BLACK to Reality (23 page)

“Cool. Is she going to the finals?”

“I think so.”

“You haven’t asked?”

Black paused. “I kind of suck, huh?”

“Better get busy. I’d have already dumped you.”

“Good to know.”

“You’re welcome.”

Black’s next call was to Stan, who didn’t have good news. “I questioned your chicken guy today.”

“Rooster.”

“Like I said.”

“What did you think?”

“He was nervous, but most people are when I’m asking them questions. Bottom line is he has an alibi for the night Rick was killed. It checked out, which only rules him out as being there holding the needle.”

“But if he hired somebody…”

“Exactly. Look, buddy, Rick’s case is colder than a Kardashian divorce attorney. We’re not getting anywhere, and I have probably thirty newer ones. Barring a sworn confession, this one ain’t gonna get cleared. If Chicken Boy–”

“Rooster.”

“Whatever. If he killed Rick, he’s going to get away with it. That’s the short version.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“Sorry. But based on the beating you took, I’d stay locked in the mansion until the show starts. Along with everyone else in the band. Just to be safe.”

“That occurred to me.”

“I’ll bet it did. Every time you lay eyes on Christina, my future ex-wife.”

“I can introduce you once the show’s finished. I’m sure she’d love to look at your sport jacket collection.”

“Be still my beating heart.”

“Thanks for sweating Rooster.”

“You owe me a date with the hottie. Don’t forget.”

“I may have to drug her.”

“Details.”

Chapter 30

Roxie dabbed on a little more lip gloss and checked the time. The limo Alex was sending to take her across the border would be there any minute. She adjusted the red camisole and inspected herself in the mirror, noting how her black leather pants highlighted her slim hips and long legs, and the top displayed her tattoos in a flattering way, her arm ink accented by two inches of bangle bracelets on each wrist. After a final glance around her apartment, she dropped her cell phone and passport into a small purse and headed for the front door, taking care to turn off the lights as she left.

Downstairs a limo waited at the curb with a black-suited driver standing by its side, his hands folded in front of him as he watched her near. When she reached him, he nodded.

“Good evening.”

“Hi.”

He held open the door, and she climbed in. Once they were on the road, she leaned forward.

“How long will it take to get to the restaurant?”

“Three hours, if traffic permits. I was told your dinner reservation was at ten?”

“Yes. A late one.”

“We’ll be in the carpool lane all the way to the border, so we might make better time.”

“I hope so.”

“There’s a screen and a control by your side if you want to watch movies. Several hundred of them on the disk. The same control works the sound system if you prefer music.”

“Great.”

“I’ll put the privacy window up. The red button on the console is the intercom if you require anything. Will there be anything else?”

“No. You know how to get there?”

“I’m familiar with the restaurant.”

Roxie thought for a second. “What’s your name?”

“Jacobs.”

She smiled to herself. Alex didn’t do things in half measures. His concert in Arizona would be over by 8:00, and he’d be flying into Tijuana airport. They’d be staying at a beachfront villa down the coast and returning on Saturday for the show – the perfect spontaneous getaway in a romantic, exotic place.

Roxie had never been anywhere in Mexico besides Tijuana four years earlier with two of her bandmates, so she didn’t know what to expect, but Alex had told her that the restaurant and villa were nothing like the border town. She was relieved; her memories of Mexico were of trash-clogged streets and junker cars spewing exhaust into the sky, with clumps of sketchy characters loitering outside the seedy bars, intent on preying upon drunken tourists.

She settled in as the limo rolled onto I-5 south, the freeway a sea of brake lights except for the car pool lane, which was moving at a rapid pace. The giddy sense of privilege, of being ensconced in luxury as she sped to Mexico, increased as she watched the rank and file sitting gridlocked in ugly commuter reality. She played with the remote control buttons, and a screen rose from the console at the front of the compartment. Within minutes she was watching
Team America
and laughing out loud.

The trip to San Diego seemed to take only moments, and before she knew it, the closing titles were drifting up the screen as the big car powered through Chula Vista, the border only scant miles away. She shut off the television and watched the glowing lights of the southernmost reaches of California glide by, and then they were at the crossing, all ugly glare and flashing warnings and armed border patrol agents.

