The Cocaine Chronicles (21 page)
Several of the young guys turned and glared at Bobby and the two cops. They were all slicked-back hair, ponytails, sunglasses, sharply creased chinos, and black shirts. A couple started moving toward them but were held back by others. Bobby moved away to stand alone.
At the center of the gathering, two women sat by the casket as the priest finished. Bobby guessed they were the mother and sister. The younger woman raised her eyes briefly and looked at Bobby, then touched her mother’s hand.
Bobby turned to look back at the cops as they walked toward their car. He took a deep breath and wondered if this was such a good idea. As the service ended and started to break up, the young guys walked past, stared at him curiously with hate in their eyes, and went to their cars. Soon the loud sound of souped-up engines and glass-pack mufflers filled the air.
Bobby stood still, hands clasped in front of him, not sure what to do next, when Raymond Morales’s mother and sister walked by. The sister looked at Bobby strangely as her mother stopped and also looked at Bobby.
“You were a friend of my son’s?” she asked, studying his face.
“Well, no, not really,” Bobby said, surprised that she spoke to him. “I, ah …”
“High school,” the sister said. “Taft High School. I know you. Bobby Ware.”
“Yes,” Bobby said, taken aback.
“I’m Gabriela.” She smiled briefly. “You played a saxophone solo at the school assembly. I was a freshman when you were a senior.”
Bobby let his mind travel back ten years. He’d been in the marching band and the jazz ensemble, and he had played at the senior assembly. “Well, yes. I didn’t think anybody remembered that.”
“Come, Gabby,” Raymond’s mother said, starting toward the car, already losing interest in Bobby.
Gabriela followed her mother, then stopped and turned. “That was your saxophone, your car, wasn’t it?”
Bobby stood mute, realizing she knew everything, watching her dig in her purse for a pen and a slip of paper. She scribbled quickly and pressed the paper in his hand. “Call me,” she said. Then was gone.
Bobby waited for the mourners to clear out. He saw one group of three guys pause at his car and stare, then look over at him, before they got in a black Chevrolet and drove off.
The next morning Bobby dialed the number. “Barnes and Noble,” a voice said. “How can I help you?”
Bobby thought it had been a home number she’d given him but quickly realized she wouldn’t have done that.
“Can I speak to Gabriela Morales, please?”
“Let me see if she’s in,” the voice said.
Bobby was suddenly listening to canned music as he was put on hold. It sounded like Dave Koz or David Sanborn, one of those R & B saxes, vamping relentlessly over the same tired chords.
“Hello?”
“Miss Morales? This is Bobby Ware.”
“I guess you want to talk to me.”
“Well, if it’s not convenient I can …”
“I have a lunch break at 12:30. There’s a coffee place here in the store. We can meet there. This is the big one, on Ventura Boulevard.”
“Yeah, okay, that would be fine,” Bobby said.
After a pause she said, “This is strange.”
“Yes it is.”
He got there early and took a cup of coffee to an outside table so he could smoke. Gabriela appeared a few minutes later.
“Oh, there you are,” she said. She was dressed in dark slacks and a white blouse with a plastic B&N name tag pinned to her blouse. Her hair was raven black and framed her face.
Very pretty
, Bobby thought as he stood up.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “No, don’t get up. I’m just going to grab a sandwich. I’ll be right back.”
She came back quickly and sat opposite Bobby with a sandwich on a plate and a bottle of water. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m on till 6. If I don’t eat now, well …”
“No problem,” Bobby said.
She took small bites of the sandwich and studied him. “You don’t remember my brother at all, do you?”
“No,” Bobby said. “I’m sorry … about what happened.”
She nodded and looked down. “He had a lot of problems and it’s not so uncommon. Raymond was lost a long time ago,” she said, finishing her sandwich. Gabriela looked at Bobby’s cigarettes on the table. “Can I have one of those?”
“Sure,” Bobby said, offering her one. He lit it for her and watched her take a deep drag and cough a little.
“Wow, it’s been awhile. I quit about a year ago.”
“Yeah, I’ve quit a couple of times myself.”
“I had quite a crush on you,” she said, “after I saw you play at the assembly. I used to see you in the halls, by your locker, and I started going to the games to see you in the marching band.”
“That was a long time ago.” Bobby looked away, thinking of the early morning practices, the drilling, the music.
“You still play, right?”
“Yes, I’m working a gig not far from here on weekends.”
