No Such Thing as a Lost Cause (12 page)

“Oh, yeah. Whatever happened to him?”

John did a major eye roll. “I’m trying to make a point here.”

Before I could think of a snarky response his cell phone rang. It was Garrett calling
to let him know his Trout Almandine was getting cold.

“See?” I said. “Garrett never once mentioned that my meal was getting cold. He hates
me.”

“You ordered Vichyssoise.”

“Yeah, and I only did it to impress him. What I really wanted was a BLT. Look, you
might think it’s silly, but Garrett’s important to you, so I really want him to like
me.”

“I like you,” Johnny said, throwing his arm around me. “In fact, I love you.”

We walked back to the table and the Vichyssoise was sitting there waiting for me;
little lumps of cold potato swimming in a pool of heavy cream.

John signaled our server over to the table. “She changed her mind. She’d like a BLT.”

*****

Five sleepless nights (on the floor of Janine’s studio apartment) later, I was back
home. The windows and doors had been replaced and the steps scrubbed clean. All that
remained was a pervasive feeling of doom and a bill for the reconstructive surgery
on my house that, with my recent work history, would take decades to pay off. I celebrated
with a Bud Light and some pistachios.

In the middle of shelling about three pounds of nuts (pistachios are cool, because
they’re a snack
and
an activity—a snacktivity, if you will) my phone rang. I checked caller I.D., happy
for the sound of anyone’s voice as long as the conversation didn’t start with “I’m
gonna kill you, bitch.”

It was Alphonso. “What’chu up to, Sweetcakes?”

“Cleaning my gun.”

“Right,” he snickered. “Although, now you mention it, it’s probably not a bad idea.”

My stomach clenched. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“I heard some interesting news about the guy who shot up your house.”

“Anthony Gibbons?”

“That’s the one. Word on the street is the cops didn’t have enough evidence to hold
him, so they were lookin’ to release him today.”

I put down the pistachio nuts, having suddenly lost my appetite. Gibbons was free
to finish what he’d started.

“Well, that’s just dandy.”

“You’re not listening, Alexander. The operative word here is
was
. He hung himself at the Roundhouse this morning.”

“Get out!” Relief flowed through my veins, overshadowing all sense of decency.

Only, if he was getting out, why would he kill himself?

I put the question to Alphonso.

“This was the real deal, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Yeah. And Mario Lewis died of a gunshot wound to his thigh.”

“I’m telling you, this is legit. I’ve got a friend with some local gang connections.
He was picked up on a B&E charge last week and was there when Gibbons was brought
in.”

“So?”

“So, according to this guy, Gibbons was trying to make a name for himself by going
after you. He thought it would impress the higher ups. Only trouble is the gang didn’t
authorize the killing.”

“Um, not that I’m disappointed, but why not?”

“I don’t know. Could just be good business sense. With all the illegal shit they’ve
got goin’ on, the last thing they need is public scrutiny.”

Adrian hopped up on the kitchen table and snagged the bag of pistachio shells, dumping
them all over the floor. Satisfied with a job well done, he wondered off to eat the
couch. I picked the shells up and tossed them in the trash.

“Alphonso, I know I’ve been sort’ve slow on the uptake lately, but I still don’t get
why Gibbons would kill himself.”

“Gibbons showcased the gang in a really bad light. He didn’t just act without permission;
he went and fucked it up. That’s a huge public embarrassment. You don’t cross your
gang family and live to tell about it. I guess he figured he was going to end up dead
either way, so he might as well choose the least painful method.”

“Well, that’s a little drastic.”

“Brandy, the JTG specializes in torching their victims. Dead or alive, it don’t make
a difference. In fact, they prefer alive. Makes more of a statement, y’know what I
mean?”

In spades. Fighting the mental image of burning flesh that Alphonso had conjured up
for me, I said, “So, now that Gibbons is out of the picture, can we just forget the
whole thing and go back to business as usual?”

Alphonso chuckled softly through the phone and almost parroted Bobby’s warning. “I
wish I knew, Sweetcakes. It’s all fucked up how this pride and revenge thing works.
The gang may have wanted Gibbons dead, but they could blame you for forcing the circumstances
that made it happen.”

