Gun Games (8 page)

“Understood. Was Greg addicted to porno?”

“We’re all addicted to porno. We’re teenaged boys.”

Decker thought a moment. “Could he have been filming material that he shouldn’t have been filming? Maybe secretly filming the girls’ gym lockers?”

Joey gave him a wide-eyed look. “If he did, he never showed anything to me.”

“How do you think Greg might have reacted if he got caught doing something like that?”

“Well, for starts, the school would have kicked him out.”

Decker nodded, thinking: What would have happened if a quiet, bookish kid had been caught secretly filming a popular girl in the nude? What kind of number could she have done on him: embarrassed him, humiliated him, blackmailed him, or worst of all, threatened to go to the principal? And if the kid would have been faced with torment and expulsion . . . who knew what he might have done.

Joey’s mind was still on the question. “I think he would have showed me something like that. Not that it’s nice, but it’s the way dudes are.”

“Did you ever see what was on Gregory’s camera?”

“Sometimes he’d show us a playback, but I don’t have any idea of the totality.”

“Does his mother have the video camera?”

“I would think so.”

“Okay, Joey. This gives me a little bit of a start.”

The boy nodded. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Why are you doing this?” Joey looked pained. “I mean if Greg was doing something bad, why dig it up?”

“That is a very good point. Originally, his mom asked me to help her understand her son’s motives for doing something so terrible. But if it is something distasteful, I’m going to be doing some serious editing.”

“Yeah, I think that would be a good idea. Not that I think he was doing something bad.”

Decker regarded the kid’s face. He looked sincere. “Do you think your pals would mind if I talked to them?”

“Nah, they wouldn’t mind. I don’t know what they’d tell you. I probably knew Greg better than any of them.”

Decker gave him a pad of paper and a pen. “Could you write down names and phone numbers for me?”

“Sure.”

While he was writing, Decker was figuring out his next move. Get the camera, get the kid’s computer, and look around the room. Joey was right about one thing. How much did Wendy Hesse want to know? After Joey handed him back the pad, Decker said, “I do have one other important question. Do you have any idea where Greg could have gotten hold of a gun?”

“Not that specific gun, no.” Joey exhaled. “But I can tell you this much. It isn’t hard to get weapons at B and W. You can get guns, you can get booze, you can get dope, you can get porn, and you can get good grades and test scores.”

“That easy, huh?” Decker said.

“That easy,” Joey answered. “All you have to do is pay for it.”

Chapter Eight

D
uring the final duet—“Gran Dio, morir si giovane”—Gabe’s eyes wandered to Yasmine, whose face was buried in her hands. Her eyes were visible through splayed fingers, tears streaming down. The entire time he had been concentrating on pitch, voice timbre, sound mixture, and volume. But the little girl next to him was sobbing because Violetta was about to succumb to tuberculosis.

So who was really getting the most out of the afternoon?

As she blinked, a new batch of tears poured out of her eyes. In a protective motion, Gabe put his arm around her shoulder and she simply melted, fat saline drops soaking his shirt. When Violetta finally died and the curtain came down, she sat up, took a tissue from her bag, and wiped her face. Curtain calls took another five minutes, and then the house lights went up.

It was five-thirty by the time they actually made it out of the building. The sky held the afterglow of a dazzling sunset—pinks, oranges, and purples. The ground was wet, and the air was chilly.

Yasmine hugged her body. Her voice was still shaky. “How do we get a taxi?”

“We don’t.” Gabe checked his watch. “By the time we call it in and the guy gets here, it’s easier to take the bus.”

“How long will it take to get home?”

“About an hour plus.”

“I told my mom I’d be home by six.”

“That’s not going to happen even with a cab. We’ve got to hustle. The bus is due in five minutes, and it’s a half-hour wait if we miss it.” He took her hand and pulled her along. They arrived a minute before the bus pulled up. She was jumping up and down, massaging her arms. “Cold?” he asked.

“I’m always cold.”

“It’s cold outside.” He rubbed her shoulders with his hands.

When the bus came, she said, “I’m sorry I got emotional. I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”

“It’s theater. You’re supposed to be moved. We performers live for people like you.”

They boarded the bus, and he paid for the tickets. The inside was stale smelling, but at least it was warm. Gabe found two empty seats toward the back. He gave her the window seat and took the aisle—better for his legs and his body would shield her in case some gangbangers decided to board. In L.A., rapid transit didn’t really exist. Buses were the primary transportation of those too poor or too young to have cars. She took out her phone and began to talk in a foreign language—presumably Farsi. A few minutes later, she hung up.