“That’s good. You were talented.” She paused. “I remember Raymond wanting to be in the band but it wasn’t cool, you know that macho shit, so he never pursued it. Maybe if he had he would …” Her voice trailed off.
“Look,” Bobby said, “I don’t want to bother you, I just, I don’t know, it’s been bothering me. I just had to—”
“See who Raymond was?”
“Yeah, I guess. Since I got the car back, I keep having these visions.”
“And there’s the horn.”
“Well, yes, that too.”
She nodded. “I have it in my car. Raymond came home that day, said he’d borrowed the car from a friend. I knew he was lying, but he brought the horn in the house, didn’t want anything to happen to it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I think he still thought about playing.” She stubbed out her cigarette and glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get back to work. C’mon.”
He followed her to the parking lot. She opened the trunk of her car. Bobby looked inside and saw the case. He flipped the latches and lifted the lid, and it was like seeing an old friend. He shut the case and took it out of the trunk.
“Thanks, thank you very much.”
“Where’s your car?”
Bobby hesitated. “Oh, a couple of rows over but you probably need to go and—”
“I want to see it.”
They walked over to his car. Bobby unlocked the door and put his horn in the back.
“Do you mind?” She looked inside.
“No.”
Bobby watched her run her hand over the seat, her finger tracing the bullet holes. Bobby shivered. She stepped back, her eyes moist now. “It’s kind of closure or something,” she said. “Thank you.”
“I understand.”
She managed a smile. “Well, I guess that’s it.”
“Would you like to come hear me play?” he blurted.
She smiled. “I don’t know if that would be such a good idea.”
Bobby nodded. “Sure, I understand.”
She looked away, then back at him. “But hey, why not. High school crush makes good.” She had a beautiful smile and she gave it all to Bobby.
Bobby gave her the address of Gino’s and they shook hands. She pressed her hand in his. “Thank you,” she said, then turned and walked back to the bookstore.
On the way home, Bobby drove by a deserted warehouse with a huge fenced-in parking area. He slowed, then pulled in the open driveway and drove around to the back of the building. He sat for a moment, the car idling, then slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The car shot ahead. He got up to fifty, then hit the brakes and turned the wheel hard. He threw open the door, stood up, crouched down, stood up again, then threw himself back on the seat, trying to feel the bullet that killed Raymond Morales.
Eyes closed, leaning back, Bobby circled behind the singer on “Lover Man,” looking for his openings yet not getting in her way. She finished her chorus and Bobby shuffled toward the microphone and played what he could till the bridge. He stepped aside and saw Gabriela Morales at a table to his left.
She was leaning forward, her chin resting on her hand, gazing at him with what he guessed was memory. Trying to remember that high school assembly? They finished the set with “Just Friends,” and Bobby scorched the small audience with two choruses that got him a phony smile from the singer that said,
Hey, I’m the star,
remember
?
He sat his horn on its stand and walked over to Gabriela’s table. “So, you made it,” he said.
She smiled. “You’re much better now than in high school.”
“Come outside with me,” he said. “I need a cigarette.”
“Me too.” She picked up her purse and put a napkin over her glass.
They walked up Ventura Boulevard a ways, not talking much, just getting used to each other. Finally, they stopped and she turned to look at him.
“So where do you think this is going?” she asked. Her eyes were so dark and deep.
He moved in closer and kissed her lightly on the lips. She didn’t resist, and when he pulled back, she opened her eyes and looked at him again. “That’s what I wanted in high school.”
“And now?”
She looked away. “What is this? You want to fuck the kid sister of the guy who was killed in your car?”
“What? No, I—”
She waved her hand in front of her as if she was shooing something away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from. Really, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came. It’s just, I don’t know, a connection with Raymond. Does that sound crazy?”
“No,” he said. “I think that’s why I came to the service. I wanted to see what your brother was about, what his family was about. I don’t know if I can keep the car now.”
They turned and started walking back toward Gino’s. “Raymond was a gangbanger, a cocaine dealer, and he lost. He got in over his head and couldn’t get out, except the way he did. I loved my brother but he gave my mother endless grief and worry. End of story.”
“And you?”
“This isn’t a good way to start. There must be a girlfriend somewhere, right?”
Bobby nodded. “I live with someone. Two years now.”
“Are you in love with her? Are you going to marry her?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby said. “I thought so.”
“I’m not going to be your girlfriend on the side.” A glimmer of fire in her eyes now.
