Joplin's Ghost (25 page)

She owed that psychic, she realized. She owed Heather Larrabee an eight-thousand-dollar Rolex, just like the one Ronn had given her.

R
onn Jenkins owned four or five homes, but in Los Angeles he lived in a twenty-room mansion on an outcropping in Hollywood Hills, overlooking his winding street on one side and a fabulous northward view of the San Fernando Valley on the other, showcased through multistory picture windows. The sand-colored manse had a Mediterranean-style tile rooftop barely visible over the snarl of palms, spiny-trunked floss-silk trees and magnolias that shaded Ronn’s security gate. The house had cost many millions; Ronn’s neighbors were Leonardo DiCaprio and Cameron Diaz on one side, Heather Graham and Denzel on the other.

Phoenix hadn’t expected to see Ronn’s house again so soon.

In the furor after the shooting, the tide had swept them all here. Ronn wanted to avoid the crush of news vans outside of TSR headquarters, so he’d asked his staff to convene at his house, behaving as though it was a normal workday. The doorbell rang in endless succession: D’Real, Manny, Katrice, Lil’ Mo and several large men Phoenix didn’t know, who didn’t work at the label. Nearly buried inside their baggy clothes, they sauntered into the house with heavy-lidded, watchful eyes. The phone trilled so constantly that Ronn’s housekeeper had stopped answering it.

Kai wasn’t here. He was still with the police. Just as Sarge had said, the second and third rounds of gunfire had been from Kai’s gun as he fired back at the Impala. He’d blown out a portion of the car’s rear window, but Phoenix didn’t know if he’d hit anyone. So far, the Impala had vanished. Kai had acted in self-defense—all the witnesses said so—but apparently the police didn’t look kindly on gunplay on a street where people wore suits to work. Phoenix hoped Ronn’s lawyers would take care of it. She didn’t want Kai to be in trouble.

The second man, Taye’s double, was in the hospital with a .38-caliber bullet wound to his upper shoulder, so close to his neck that if it had hit him an inch higher, the doctors said he would be dead. His name, she’d learned, was Lamar Jenkins. He was Ronn’s nephew from St. Louis, and he wasn’t a bodyguard; he’d been visiting Ronn for a week. Lamar was the only child of Ronn’s dead brother, twenty-two years old.

It was a bad day.

Ronn’s Rottweiler, Max, remembered Phoenix. The dense-bodied black dog hadn’t stopped trotting behind her since she’d been back here. Phoenix had no idea how Rottweilers had gotten such a bad rap, since Max was the sweetest dog she’d ever met. But maybe Max was sweet like Kai, she remembered. Sweet until it was time.

Ronn, Sarge and the label staff were in the front study he called his War Room—aptly named, she realized now—but she’d already been to the bathroom twice with dry heaves that made her stomach ache, and she didn’t feel like sitting at a conference table. Ronn’s house was an easy place to disappear.

Phoenix gazed at the midafternoon haze outside through the picture window in the sunroom on the far end of the house, a room that was a festival of white tiles and white walls with colorful framed prints by painter Jacob Lawrence, a Harlem Renaissance artist she had suggested to Ronn. He had bought six large prints to enliven the room. Her favorite was
Dreams I,
full of red and gold, a dark man and woman in bed at arm’s length behind golden bedposts that looked to her like prison bars, with charms hanging over them while they slept. The grimace on the man’s face was the portrait of a nightmare. Sometimes, the couple seemed to be sleeping, but when she blinked, they were dancing instead. The painting mesmerized her, always alive.

A piece of her lived in this room, Phoenix realized.

The flatscreen plasma TV mounted on the wall was tuned to the afternoon news, and the chatter captured her ear. “—erupted in the quiet Leimert Park district of Los Angeles today in what police say is part of the ongoing feud between rapper and actor G-Ronn and rival rapper DJ Train. One unidentified man is in the hospital today after at least five gunshots were fired. A gunman ambushed…”

She could be listening to a story about someone she’d never met.