The toll road to Ensenada was closed due to a landslide that had claimed half a mile of highway, and they wound up on the free road, which added considerable delay. By the time they reached the restaurant it was already 10:00, and Roxie hastily stepped from the car and into the velvet-walled lobby. The host showed her to a table in a private section of the restaurant, where she was alone, unobserved by the general dining public in the main room. A tuxedoed waiter brought her a margarita on the rocks, and she watched the waves crashing below her as she sipped at it, checking the time every few minutes.

After another quarter of an hour, a handsome thirty-something man in a blue suit approached the table.

“Roxie?” No trace of an accent.

Roxie set her empty margarita glass down. “Yes?”

“My name’s Tony. I have to apologize. Alex is running really late. He asked me to come get you and take you to the villa. He’s arranged for a private chef there.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s all taken care of. Again, sorry, but air traffic conspired against him this time. Can I get you another drink, or would you like me to pay the bill so you can get going?”

“Oh, wow, well, how long will he be?”

“Maybe another half hour or so.” Tony smiled disarmingly and looked through the picture window at the surf, where the lights from the restaurant reflected off the surge.

“Might as well pay up. There’s tequila at the villa, right?”

“Of course. A full bar.”

Roxie rose, and Tony tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table and nodded to the waiter. He led her outside, where a forest green SUV waited. Tony moved to open the rear door for her.

“Where’s Jacobs?” she asked and froze when she saw the ugly muzzle of a snub-nose revolver in Tony’s hand.

“Get in. Make a sound, I’ll brain you. There’s nobody around to help you, so it’s a question of whether you want to get hurt or not,” he snarled, the vestige of civility gone. “And worse comes to worst, I’ll shoot you.”

Roxie’s eyes widened as she took in the weapon, and then Tony’s powerful hand was on her arm, forcing her into the car. Another man sat on the rear bench seat, a pistol trained on her.

“Relax, princess. Don’t make no trouble and you’ll be fine,” he snarled.

“What is this?” she demanded as Tony slammed the door and moved to the driver’s seat.

“What does it look like? Lonely hearts club meeting,” the man said.

The big engine revved, and they were out of the parking area in seconds and on the road south, the air thick with salt and exhaust. Tony caught Roxie’s frightened glance in the rearview mirror. “Just do as we say and everything’ll be okay. You understand?”

“Where’s Alex?”

“You’re not a smart one, are you? Guess they weren’t handing out brains in the beauty line that day.”

“He’s not waiting for me, is he?”

“Here’s how this is going to work. We’re going to pull past a guard gate, where you’re not going to make a peep. You do, they’ll be scraping your brains off the window. Do you understand?”

Roxie nodded, the pressure from the unidentified man’s gun in her ribs unmistakable. “Just don’t hurt me.”

“Just take it nice and easy. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“So this is a kidnapping?”

“Keep your piehole shut.
Capisce?
” the gunman hissed.

She didn’t say anything. Soon they were pulling down a long drive alongside a large hotel. At the guarded barrier she did as instructed, and Tony gave the security man a salute and offered a few words of Spanish. The guard laughed and waved them through, and then they were pulling down a gentle rise toward a marina where at least a hundred yachts rocked at the docks in the darkness. Tony drove to the far end of the parking area, cloaked in gloom, and killed the engine.

“Put the tape over her mouth,” he ordered as he held his gun on her. The other man unrolled a strip of duct tape and plastered it across her face. Roxie glared hatred at him, and Tony chuckled. “You’re a handful, aren’t you? Come on. Let’s go.”

The two men manhandled her out of the SUV and down a ramp to one of the shoreline security gates, where he swiped a card and pushed the steel door open. Halfway down the dock a fifty-eight-foot motor yacht brooded in the dark, the water in front of it silvered by the moon as it tugged at the dock lines. Tony stepped up a set of stairs and hopped aboard, then nodded to his companion. He pushed Roxie up, and Tony caught her as she almost went down, her feet slipping on the condensation.

The interior of the yacht was spacious, the salon rich red teak. Tony led her below to the aft stateroom and, with a swift gesture, ripped the tape off her mouth, leaving a pink welt in its wake.