“Everything okay?”

“My friend said she’d cover for me. I’m supposed to be at her house anyway.”

“Nice friend. Why didn’t you just take her to the opera?”

“She would have come with me, but she would have hated it. It’s not fun to go with a person who’s looking at her watch all the time.”

“Gotcha.”

“Thanks so much for doing this for me.”

“Honestly, the pleasure was mine. I’ve never heard Danielli live. She was great.”

Yasmine brought her hand to her heart. “Oh my God, it was like being transported.” She took in a deep breath and let it out. “This might be terrible, but I didn’t think the guy who played Alfredo did her justice.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, he hit a few clunkers.”

“Like right at the end . . . oh my God, wasn’t he embarrassed? I mean how can you sing like that when you’re singing with Alyssa Danielli?”

Gabe regarded her face. “You really do have a great ear. Is your family musical?”

“My mom used to sing.”

“Opera?”

“No, just like sing at parties and stuff. She doesn’t do it anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s married. I mean, she still sings, but just not professionally.” Yasmine looked deep in thought. “She has a lovely voice.”

Gabe nodded. “And your parents didn’t give you
any
music lessons?”

“Oh sure. We were all given piano lessons. It didn’t take. I’m terrible.”

“How long did you play for?”

“Technically, I’m still playing, but I’m hopeless. I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not with you.”

They rode for a few minutes in silence. Gabe took a Balance Bar out of his pocket and as soon as he did, Yasmine’s eyes glanced to his snack. Wordlessly, he offered it to her.

“Do you have another one?” she asked.

“Take it.”

“We’ll share.”

“Take it.”

She took it and broke it in half.

Gabe kept his hands in his lap. “I’m really fine.”

“Then why did you take it out if you didn’t want to eat it?”

“Force of habit. Sometimes I need a sugar rush.” He regarded her face. “You look tired. Did you have anything to eat today besides the Diet Coke at intermission?”

“I had coffee.” When Gabe rolled his eyes, she said, “I didn’t have time.” Carefully, she took a nibble at the bar.

Gabe waited a moment, then said, “Do you like piano music?”

“Of course I like piano music. I like the way you play it, just not massacred—which is the way I play it.”

He smiled. “The reason I ask is that SC is having a concert next Saturday afternoon.” He paused. “Wait. Are you Shomer Shabbat?”

“We go to shul in the morning, but we drive and stuff.” She looked at him. “For a Catholic, you know some pretty obscure expressions.”

“You live with the Deckers, you pick up a few things.”

“Anyway . . .” She averted her eyes and bit her lip. “What were you saying?”

“Oh, yeah. Anyway, the pianist is a guy I know from competitions. Paul Chin. He’s a student at SC, and we have the same piano teacher. He’s pretty good.” A beat. “I’m definitely going. If you want to come with me, I’ll be happy to take you.”

“I would love to come. What time?”

“Same time, three o’clock.” She didn’t talk, her eyes calculating something unknown. He said, “Why don’t you just tell your parents?”

“They wouldn’t let me go.”

“Yasmine, it’s not a date—”

“I know that.”

“You obviously have a love of classical music and it’s a shame to stifle it.”

“My parents are old-fashioned. Especially my dad. He doesn’t allow me to go out, period, even with Persian Jewish boys.” A pause. “I know it’s not a date and you’re just being nice, but . . .” She sighed.

Gabe said, “Well, the offer is open. If you change your mind, just show up at the bus stop.”

She nodded, looking thoroughly dejected.

“Finish your bar.”

“I’m not hungry.” She offered it back.

“Eat it. Don’t be one of those ridiculous anorexic girls.”

“I’m not anorexic.”

“Then prove me wrong and eat.”

She took another lackluster nibble.

“Hey, don’t fret.” He gently nudged her arm. “You’ll have plenty of time to hear concerts when you get to college. Besides, it’s probably better not to sneak around your parents.”

She didn’t answer. Then she said, “What is the pianist playing?”

“It’s all Saint-Saëns. I think the orchestra’s doing some golden oldies like ‘Danse Macabre’ and ‘Bacchanale.’ ” He thought a moment. “When I was a little kid, I saw
Samson and Delilah.
My father took me. I inherited my ear from him. Anyway, it wasn’t like a Met opera, it was one of these experimental things that the New York avant-garde just love to do. So when the company did the ‘Bacchanale,’ they started stripping until they were nude and started simulating you know what.” He grinned. “Man, I don’t think I heard a note of music.”