“You have to make the smart play, Phoenix,” her mother’s voice said from the cell phone pressed to Phoenix’s ear, and déjà vu mingled with Phoenix’s sense of shock. Hadn’t they just had this conversation yesterday? Mom had called her as soon as she’d seen G-Ronn’s name streaming across the bottom of her television screen while she was watching a congressional hearing on CNN. “I know you’ve invested a lot in this relationship, but—”

“We’re not dating anymore,” Phoenix said, the sixth time she’d reminded her today.

“I’m happy to hear it, but that’s not the relationship I’m talking about. Is this CD worth risking your life? Are you blind to this insanity?”

Phoenix wanted to say
Of course not, I was there,
but she didn’t. She and Sarge had decided it was best if Mom didn’t know how close she’d been to the shooting, another lie. Ronn had kept her name out of the police report. There was no need to mention her, since eight other witnesses had seen what happened up close. Like Carlos said, if she repeated the lie often enough, she might forget the truth.

“What kind of world is this you’re moving into? I hardly know you anymore, Phoenix.”

Phoenix sighed. “You do know me, Mom, and it’s not my world. I’m just a singer.”

“That’s
not
all you are,” Mom said, her angry voice shaking. “You’re brimming with creative spirit, and I’ll never understand why you’re taking the easy way out. Is money so important to you?”

“You think this is
easy
?” Phoenix said, her face flashing hot. Phoenix stroked Max between his ears, and the dog nuzzled her calf, her sole comfort.

“Yes, Phoenix, hiding behind someone else’s music and name is easy. What’s harder is being brave enough to fail. What’s harder is taking the time to find out who you are.
That’s
how you share your gift with the world, not like this. I don’t know what this is.”

Phoenix set her jaw, waiting for her throat to unseal itself as her stomach tumbled. “I have to go, Mom. I have a lot to do. I’m singing on national television Tuesday night.”

“Make sure your father calls me, please. Right away.”

Would it kill you to congratulate me?
“Thanks for the support, Mom. Bye,” she said, and clicked off. If she felt like a teenager in Carlos’s presence, she felt like she was ten with her mother. She was so angry, her skin was burning.

Her phone didn’t ring again, so her mother wasn’t going to call back, and Phoenix didn’t want to either. Phoenix felt orphaned and dwarfed sitting alone in the expansive room, which was bigger than her entire apartment. Max whimpered and rested his chin on her foot. She petted him again, feeling tears gathering. All she did was cry these days.

“…dates back to the early nineties, when both rappers achieved prominence in the midst of the East Coast–West Coast rap wars…” the newscaster’s voice said. “But unlike the old vendettas—which most famously ended the lives of rival rappers Tupac Shakur and Notorious B.I.G.—this one refuses to die, dramatically illustrated by the drive-by shooting today—”

Phoenix fumbled with the complicated remote control, pushing buttons until she found the one to make the television go dead. Ronn was right: The media was eager to resurrect the East Coast–West Coast bullshit, ignoring the fact that Ronn had grown up in St. Louis and DJ Train was from Dallas. Phoenix didn’t know the reasons behind their beef, but it had nothing to do with the old blood feud between the Los Angeles and New York rappers.

“There they go, tearing me down like they do every other brother out here tryin’ to make it.” Ronn appeared from behind the sofa, mopping his face with a hand towel. Max stirred, hearing his master’s voice, but didn’t leave his place beneath Phoenix’s stroking fingers. Ronn sat beside Phoenix, leaving several inches between them.

“Your meeting’s done?” For a moment, Phoenix could think only of small talk.

Ronn grunted. “Yeah, it’s done. Sarge is lookin’ for you.”

This was their first time alone since the shooting. Phoenix reached to Ronn and pulled his head to her breast, like a mother, and he didn’t resist. She wrapped her arms around his taut neck. There, she could feel arteries pounding the flood of fear Ronn’s face refused to betray. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. Lamar’s gonna be fine.”

“Yeah, that’s what the doctor said. I gotta head back over there, though. Felicha’s still with him, but Aunt Rita wants…” Ronn stopped, suddenly. He raised his head to gaze at Phoenix’s face, almost as if to remind himself who she was. Then he sat up straight and took his original position away from her, leaning his elbow against the armrest. He wasn’t going to allow himself to confide in her, she realized. That made her sadder.

“Sarge said you hurt your knee, Phee. That true?”