“Ow. That hurt.”

Tony ignored her. “These are the rules. No noise or it gets worse for you – much worse. No stupid escape or sabotage attempts, or I beat you senseless for fun. Just be a nice girl, keep quiet, and you’ll get out of this fine. Try anything and it’ll be your worst nightmare. My partner there would love a shot at you, if you know what I mean, so if you want to test me, there won’t be any second warning, just pain and him, all night long.” He paused to ensure it was sinking in. “This is for real. Do I need to knock out some teeth so you take me seriously?”

Roxie shook her head, clearly terrified.

“Good. There’s a little bathroom in there. None of the windows open, so don’t bother trying. And remember what I said – break one, you become a sex toy for big boy.”

The door slammed behind Tony, and Roxie took in the dark surroundings. A platform bed occupied the center of the stateroom, and there were only two doors – the exit and the bathroom. She groped along the edge of the bed and felt for one of the small lamps mounted above it, but received nothing for her efforts but a click when she turned the switch. She felt inside of the fixture. No bulb. The other was the same story.

The bathroom was pitch black, but as her eyes adjusted, she could make out the commode and a sink wedged next to a shower stall. Dim light filtered in through the high, small window, and she remembered Tony’s words about escape.

Roxie sat on the bed and cried as the boat gently rocked from the swell inside the protected harbor. The heavy nylon lines groaned softly over her muffled sobs as her dream getaway with Alex transformed into a trip to hell.

Up in the salon, Tony poured himself several fingers of Scotch over ice and sat in one of the two barrel chairs. “Toss her phone overboard, Bobby, and take a load off.”

“You got it,” Bobby agreed and slipped the iPhone out of Roxie’s purse and moved up to the deck. Tony heard a muffled splash, and Bobby returned. “I hope there’s beer.”

“I’m sure of it.”

Bobby went to the refrigerator and grunted. “
Dos
what? What happened to Bud?”

“Come on. Beer’s beer.”

Bobby reluctantly opened a bottle and lowered himself onto the couch that sat beneath one of the salon’s windows.

“What time do we call this Black bozo?”

“The man said tomorrow at noon.”

“Why wait?”

“Because it’s after midnight, and the man wants him occupied tomorrow night. He’s got to miss the show. Didn’t I already explain this?”

“Why don’t we just whack him? Why all the drama?” Bobby asked, then burped beer fumes.

“You’re a pig.”

Bobby burped again. “Oink.”

“We whack him in the U.S. and that creates more problems. This way he just disappears.”

“What about the girl? She’s seen our faces.”

“Doesn’t matter. What happens in Mexico…”

“Then let me at her now.”

“That isn’t the deal. We’re supposed to wait until we hear about whether this worked. We may need to put her on the phone to convince the guy. I don’t want her in shock. Just hold your horses, all right?”

“Damned shame. She’s a feisty-looking one, with that hair and them tats. I like ’em like that.”

Down in the stateroom Roxie listened through the door, barely making out the words, but enough to understand that her hours were numbered. Shocked at the reality of her situation, she stood frozen, ear pressed against the slab of wood, as the captor named Bobby described exactly what he planned to do with her.

Eventually the discussion ended, and she stumbled back to the bed, already queasy from the rocking, the walls seeming to close in as her mind raced to formulate a plan to save herself before Bobby came for her.

Chapter 31

Ed’s snores rumbled in the bedroom, Mugsy’s softer drones a contretemps, making for a polyrhythmic moonlight sonata. Black rolled over, half asleep, wondering what had woken him. Something tugged at his awareness, but he tried to ignore it. Finally, he threw off the blanket and staggered to the bathroom, his eyes narrowed to slits in the faint light from the window. When he was done, he returned to bed, where the blinking red LED on his cell phone on the night table indicated he’d received a message. Black fumbled it to life and peered at the screen. He’d gotten one text from a number he didn’t recognize.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he opened the message box. When he read the contents, he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his head, and then read carefully again. Fully alert, he got up and edged to where his pants and shirt were draped over the back of a chair and pulled them on before slipping out the door, barefoot, phone in hand.