Sabotage (4 page)

She sat on the chair across the room and continued to take stock. “I know this may be a major blow to your ego, but can you tell me who you are?”

The man looked taken aback. He ran his hand across his face with his thumb like an eight-year-old with a cold. “Rick, baby. Don’t you remember?”

“Have you violated me
in any way?
” She didn’t think he had.

He looked sad and bewildered—like many of her dates, since her change of heart. “Violated?”

“Sorry. My bad. I don’t know you. I don’t remember anything. I don’t think we have ever met. You appear to be snorting a Schedule Two substance off of my belly, and I don’t remember shit about the last six hours. My guess is you or someone you know roofied me. I don’t feel violated, but you might have a small penis. So I regrettably must ask again. Have you violated me in any way?”

“My penis …”

“Stop. I am utterly uninterested in your penis, unless it has unlawfully been inside any of my holes. You get one more shot or I scream rape.”

“Shit. No. I ain’t no pervert. I wasn’t gonna start that party until you woke up.”

She called bullshit on that entire remark and did a roll call of her body parts. Nothing seemed to be bleeding, stinging, sore, or chafed.

“Okay. How did we meet?” She was glad the guy had snorted the coke. His ego was going to need it.

“Paolo. He introduced us. You acted like …”

She put her head in her hands, and his voice trailed off.

He silently mourned the rail or two of coke spilled all over the floor.

In Vegas, if you were desperate enough, you could just snort the rugs.

Paolo was the night manager at Oscar’s. He loved to introduce Caitlin to high-rollers. She came to understand, if not necessarily embrace, her occasional role in showing them around town. Her olive skin and jet black hair made her stand out even in the most enviable crowd. Caitlin possessed a lilting laugh and didn’t carry herself like a mindless plaything. She didn’t live in the gym, but she looked like she did, with long legs and perfectly crafted store-bought breasts to complete the picture.

She was stunning. And Paolo knew that once she started tying one on, she was utterly unequipped for stopping. It made for very happy customers, most of the time. Caitlin was the part of Vegas they would most remember—if they could remember at all. Paolo probably bought the shots and was keeping just close enough watch to make sure she wasn’t getting raped. She hated him. But, she had to admit, he hadn’t brought her at gunpoint. At least, she was pretty sure he hadn’t.

Her head felt like hot asphalt. Her breath smelled like a fisherman’s ass. What the hell happened?

The last thing she remembered was the official determination, made by her, that Britt was most likely a homicidal psychopath or sociopath. Caitlin couldn’t remember the difference between the terms. She would have to look up the distinction later. But he was crazier than a monkey screwing a football, and she was pretty sure he was going to pull some major shit today. He made the mistake, as men often do, of thinking she was fifty percent more stupid than she was. Problem was he could still think she was brilliant and be wrong on that calculation. She put the pieces together over a period of weeks, and, finally, when he summoned her to his mansion in a lovey-dovey voice, she did not want to hear from him. She took smart girl lessons and didn’t go.

She ran to Oscar’s, which she was pretty sure he didn’t know about, and let her hair down. Evidently, all the way down. She could boast armed guards and Mafiosi to protect her. What more could a girl want?

She checked and noticed that all he had done was pull up her dress. Panties were still in place. Shoes were close by. She found a mirror in the corner, wiped the marching powder that was still clinging to her nose, and headed for the door. “Nice to meet you. Clean up before you leave.”

The cowboy looked crestfallen. She doubted he really thought he was going to make it with her, legally anyway. She opened the door and saw Paolo, Jenna, all of the Oscar’s regulars and employees in the main room watching a single flat-screen TV. It told a story of devastation and showed bloody, wailing figures—not those from some distant, unpronounceable country but from America. Plumes of smoke, broken glass, fire, blood and tears streaming down the faces of mothers and children were all caught on film in that ultra-bright cinematic fashion Caitlin remembered from 9/11.

The announcers spoke in the voice they reserved for these occasions, as if they were simultaneously trying to read the news and take a poop. That voice meant bad news. This was easily the most significant attack on America since September 11, which happened many years before.

Caitlin stood stunned, trying to catch her breath as much as whatever drugs she took would allow. Despite their physical effects, she was sober now. If her meeting with the Cowboy hadn’t done it, this certainly had.

She watched those images burn themselves into her mind and wrestled with a horrible, sinking feeling. She felt like she was going to faint. Caitlin was pretty effing sure her new boyfriend was behind the attack.

N
aseem gunned the Jet Ski. It was still early on during the extended holiday weekend everywhere but Party Cove, so he didn’t have many other boats to contend with. He flew up the cove, the Jet Ski skittering over the calm Thursday waters, having become familiar with it over the past weeks, and tried to think.

He felt he found himself and lost himself in London. He found a purpose that was for a greater good, not just him and his needs. America was so untidy and so awesome. The positions he took in the radical schools where he went were much more understandable. They were saner. He understood who he was and what he needed to be.

But upon his return, freedom, American style, was a bigger rush than he expected, even though he lived it for years. Here people were not robots. Americans had eyes, mouths, hearts, souls, and genitals, and they used them all. What was he killing these people for? So he could be sent to the Promised Land? For seventy-two virgins? They might not add up to one Ashlee. And what about Ashlee and the others? Where was he sending them? For what crime was he willing to play their judge and executioner? Those were questions never answered in London. In London, there were no distractions and no realities. For someone brought up by people who loved the land despite its flaws, those questions were proving harder to take than he expected.