“No, it’s fine. I just bumped it. It’s not even swelling.”

Ronn looked relieved. “Listen, I’m sorry ’bout the way that went down, all that madness. Kai had to get us out of there in case somebody else rode up on us. Lamar was hurt, and I knew my boys would look after you. They’re off-duty LAPD—”

“Don’t even say it. I understand.” Right after Ronn’s SUV sped off, four TSR guards had circled Phoenix as if she were the president’s wife, ushering her and Sarge inside.

“That shit will never happen near you again,” Ronn said. Whatever tenderness she’d seen in his eyes earlier today was gone, replaced by something she didn’t recognize. “We’re gonna have to forget that dinner Saturday, a’ight?”

“OK,” she said. Damn. Serena and Trey had missed their chance to eat with G-Ronn. She’d been looking forward to it, too, even if it was only for show.

“Everything’s gonna be a’ight, baby girl. This shit’s about to get handled.”

She nodded, feeling nausea butt the base of her throat again. “You can rise above this, Ronn,” she said. The words sounded empty and simplistic, even to her.

Naked annoyance flashed in Ronn’s eyes, then melted away.

“Ronn…we’ve known each other a long time, right?”

“A year and two months,” he said. She was surprised he’d memorized it.

“And I’ve never tried to worry about your business, have I?”

“No, because you respect me,” he said. “It’s a mutual thing.”

“So I’ve earned the right to ask questions, right? Tell me what happened when Kai shot back at that car. Did he hit somebody?”

Ronn shrugged, dispassionate. “Kai don’t miss. One of them niggers is dead, no doubt.”

So, there it was. She had been present at a shooting scene where somebody probably had died. Phoenix blinked back her tears so she wouldn’t show Ronn how fragile she felt, just as he didn’t want to show her. “So why don’t you just walk away from this now?” she whispered.

Ronn’s beautiful lips pursed tight. “Can’t do that.”

“You’ll lose
everything
over this, Ronn.”

“If it’s lost, it’s already gone. I’ve got a bullet coming to me, Phee,” Ronn said. His voice cracked slightly when he said her name. “I’ve been some places you never had to go, baby girl. Things went too far a long time ago, before we started rapping. I tried to move past it, but old history comes back to haunt you. I know what happened, and Train knows, and his beef is real. But I can’t have crazy motherfuckers shooting down my nephew. I can’t sit still for that. And even if I could, Train don’t know when to quit.”

“Maybe there’s a way to have a meeting, to—”

“We both got friends tryin’ to squash it. Shit, you don’t think the whole
industry
don’t want this squashed? But there’s too much blood, Phee. Too much blood.” Ronn sighed, resigned. He let his eyelids fall closed, weighted with worries she could only imagine.

Phoenix couldn’t think of another word. Even during her unruliest days, Gloria had never brought her a problem this big. This was a problem she had no idea how to fix.

Suddenly, Ronn’s eyes were open again, and he stood up. “Show everybody who you are on TV Tuesday, Phee,” he said.

“I will.” Phoenix could hardly force out words.

Ronn backed away.
“Come,”
he said, one word, and Max snapped to Ronn’s heels, following his master. For an instant, Phoenix had thought he’d called her.

Phoenix walked behind Ronn and his dog the length of his house, past his tile, marble and stainless steel, beyond his weight room, his game room, and his living room with the white concert grand piano he kept for decoration, the one he said she’d been the first to play. The War Room was closest to the front door, a traditional office and library. As they arrived, the Three Strikes crew was streaming out.

D’Real grabbed Phoenix and swung her in a warm embrace, as if they had never exchanged a sharp word in the studio. “Sorry ’bout today, Phee,” her producer said, kissing her cheek. Manny hugged her next, then Katrice. They patted her, stroked her, fussed over her. Was she all right? Did she need anything? Phoenix said she was fine, and in that moment, she was. Safe in the bosom of her new family.

Sarge was waiting for her by the front double doors. Sarge’s eyes were as red as the lenses in Ronn’s shades. At first, she wondered if her father had been crying, a thought as alarming as the gunshots, but she decided he was only weary. “I’ll go get the car,” Sarge said, and slipped out without meeting Ronn’s eyes, which seemed deliberate to her.