Vulnerable (35 page)

“It must be the moon,” Stefanie said.

From head-to-toe, Stefanie was overkill. She wore too much makeup; her artificial nails were thick which made them look all the more fake; and she wore gaudy rings on most of her fingers and one thumb. Her face had a glow, and she was easy to be around. Rawn learned the evening he let her use his roadside service card that she did not get real worked up. With a good attitude, she approached life with the intent to
live
it however it came at her.

“What do you mean?”

“Excuse me,” Stefanie said to a woman about to take the empty stool next to Rawn. “I was here first,” she said to the thin young woman holding a drink in her hand. When she slid onto the stool, Stefanie yelled out, “Bartender!”
While she waited for him to attend to her, she turned to Rawn and said, “This place was on it tonight!” She slammed her hand against the bar. “Something told me to come. It's gotta be the moon!”

Derric, the bartender, said, “What can I get you?”

“Another rum and Coke for my friend. And I'll have a California Cooler.”

When Derric walked off, Rawn said, “I have to drive. I don't need another rum and Coke. And Stefanie, aren't you too young to be drinking?”

She rested her elbows on the bar. “Oh, and like you didn't drink at twenty!”

“Touché!”

Delicately, she rubbed his hand. “How you doin', baby? I pray for you every single night. I tried to call you. Did you change yo number?”

With a shake of his head, Rawn said, “No.”

“I must've transposed the numbers when you gave me a lif'. I got dyslexia. So tell me something?” Rawn looked directly into Stefanie's eyes, but her eye-shadow was so over-the-top it distracted Rawn. “You remember that night when you help me wif my car?”

Derric returned with Stefanie's cooler and Rawn's rum and Coke.

“Thanks, Derric. Put it on my bill.”

“So, guess what?” Stephanie said.

“What?” Rawn asked, amused.

“Remember you tol' me I should think 'bout goin' to college?”

“I still think you . . .”

“Let me finish, Mr. Poussaint! So, guess what?”

Rawn looked up to Stefanie, and it was her tone that ignited his curiosity.

“I got into Central. They actually accepted me.”

“Stefanie, that's awesome!”

“Ain't it?” She grinned. “I gotta tell ya, I was shocked, though!”

“Congratulations! I'm proud of you.”

“I would'na done it if it what'n for you, Rawn.” She reached over and kissed his cheek, leaving a dark rouge-lipped impression against his skin.

Touched, Rawn reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Call me if you ever need any help. Will you do that?”

“You know I will!” She laughed. “I'll probably drive you crazy and you'll change yo number fo' sho'. But nothing for nothing, you ain't change it and all these nosy reporters know it.”

From the corner of his eye, Rawn caught a woman at the end of the bar who looked like she might be waiting for someone. Amid a crow, her presence stood out in the room. She caught Rawn looking at her, and Stefanie took a glimpse across the bar to see what or who got Rawn's attention. Before she could distract him away from the noticeably pretty woman, Rawn cut his eyes away. He reached for his rum and Coke and emptied what was left in the glass.

“By the way,” Stefanie said. “I was about to ask you something before Derric butted in on us.”

“What's that?” Rawn's eyes drifted back to the very attractive woman at the other end of the bar. She was no longer there. He tried to stay focused on Stefanie instead of seeking the young woman out in the club.

“That night when you help me wif my car? Remember you was…you needed to do somethin'. And I toldju that if you gave me a ride, maybe what you thought you needed to do…”

“I remember.”

“Did you ever do it?”

Rawn replied with, “It's all good.”

Stefanie reached for her cooler. “See, I toldju!”

An hour later, Rawn stood in the shower, letting the water purify his skin. His mind was unnaturally blank. His thoughts were always several steps ahead of him. He was not sure that he heard his telephone ringing, and it was very late—nearly two in the morning. It had to be his imagination. Once he was out of the shower, he roamed through the shadowy apartment in his robe. He knew he would not be able to sleep. He ended up in the kitchen. With the full moon pouring into the room and giving him sufficient illumination, he did not bother turning on the light switch. He reached for a red pear in the fruit bowl. He leaned against the counter and took a bite. The sound of a tree branch scraping against his window alerted Rawn, and he turned to look out. Raindrops glistened against the nude branches of the tree on the other side of his large naked window. He would remind himself to call the apartment manager to have the branches trimmed. He tossed the half-finished pear in the trash. Rawn caught sight of the red light blinking on his answering machine. He pushed the button to hear the message, and he assumed it was Stefanie making sure she did not transpose his telephone number again.

