promises for Tomorrow
to me. He'd just taken over a company and jumped from a burning building with a baby in his arms in just a single episode last week. Hated to admit it, but I kinda liked him now. He was smooth.

“Why didn't you tell me about him, Leila?” he scream-ed. Acted like I was an abomination. I knew that word. Had been reading a lot.

I had a name.

“I'm telling you now, Trent,” my mom moaned. “Baby, please don't be like this. He's my son. We can make this work.”

“Work?” Randall Fischer from
Promises for Tomorrow
taunted. “You've been keeping this boy a secret from me and expect this to work? We've been seeing each other this whole time and you didn't tell me you had a kid? What were you doing with him when you spent the night? Until you had me drive you over tonight, I didn't even know you stayed on this side of town, Leila. Good grief! We're supposed to be married!”

“We still can be, baby. He's my beautiful son. I . . . I didn't know how you'd react. I'll even introduce the two of you. Come here,” she said, grasping his arm tightly. He resisted at first, almost to the door and his escape. He relented though and trudged over to me under her coaxing. Mom was beautiful, and most men did her bidding, including me.

“Trent, this is my son, Truth. Truth, this is . . . Mister Massey. He's going to be yourâ”

“Leila, no.” He jerked his arm away, combing his fingers through the curly blond strands atop his head. His foot tapped repeatedly on the floor. “I can't do this. I like you a lot, but I can't do this. Really. This would be bad for my image. I'm sorry.”

Randall Fischer from
Promises for Tomorrow
exited the scene, never to return. My mom, Lettie Hunter from
The Edge of Nowhere,
was never the same. Some will tell you she hadn't been the same for quite some time. She spent the rest of the week alone in her bedroom. When she came out, she pretended everything was okay.

But it wasn't.

She was written off her soap opera.

Chapter 10

C'mon. C'mon. Three diamonds. Three diamonds.

Two.

Shit.

“Would you like something to drink, sir?”

“Whiskey sour,” I replied to the scantily clad hostess. The tiny butterfly wings affixed to her back were made of illuminated neon, casting an eerie blue glow on her bare shoulders as she fluttered away to fetch my watered down tranquilizer. Above us, acrobats flew on scarves of azure and purple tapestry, safe from the clink-clink-clink of electronic bandits and babysitters to the populace below. Giant papier-machÃ© birds hovered on near-invisible wires, making people do a double take. I was in the midst of a contemporary blend of
Alice in Wonderland
and
Cirque Du Soleil,
wrapped up in homage to those that dared to reach toward the heavens.

Can't leave out the killer prime rib at the buffet either.

Dressed like a tourist, complete with shorts, New York Yankees jersey, and toothpick in my mouth, I played the quarter slots. Killing time and minding my own business. My vantage point put me as close as I could be to the lobby without seeming like I was casing the joint. In spite of Stratus's infant status as a casino and resort, its management was made up of veterans. Cyber eyes were everywhere, tracking and mapping faces and mannerisms. I was doing something similar, except with two targets in mind and minus the gadgets.

My little angel didn't return as quickly as I'd hoped. I figured she'd abandoned me for the big tippers at the dollar slots. Such betrayal.

Whatever.

I'd stayed in one place too long, so I quickly finished off my credits.

At the valet station in front, I waited patiently then provided my ticket to a certain attendant. When he returned with my economy rental car, I walked over, placing a tip in his hand. He paused when the surplus amount I'd given him registered.

“I said there'd be something extra,” I reminded him from behind my Ray-Ban aviators.

“You?” he asked sheepishly, unimpressed by my attire and beer belly, courtesy of a well-placed hotel pillow.

“It ain't the tooth fairy, son,” I replied, borrowing the same accent I'd used earlier on the phone. “I need you to find out what room they're staying in. And someone to do something for me.”

“C'mon. I'll introduce you to my girl Eva on staff. She might be able to hook you up.”

“No. I need you to be in charge of this. You don't want to share that bonus, do ya?”

“Tru dat, butâ”

“Just get that done for me and I'll call you later.”

My valet friend met me the next morning at the Barbary Coast near my hotel. I'd ordered breakfast, but there was way too much butter on my toast. My friend continued his yakking, trying to dictate his own terms, while I pretended to give a damn about his concerns.

“No cutting in the walls 'n shit, right? Just a camera and nothing else. They'll do some bad shit to me if somebody finds out. Straight off-the-books kind of shit.”

“Just a camera or two. Nothing else,” I commented, dabbing the extra yellow goo onto the plate.

“You from Harlem, ain't ya?” Francis Martin Quinones from Queens asked. Yeah, I'd done my research, down to back child support and all.

“You got me,” I answered with as genuine a smile as I could muster.

“Yeah, I knew it,” he crowed. “Got that old school, Uptown swagger. I ain't from here originally, dawg. I'm from da BX.” Correction: Francis from Queens by way of the Bronx.

“No way, dawg!”

“Yeah. Straight up, homie! Let me guess. Penny been talkin' too much ya-yo about âEast coast time is ova.' Somebody from back home wanna check this Miami fool, huh?”

“I'm not at liberty to discuss that.” I let my coy smile reaffirm whatever he believed.

“Yeah, we gonna do this. Fuck Penny Antnee,” he crowed, feeling we were suddenly a team. “Shit's getting crucial, son. I'd almost do it for free. Almost.”

“Natalia sharing the suite with him?” I asked, almost as an afterthought. “Don't want her getting in the way of shit that's going to be going down.”

“Huh? No. She's on a completely different floor, homie. My girl on staff told me. Been to her suite. She and Penny leave together 'n shit, but when they come back to Stratus, they go their separate ways. Nigga probably don't want sand at the beach. Place gonna be knee deep in honeys come this weekend.”