Two hours. He could tell the girls they needed to board another boat, make up some story about safety, and then give them some cash to get them to do it quickly. He could drive the boat to the least offensive spot on the lake, take the Jet Ski far away, and then call in a bomb threat to the police, so they could evacuate the area from all of the shrapnel and plastic explosives he had been planting for weeks. That would jeopardize his skin, but he was ready to do that anyway. At least, he thought he was.

He stopped the Jet Ski, killed the engine, and considered all of this. Sighing deeply, he prayed. The best prayer he could muster anymore. “Allah,” he asked, “what do you want?”

As if on cue, he got a text. He pulled out the plastic bag and stared at the phone.

702-555-2312: ALL RIGHT THEN. LOOKS PERFECT. MOVING UP THE SCHEDULE. DON’T WANT ANY CHANGES OF HEART. I REALLY HOPE YOU ENJOY THOSE 72 VIRGINS. BET THEY’RE NOT AS GOOD AS THE ASS ON THAT BOAT.

Naseem stared at the phone. He didn’t need to look up, but he did in time to see the explosion before he heard it. The boat raged out of the water, and all of the secondary explosives, put in strategic places he designed, went next. He heard the nails and other detritus whistling through the wind like the Grim Reaper’s advance guard. Then he heard the screams—adults sounding like children and wounded dogs. Those sounds carried, vibrating across the surface of the lake. He let the noise tear into his brain for a second. He was the cause of this. It did not sound like triumph. Oh, to never be a failed martyr.

Naseem started his Jet Ski. He took out for the next cove. He knew what he needed to do. He just hoped he could avoid being seen doing it.

P
al Joey rolled everything big—big joints, big butts, and, mostly, a big entourage. Childhood friends, neighborhood pals, cousins, and half-brothers now shared in his success. His three albums and dozens of flows on other records skyrocketed him to one of the five or ten most famous rappers on the planet, and even getting to a gig was akin to moving a battalion across a river.

Hairdressers, make-up artists, logistics, sound, lighting—Pal Joey found a job for all his boys. And they all came along when he performed, even for a simple—and hella early—gig like the one today at one o’clock in the afternoon.
Who up at one p.m.?

Joey adopted Lil’ Wayne’s six figure rule: don’t go out or flow for less than six figures, and don’t pass six figures up. So he was getting paid $100,000 for just showing up and flowing three songs—only THREE songs. He couldn’t believe it. It was all to promote some movie called
Sabotage
which was using one of his tracks.

He was told the show needed to start at one p.m. sharp. All his people nodded when the promoters said this, but it signified nothing. They didn’t say anything, but nobody told Pal Joey when the fuck to start, even if they were paying.

Five limos pulled up to Hollywood Boulevard, just up the block from Grauman’s Chinese Theater. No doubt, many tourists, who would normally be boarding tour buses and putting their hands where Marilyn Monroe put hers, would be put out by all the commotion. But the thousands of people who came were a testimony to Joey’s star power. His fans traveled. They made it out to see him that day, and what a day it was—a bright, high-sky LA day, the kind where sunglasses are necessary just to get out of the car, a beautiful day, like something out of a movie.

Joey wasn’t in one of the five limos. That was too ordinary for this event. He was being flown in alone in a Sikorsky S-76 helicopter. It was giant, much bigger than needed, and fast as anything. Its wingspan was so big it required a clearing on Hollywood Boulevard which would normally be reserved for a head of state.

Joey got out of the helicopter, head down, and making the walk. He heard on TV about Elvis’ thousand-yard walk before concerts and how it got him in the right state of mind. That’s what he thought about as he walked down the boulevard through all of the fans. People who didn’t even know who he was were still awed by the entrance. Both sides were barricaded off, and Joey practically bounced down the road. Man, he rolled with some swag.

The people who didn’t know about the helicopter were on the other end, making their way to the front of the stage. It would soon be time. Already on stage was one of Pal Joey’s up-and-coming acts, Manda, over-emoting her first single. She was trying to channel Whitney and Aretha but sounded more like the cousin who did their nails. Still, it was just the kind of act Pal Joey wanted to add to his Straight Up Cash label.
The bitch could sing
, thought Joey,
and do other things as well
. Maybe the latter clouded his artistic opinion somewhat.

Three minutes. He was close to being on time. He was now backstage and exchanging handshakes with his boys. Joey would try to make it on time and do them proud. Maybe they’d give him a bonus or something. He was standing next to Raylon, his confidant, his best and oldest friend. Raylon’s phone rang; he looked annoyed. Joey asked him what was wrong.

“Man, this the third time in twenty minutes. Damn promoter is blowin’ up my shit.”

“Yes,” he told him again. They were ready. “Yes,” he told them as soon as the song was over. He snapped his fingers and fidgeted. “Yes, Pal Joey will be on the stage in two minutes. Promise.”

He closed the phone and threw it down. This mug was getting on his nerves. “Shit, man,” he said to himself. He promised to do this, and he knew about the timeframe. “Let’s get it on and get it gone.”