Unhh! The clenching in my stomach turned into a full fledged panic attack. I got hot
all over, my forehead breaking out in an unholy sweat, frizzing up the bangs that
had taken me twenty minutes to straighten with a flat iron. I tried to talk, but nothing
came out.

“You still there?” Alphonso asked. “Listen, I feel like hanging out and watching a
movie tonight. Something heartwarming, with maybe that Julia Roberts chic in it. I’m
coming over.”

“You don’t have to do this, Alphonso. I’ll let Nick know you offered.”

“This has nothing to do with Nick,” Alphonso said, dropping his customary street swag.
“We’re way past that. We’re friends. Friends watch each other’s backs.”

*****

Alphonso fell asleep on the couch ten minutes into
Pretty Woman
, his head resting on my Mr. Peanut Pillow, (a classic, which I won off e-bay in a
huge bidding war…okay, not exactly a war, since I was the only bidder, but I
still won
). He woke up just as Richard Gere proclaimed his love for the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold.

He sat up and peered at me as if he were inspecting bruised fruit. “You crying?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped, wiping my eyes. “I’ve got allergies.”

“Uh huh.”

“
I do
.” I fake sneezed.
Good touch, Brandy. High five!

Alphonso stretched his legs and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, a gesture I found
endearingly child-like, considering the man was 6’2” with a semi-automatic hanging
out of the back of his pants. His phone beeped and he checked for a text message and
smiled.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, rising, “because I got some business to take care of.
But I could stay…if you need me to,” he added and glanced longingly at the phone.

I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. So, what’s her name?”

“Who?”

“Your
business
.”

Alphonso’s grin got wider. “Nicole.”

“Have fun,” I told him and walked him to the door.

“You’re sure now?” He hesitated at the threshold.

“I’m sure. Alphonso?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for tonight.”

*****

“Have you been avoiding me, Darlin’?” Nick stood at my door at 5:00 a.m. the next
morning, looking sexy beyond words in disheveled formal wear and black, horn rimmed
glasses. He was holding a box the size of a toaster oven.

I glanced down at my bare legs, the rest of me hidden beneath Hello Kitty shortie
pajamas, which I’d like to say was a relic from my youth, but, in actuality, was a
recent purchase. I looked back up at him and blushed.

We’d been playing phone tag for days, which may have been by design on my part. Ever
since our talk, my insecurities had grown exponentially, to the point where I was
convinced Nick was going to leave me. I happened on a solution to this while in the
throes of insomnia in the middle of the night, when all your epiphanies seem like
the best idea ever!
I figured if we didn’t see or speak to each other, he wouldn’t discover my considerable
flaws, thus giving him no reason to break up with me.

“Avoiding you? Of course I’m not avoiding you,” I have found that the best defense
is a strongly-worded denial, spoken in huffy tones.

“That’s good, because I’ve missed you,” he said, completely disarming me.

I opened the screen door and let him in.

“What’s in the box?” I asked. I’d hoped it was something to eat. Something delicious,
like doughnuts.

“I’ll show you in a bit.” He shifted the box to one arm and pulled me to him with
the other. My arms automatically wrapped around his neck, my ingenious plan to play
it cool forgotten in the pleasure of his touch.

He smelled faintly of expensive cigars and aged bourbon. The dark circles under his
eyes told me he’d pulled an all-nighter, and yet, he exuded a sexual energy that was
so palpable it made me weak.

“You look nice,” I said, the blood vessels in my breasts constricting. “I’m feeling
a little underdressed.”

Nick tossed the box on the coffee table and turned his attention back to me. His hands,
warm and sure, slid down my spine, coming to rest just under my butt. “Funny,” he
said, inching his hands up the leg of my jammies. “I was thinking the exact opposite.”
And then he did something about it.

Thirty minutes later I sat up on the couch, wearing only the white, button down dress
shirt Nick had discarded along the way. Nick, naked, and considerably less tense,
gave me a lazy smile and leaned in to kiss me.

“So, do you make a habit of dressing for breakfast?” I asked, eying the tuxedo jacket
on the floor, “or was this a special event?”