She giggled. “How old were you?”

“Around nine.”

“What did your father do?”

“I dunno. I was too embarrassed to look at him.”

She giggled again. “So you got your talent from your dad?”

“Yeah, only I’m better than he is and we both know it. It’s funny. My father is an absolute tyrant. I’ve never, ever talked back to him except in music. It’s the one area where I can tell my dad that he’s full of shit in that language and he’ll just laugh or agree with me. It’s weird.”

“You’re probably living his dream.”

“Nah, my father likes what he does just fine.”

“What does he do?”

It took a few moments for him to speak. “He owns brothels.” Yasmine’s face was blank. Gabe said, “Brothels. You know. Whorehouses.”

“Whorehouses?”

“You don’t know what a whorehouse is?”

Her complexion darkened. “I know what a whore is. I didn’t know there was a special house for them.”

Gabe said, “Eat your Balance Bar.”

She took another bite. “Like how does that work? Do all the whores just decide to live together?”

“Change the subject.”

“No, I’m curious.”

“A brothel is a place where whores work.” A pause. “So instead of having to go out on the street and hustle for guys, they just stay in one place and the guys come to them.”

“To have sex?”

“That’s the idea.”

“So your dad owns like a big motel or something?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Wow.” Her eyes got big. “Is that even
legal
?”

“In certain parts of Nevada, it is.”

“And the whores pay him rent?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.” He tapped his toe. “Yasmine, you can ask me any question you want, but I’d appreciate if you kept this between us. It’s a little embarrassing.”

She shrugged. “My dad owns all sorts of properties. I’m sure he rents to some unsavory characters.”

Gabe laughed. “Okay.”

“But I don’t think he owns any whorehouses.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t. Don’t ask him about it.”

“No, that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“It would be a very bad idea.” He pointed to the rest of the Balance Bar. “Eat.”

Yasmine took a small bite. “So what’s the piano music?”

“Piano music?”

“For the concert on Saturday.”

“Oh yeah.” The conversation was meandering all over the place. “Paul’s playing a piano concerto called ‘Africa Fantasie.’ It’s not particularly hard but I happen to like it a lot. And I like to show support.”

“I’ve never heard it.”

“It’s a good one. Several versions are on YouTube.”

“So . . . like what time are you going?”

Gabe regarded her. “The bus leaves at one. That puts you into SC at around two-fifteen, two-thirty.”

She nodded. “How much are the tickets?”

“Not much. Like fifteen, twenty bucks. I’ll buy you one. If you show up, fine. If you don’t, that’s fine, too. No pressure. But if you do want to come, you can’t be late. I’m not waiting around.”

“Understood.” She sat back and closed her eyes. “This day was magical . . . just magical.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Gabe said. “You should probably buy your friend something for covering for you.”

“Ariella?” Yasmine smiled. “I’ve covered for her like a zillion times. This doesn’t even make a dent in the list. Now that girl is a real sneak.”

“So you’re the good girl?”

She shrugged.

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Gabe said. “You’ll do fine.”

“I’m sure somewhere out there is a perfect twenty-four-year-old Persian Jew just waiting until I grow up.” She looked at him. “Persian girls tend to marry older guys. I mean, not always, but that’s the tradition. My oldest sister is engaged to a thirty-one-year-old. She’s twenty-three.”

Gabe nodded. “Interesting.”

They rode the remaining time in silence, Yasmine nodding off until she slumped to the side and slept with her head on his shoulder. Her face was turned upward, her full lips slighted parted. He could feel her breath warm against his neck. Her hair tickled his face.

He was tired as well, but he couldn’t tear himself away from watching her sleep.

A real cutie. Too bad.

A few minutes before their bus stop, he gently shook her awake. She inhaled a deep breath and let it out, sat up, and rubbed her eyes. “I fell asleep?”

“It happens.” He got up and pulled the string. A moment later, the bus lurched to a stop. “Let’s go.”

It was a moonless night—cold and dark.

“I owe you money for the cab.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I insist.”

“I won’t take it. C’mon. I’ll walk you home . . . or a few houses away from home, I guess.”

“I’m supposed to be at Ariella’s.”

“Where does she live?”

“Just right around the corner, so I’m fine.”

“I’ll walk you to the house. She’s covering for you anyway, so she must know about me, right?”

“Sort of.”

“That sounds ominous.”