“Well, just in case, gonna need a camera in her suite. Gotta keep an eye . . . on Penny.”

“Two rooms? Man.”

“I'll send more funds your way. If we do this,” I said, sure to include him before continuing, “then we need to do this right, dawg.”

Francis the valet beamed in the affirmative. “Yeah, you my boy, no doubt.”

In the booth, we gave each other a pound over the table. Wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I was certain the coming days would provide me with something for Jason.

The elderly waiter approached our celebratory meeting. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “There's too much butter on the toast.”

“Yeah. All that cholesterol 'n shit. You trying to kill my boy?” Francis the valet from da BX chimed in.

Chapter 11

Nothing.

A day of watching monitors and still nothing. Antnee and Natalia weren't together like I expected. And Natalia spent most of her time shopping at Caesars Palace and signing autographs at the Fashion Show Mall across the street.

Nothing for me to distort or use.

My phone rang, interrupting me from my sulking. Jason probably.

“Hello.”

“You ain't been by the shop in a minute,” the barber from Minneapolis said. “Got somebody who needs something. They want to speak to you.”

“What do they need?”

“Marital counseling,” he joked.

“Counseling costs. Are they willing to pay my fee?”

“Looks like it. Some girl. My sister does her hair. Won the Hot Lotto. She doesn't want to share with her husband.”

“Is he a bad man?” I asked. “Or just a victim?”

“I don't ask. Do you really need to know?”

“No.” After I responded, my phone beeped. Another call coming in. Jason. He could wait. Needed to figure out what to say to him anyway.

“You want to talk to her now? She's right here.”

“No. I'll see you at the shop. Then you can introduce us.”

“When? She's kinda anxious.”

“I don't like to be rushed. I'll be in touch.”

“Okay. But she ain't gonna like it.”

“Then she can get somebody else. I'll pass.”

“Aww, c'mon, man. Chauntelâ”

“Chauntel. You called her by her name.”

“Yeah. So?”

“At first, she was âsome girl'. Now's she's Chauntel. You're sweatin' me over this. You never sweat stuff. You're fucking her.”

“Uh . . . what's that gotta do with anything?”

“Complications. Personal shit that I like to avoid. Don't call me again.”

“Wait! Wait!”

“Good-bye.”

Aside from my laptop, the light from the TV illuminated my room. I had more than a passing interest in the story unfolding over the nation's airwaves.

SOAP SCUM
was the title beamed across the banner of the cable news broadcast.

Cute.

Made me smile a little.

I listened intently to the Filipina reporter's words from outside the L.A. County courthouse.

“In a stunning set of developments, soap star Trent Massey has been charged with multiple counts of possessing child porn. L.A. County sheriff deputies were seen removing documents from his residence, as well his computer hard drives, this morning. This is in addition to his stunning appearance and arrest before the nation as part of a network television child predator sting.

“I don't think I've seen such a staggering and swift fall from grace. Trent Massey, as many of you know, won his second Daytime Emmy last year for his longtime role as Randall Fischer on the popular soap opera
Promises for Tomorrow
. We've attempted to reach his wife, Janie Thomas, the equally popular actress, but have received a âno comment' and a wish for the family to be left alone during these trying times. Mister Massey, through his manager, maintains his innocence, so we'll just have to see how this all turns out. Back to you.”

Even though he claimed to have shown up at the house of the supposed child by accident, the kiddie porn found on his computer sealed his fate. His claims of receiving an emergency call to go there wouldn't bear fruit. The cell phone he'd answered, although identical in appearance, wasn't his. No phone records to verify his story, as the deputies had thrown him face down on the lawn with cameras rolling. A chore switching it out, but successful, with the help from his unhappy wife, Janie.

Amazing what fate delivers to the patient. It took a year of false information being fed to her about her husband to make the gold digger unhappy enough to want out. That was where I conveniently came in. Now she had enough publicity as the poor unsuspecting wife to last the rest of her career.

This was probably my masterpiece.

And I didn't even get paid for it.

I changed the channel to some HBO and went back to watching the video feed of Penny Antnee and Natalia's rooms. Nothing in his, but he finally showed up alone at Natalia's. She had too much of a good girl image, courtesy of handlers, to do anything in public, but behind closed doors . . .

Penny sat on her bed, waiting patiently for Natalia to get dressed. She'd just exited the shower and was still wrapped in her towel. The camera view showed Natalia as she dropped the towel in front of Antnee, mixed drink in hand. I watched her nude body dance in front of him, imagining what music was going through her head. Should've had audio, but wasn't planning on wiring two rooms. Don't know if a sex tape was what Jason wanted, but that might be all I would get out of the church girl.

My cell rang again. Jason calling back. I answered this time. Penny hadn't made a move on her in the room. They were joking about something, by the way they were laughing.

“Are you there?” Jason asked.

“Yes. Working on it,” I answered.

“How's it going?”

Rather than taking what was a pretty hot piece of ass and putting it to her on the bed, they exchanged high fives. Penny, alpha male to the Nth degree, demonstrated a different demeanor than what I'd observed over the past week. Soft. Unusual. “Nothing yet,” I answered Jason as Natalia fetched something to wear from the closet and showed it to Penny.

“We arrive in two days for the awards. I don't want to leave empty handed. Get me something soon. Even if you have to improvise,” he urged before ending the call. That meant making something up as long as it was convincing.

As Natalia dressed without a hint of action, I went right-brain in my approach.

“Hello?” she answered.

I walked to my window and pulled back the curtain, revealing a million dazzling lights.

“You busy?” I asked calmly as I tapped my fingers on the cold glass.

BOOK: Crushed Ice

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