“I know,” Bobby said.
She got quiet again, but her hand slipped into his. “We’re both here for the same reason,” she said.
Bobby knew immediately what she meant. They had both been touched by death and they were connected by it in a way only the two of them could understand.
“It’s maybe the one good thing Raymond did,” Gabriela said.
“Yes,” Bobby said. “Maybe it is.”
Ibarionex R. Perello
JERVEY TERVALON
is the author of
All the Trouble You Need
,
Understand This,
and the
Los Angeles Times
bestseller
Dead Above Ground.
In 2001, he received the PEN Oakland/Josephine Miles National Literacy Award for Excellence in Multicultural Literature. He is the writer-in-residence at Pitzer College and Occidental College, and is a California Arts Council Fellow. Tervalon was born in New Orleans, raised in Los Angeles, and now lives in the L.A. area with his wife and two daughters.
T
he interview for the position of personal chef for Monster Stiles was going to be at the Trump Plaza at this overblown, over-hyped restaurant that only idiots thought anything of.
Bridget, Asha’s girlfriend, was a thin blonde who wore a short skirt, even as the first flurries of snow fell from the gray sky.
“I hate New Jersey,” I said.
Bridget laughed. I didn’t mean for it to be funny.
“So, you had that cute restaurant in the Village?”
I smiled. “I don’t know about it being so cute.”
“I loved that place,” she said.
“I did too, but not enough.”
“Really? How so?”
“When I think about it, maybe I didn’t care for it.”
Bridget nervously tapped a fork against her water glass.
“Gibson is a fantastic cook,” Asha said. She glanced at me and probably could tell I was near tears.
“What happened?” Bridget asked.
I shrugged, and Asha took over. She leaned over and began to whisper to Bridget. Asha wore this loose-fitting, burnished-gold tunic. Her dark skin and hair looked even richer against the paleness of Bridget’s skin and hair. As Asha whispered, whatever resistance Bridget had toward me faded. Bridget was totally smitten with Asha and when Asha took her hand, she was transported.
I was almost embarrassed to see how much she was taken with Asha.
“Listen,” Bridget said, loud enough for me to hear, “I’ll tell you the bottom line. We have a hard time getting quality people up on the mountain.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“It’s a tough job, the type of job for a particular person who wants to be in a beautiful place and needs privacy. It’s very private there.”
“You mean isolated?”
“I call it very private. You can call it what you like.”
“Isolated. I don’t mind isolation. I don’t mind it at all.”
“Do you know who Lamont Stiles is?”
I shook my head.
“You’ve heard of Monster Stiles?” Bridget asked.
“The singer?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t do much of that anymore. He’s more of a producer with three acts at the top of the charts. Everything he touches is bling; his clothing line made millions last year and this year it’s expected to double in sales.”
“When you say bling, you mean …?”
“Priceless. You had to have heard of that expression.”
“Yeah, but I never used it.”
She looked at me like she had already made up her mind.
“So, Mr. Stiles needs a chef?” I asked.
“He prefers to be called Monster. He fancies himself the monster of music, of cutting-edge fashion, of life.”
“Monster, it is.”
Bridget laughed. “I like how direct you are.” Then her face hardened. We were going to get down to it. “You need to understand how this works. If you repeat this to anyone, I’ll get fired and you’ll get sued.”
I laughed. “Listen, I’m on parole. If I don’t jump through hoops I go to jail.”
She nodded and smiled at me after Asha patted her hand.
“This might be hard to believe, but many people aren’t comfortable on the mountain. It takes a special person, someone who really enjoys quiet and their own company. The perfect candidate for this job loves nature, because that’s where you are, in the clouds. It’s God’s most beautiful, pristine country. That’s what Monster loves about it, he’s above it all, but people get lonely for their families, for life outside of the
Lair
. Plus, well, Monster is demanding. He says that about himself.”
“How so?”
Bridget sucked her teeth. “You haven’t heard all that rubbish about him?”
“No, I really don’t keep up with the music scene.”
“He made all those bubble-gum pop songs. You got to wonder about people like that,” Asha muttered. “And he had that pet koala hanging around his neck.”
“He’s gotten rid of the koala, that was a big mistake,” Bridget said, with perfect seriousness.
“I’m not sure about this. What do people say about him? Is there any truth to it?”