“Alana’s law firm hosted a charity auction last night. It lasted longer than expected.”

“You were with Alana?” I tried to sound breezy and not the least bit threatened that
he’d spent the wee hours of the morning in the company of one of his former bedmates.
(a beautiful, smart, sophisticated, viper of a former bedmate. And I wasn’t completely
sure of the “former” status.)

Nick shrugged. “She was there. I was there. That was about the extent of it. I called
to see if you wanted to come,” he added, “but you didn’t pick up.”

And if I had answered, would I have agreed to go? I don’t even own formal wear—unless
you count the Princess Diana wedding costume I begged my mother to buy me, on sale,
the day after Halloween, when I was ten.

I did a mental Alana hate fest, only I knew she wasn’t the problem. What I was really
threatened by was the ease with which she traveled in Nick’s world. Jeez, I hate self-reflection.
I always come out looking so bad.

I decided a change of subject was in order. “There wouldn’t by any chance be doughnuts
in that box, would there?”

“I’m afraid not. But it is for you,” Nick said, handing me the package. “I had to
bid on them because they reminded me of you.”

Nick spent the evening with Alana, but he was thinking of me. In your face, sophisticated
viper lady!

I ripped open the carton. Inside was a pair of worn, regulation boxing gloves.

“I remind you of a blood sport?”

“They’re not just any gloves, Angel. They’re the ones Sylvester Stallone wore in
Rocky
, in the scene where he went the distance.”

“Oh my God, are you serious?”

Hands shaking, I lifted the gloves out of the box and held them against my cheek.
Rocky was my hero. My
go-to
guy whenever I felt like giving up. This was so much more than an expensive gift.
It was a life line.

“I love them, Nick. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Angel.”

I started to put them on when something stopped me. Outside, a dog barked in the distance.
A trash truck lumbered down the street, grinding to a halt in front of my house. A
neighbor shouted goodbye to his wife, a car door slammed, and a V-8 engine pulled
away from the curb. But, inside, all I could hear was the pounding of my heart and
the thoughts in my head.

Goddamnit to Hell, Santiago. First, you tell me you can’t commit to a future with
me, and then you go and do something so fucking endearing I can’t commit to a future
without you.

I am so screwed.

I set the gloves back in the box before I started blubbering all over them, and headed
for the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I mumbled. “I’m just going to make some
coffee.”

“You okay?” he called after me.

“Absolutely.”

I threw some water in the espresso maker and sat at the kitchen table, fuming.

I knew it was dumb.
Nick loves me. Why can’t that be enough?

I put the question to Adrian, who had followed me into the kitchen. Adrian didn’t
answer me directly. Instead, he parked himself next to his food bowl, his front paws
folded in front of him as if in prayer.
Please, Lord, make her feed me.

I picked up his dog bowl and scooped some kibble into it. Adrian cocked his head in
expectation.

“You’re right, as usual,” I told him. “So Nick says he can’t commit. But that doesn’t
mean anything. People change their minds all the time. I’m making a big deal out of
nothing. I should just enjoy what we have now and stop obsessing about the future.
Thank you for this little talk.” I set down the bowl, poured the coffee and went back
into the living room.

Nick was already dressed and on the phone. He was speaking mostly in Spanish but I
caught Lewis’ name before he hung up. He turned to me, shirtless, under his tuxedo
jacket.

“That was the guy I hired to watch Lewis. According to Kenzo, Lewis left his house
about an hour ago and drove over to that stretch of abandoned warehouses a few miles
north of the naval yard. There were cars and vans parked all along the perimeter of
one of the buildings. Lewis parked and went inside.”

“Was he alone?”

He nodded. “Except for a couple of dogs with him. Kenzo tried to get a closer look,
but there was a group of Samoan bikers with an impressive looking arsenal hanging
around outside, and they didn’t seem in the mood to be messed with.”

Nick picked up his .38 from the top of the TV set and casually gave the cylinder a
spin. Satisfied that it was fully loaded he opened his jacket and slipped it into
his shoulder holster. “I’m going to go meet Kenzo down there and check it out.”