Bridget laughed. “I’m not going to go into it. People say all kinds of things about him. You’d think he bathes in the blood of little boys. That kind of
National Enquirer
bullshit.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Well, it’s hard to explain,” she said softly, as though she were wary of being overheard. “Monster isn’t really someone I see a lot of. He is a great employer in that he’s very generous. But mostly he’s on the road or holed up in the
Lair
. It’s really his encampment, the inner grounds of his mansion and the gardens where most staff aren’t allowed. I think that’s how those horrible stories of Monster get out. Disgruntled former employees spread rumors when they really don’t know what goes on in the
Lair
. Anyway, if you’re really interested, I’ll fly you out to interview. Asha can come with you. I’ll show you Solvang and there’s this wonderful little Danish bakery. You’ll love the pastries.”
“I’m not sure of what he wants. Will I be his personal chef or will I be running the kitchen for everyone there?”
“You know, I couldn’t tell you at this point. With Monster you go with the flow. He’ll fill in the blanks, he always does.”
Bridget shrugged and put her head on Asha’s shoulder.
Business was done for the evening.
Asha wore something beautiful. She told me the name, but I immediately forgot. A Jabari? Whatever it was I liked it—a kind of purple pantsuit with fringe around the waist and cuffs. Bridget was in black again, straight leather, suitable for nightlife in the big city but fucking silly on a brilliant day in beautiful Solvang. Bridget was just as schoolgirl giddy to have Asha near as I remembered.
“You are too wedded to that job,” I heard Bridget say.
Asha shrugged. “You know, I trained to be a social worker. It’s what I wanted to do, and I’m happy with my life,” she said to Bridget. It was the same thing she said to me when I asked why she was so content to run a halfway house. I guess Asha was sincere in what she said to people; I admired that, and how rare it was.
At the Dutch bakery that Bridget was so high on, I lingered over stale strudel while the girls stepped outside to admire bachelor buttons and Mexican primrose growing along the road. They held hands, and I saw Bridget lean toward Asha to sneak a kiss. I hoped this Bridget knew what kind of woman she had in Asha, a human being of the first order. But maybe that was too much to hope for. I didn’t get a good feeling from Bridget. She probably thought Asha was hot and exotic, the domestic equivalent of an incendiary foreign affair without the bother of having a passport renewed. Maybe I was jealous, but I knew I was right about this Bridget and her bitch nature.
I was supposed to be put up somewhere spectacular, a woodsy resort over in the hills with an amazing restaurant and a wonderful chef I was supposed to know. Bridget mentioned more than a half-dozen times just how excited she was to take us to this slice of paradise. However, something happened to the reservation, or the charge card, and plans had changed.
As we drove downhill, back to the valley, I thought we’d all be staying at Andersen’s Split Pea Soup and Hotel—she mentioned that it was campy and fun—but Bridget obviously couldn’t wait to drop me off. Even so, she took the time to remind me that Monster liked prospective employees to be an hour early for interviews, expected her to be two hours early, and with unctuous sincerity she mentioned again just how important it was to make a good impression. Oh yes, he’d be there, he wouldn’t speak and I wasn’t to speak to him, but he’d be highly involved in the process.
Flow.
Monster could flow in any moment and seal the deal, but I couldn’t expect that.
Of course, I’d have an in, but really, it was up to me to seize the initiative.
Dragging Asha behind her, Bridget turned her rental around and roared back to the Santa Ynez Inn. Seemed Bridget made sure the Inn had one room available.
I had a bowl of very salty green soup and ate all the crackers in the cracker holder. I thought of ordering a beer, then I wanted a gin and tonic, then decided just a couple of hits off a crack pipe would do the trick. I had another bowl of very salty green soup and found the room Bridget had reserved for me.
I turned on the televison and flipped around. I watched rap videos for a while until it became painful, all that booty shaking and me not having gotten laid in almost a year.
I couldn’t help fantasizing about being a third wheel between Asha and Bridget—maybe they would suddenly want to experiment and include me. Yeah, I couldn’t sustain that fantasy, too improbable even for a hopeless optimist.
The next morning I got out of bed at 5:00, so nervous about how the day would go that I went for a walk, even though a fog had rolled in, concealing Andersen’s Split Pea Soup and Hotel to the point that it was difficult to know what direction to go in. I was lost almost immediately and had to get directions from the surfer dude behind the counter at the 7-Eleven. Then I remembered I needed new razors and shaving cream.
I meandered a bit, eventually finding my way back to the hotel and my room to shave my head with the precision of an anxious man with nothing else to do.
Instinct.
It was obvious what Monster thought of himself. Look at how hard he worked to eradicate the last vestiges of identifiable color from his life and skin.
I wouldn’t let him hold that over me. Lack of melanin never held me back; actually, it was a kick, a key to acceptance that never had to be explained. Never deny it, but why let them form the question? Don’t make them question their own generosity, don’t make them consider the intangibles. What does it mean to hire a black man? Is it the opposite of hiring a white man? The same?
Don’t ask and I won’t tell you.
I don’t know.
I know this, that Monster bolts up from night terrors, chest heaving as he rushes to the mirror to see if that bleach/chemical peel/skin brightener bled off, shed, absorbed away, or simply vanished.
Bet he lives in mortal fear of a stray BB, the living nightmare of the paralyzing threat of a nappy head.
Cool.
Even if he has a nigger detector, he’ll never see me coming.
I don’t pass, I slip by on the strength of the fact that I can. Maybe it’s self-loathing, but I never had the energy for too much of that.
I am what I am—the son of two African-American parents who were light enough to pass as white if they cared to. They didn’t because they were proud of who they were and embraced their African-Americanness.
Monster, though, doesn’t pass. He thunders by, shouting to the world, “See me! I’m not like them, I’m you!”
He hides in plain sight, and I guess I do, too. Race explains nothing about his insanity, or my blundering into acceptance and not wanting to rock the boat.
Probably, in that sense, we’re brothers under the skin.
Bridget showed up two hours late, a woman in desperate need of a toilet, but without a bit of an apology other than a curt, “Monster rescheduled a few hours,” before she hauled ass to the bathroom.
“Where’s Asha?” I asked, after she returned. I needed to see a friendly face, and Bridget’s wasn’t it.
“Sleeping in. She needs it,” Bridget said, with a hint of a leer, and I disliked her even more. It still ain’t polite to hit it and strut. As much as I admired and liked Asha, I couldn’t understand her taste in women.
Bridget sped to the 101 and headed east, back toward Santa Barbara. Another stunningly beautiful day. From the freeway, I could see the Pacific lurking behind the hammock of hills, and when we started to climb and banked west, I saw surfers, black stick figures on breaking waves.
Then Bridget turned east and we headed into the Santa Ynez Valley.
At an access road Bridget drove for another twenty minutes or so, until a craftsman bungalow came into view. Near the bungalow was an impressive gate, maybe ten feet high, blocking a well-maintained road.
A man in a gray uniform with a cap like that of a highway patrolman from the forties leaned into the window and took a look at me, then he thrust a clipboard into my hands. On the clipboard was a document which went on for four pages. I hadn’t gotten through the first page before Bridget tapped me on the shoulder.
“It’s a release. You can’t interview without signing it.”
“Give me a minute. I like to read before I sign.”
She sighed, and watched with narrowed eyes as I hastily flipped through the document.
“Done? Good. Now sign.”
I signed, and handed the clipboard back to the security guard.
Bridget burned rubber on the way out, as though she had to make up for lost time, though I thought we were early.
About a mile later she stopped at another bungalow with two very busy men sorting through packages stacked in the driveway. Bridget waved to them and headed inside and pointed to an oversize chair by a window. I sat down as she flipped through more paperwork. The interior of the bungalow resembled the layout of a nicely appointed law office. I remembered wanting to buy those heavy brass lamps with the hand-blown, leaded glass for the restaurant, but I had given up when I couldn’t get a reasonable price.
“Wait here. The head of security will be by in a few minutes to begin the interview. Then, afterward, maybe Monster will be ready to ask you a few questions.”
A door opened. A tall man entered dressed in the uniform that all these guys sported, as though they could change your oil, carry your luggage, or arrest you. All of them were trim, tall, and white; did Monster hire every washed-out Mormon FBI agent he could find?
Bridget handed him a ream of paper, and then he walked over to me with his hand out and paused, squinting as though he recognized me and wasn’t happy about it.
“Mr. Gibson, my name is Timothy Steele. I run security here at the
Lair
. I wonder if you could clarify a few things.”
“Sure, I’ll do my best.”
“You were arrested for attempting to buy a controlled substance. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“What was the controlled substance?”
“Heroin, to smoke. Usually it was cocaine, but the time I was arrested it was heroin.”