“Hi, Rawn. Baby, I'm sorry.”

The electronic voice on the machine said, “No more messages.”

“Tamara?”

“
T
he trial of
Washington State v. Rawn Poussaint
gets underway one week from today. We will bring you live updates on the hour. Ezra Hirsch, the high-profile attorney who defended Lou Baker Washington one year ago, and Henderson Payne in 1993, has managed to not only get the trial moved to Seattle where the jury pool is more diverse, he has also managed to…”

Khalil clicked the remote control to silence the audio. “Blah, blah, blah. I never did like her. How'd she get that job?”

“Bad mood?” Moon said, flipping through a day-old
International Herald Tribune
in bed. Clad in a silk spaghetti-strapped nightie, she picked up her black tea and reminded Khalil, “My flight leaves at six.”

He slipped his slacks on and turned to admire her waist-long jet-black hair spread out over the pillow. She looked like she was posing for a shampoo advertisement. “You'll be back during the trial?”

She looked up to him, skeptical. “Would this be the best time to meet Rawn for the first time?”

“It's support, Moon. Black folks have a different way of doing things…you being at the trial won't in any way offend his sensibilities.”

“Yes, then of course I'll come back to be a support for him. I heard the trial was going to be at least a month long. This whole thing is so…Even in London, it's popular conversation. D'Becca Ross was a beautiful woman. It's tragic.”

“Why does it take a beautiful woman…No, a beautiful
white
woman to be murdered or abducted or whatever to make the media notice and for it to be
tragic
.”

Moon was fully aware that it was a statement, not an inquiry.

Slipping on his shirt, Khalil studied Moon closely. While she read the paper, she occasionally sipped her tea. Moon was very feminine, and graceful. “That's the right black tea, right?”

When their eyes met, she winked flirtatiously. “It's perfect, baby.”

Khalil said to himself, “I know that's right.”

“I'm sorry?”

With a grin he said, “Nothing.”

His cellular rang, and Moon retrieved it from the nightstand. She handed it out to him, saying, “Here's your accomplice.”

Reaching for it, he laughed. “Khalil Underwood!”

“Hey!”

“Henderson, my man. You in Boston?”

“Yeah, man. And it's cold as hell.”

“Wait! Anything wrong?”

“Why something got to be wrong, dude?”

“I'm checking. You don't usually call me on the road unless it's important.”

“Can we hook up?”

“When do you guys get back to L.A.?”

“Tomorrow. But let's make it day after.”

“I can come to you or we can hook up in the Marina.”

“Come by the crib. Say four o'clock.”

“See you then.”

Khalil tossed the cellular onto the bed and sat at the edge of it. When he bent over to slip on his shoes, he felt a weird, unconscious panic.

The following morning, he cancelled two appointments in order
to meet with his most high-profile client. Henderson Payne lived in the Hancock Park section of Los Angeles; a ride that was approximately fifteen minutes from Khalil's cottage above Sunset Plaza. His office, not far from the cottage, was ten minutes from Henderson's. At that hour, and with traffic, it took fifteen minutes, give or take. The street Henderson lived in was enchanting with Old World charm; it was wide and antediluvian tree-lined. Each time Khalil pulled into the long drive, he saw something new about Henderson's home. Set away from the street, the Italianate had a washed sienna façade with extra-tall palm trees amid beautifully cared-for foliage with meticulously manicured lawns. Henderson purchased it when he signed his new deal, and it was grand, opulent. Following his acquittal in 1993, Henderson spent a year in Italy playing ball, and was seduced by the culture's charm and immortality. While residing there, he bought a villa. When he returned to Los Angeles, whenever he passed a beautiful woman, he would say
ciao bella
, the way the Italians did it, and his wardrobe was strictly Italian, right down to his shoes. While in Italy, he managed to sign several lucrative endorsements. The Italianate was on the market for a week, and Henderson bought it sight unseen. The purchase made the front page of
The Wall Street Journal.

Henderson's black convertible Porsche was halfway between the front of the home and the four-car garage in the rear. Daphne generally kept her Range Rover parked in the rear by the garages until she was in for the remainder of the evening. Khalil did not see her SUV, and this made him superficially edgy. When he turned off his engine, two stunning Dalmatians rushed up barking. Henderson stood inside the frame of his black double doors in faded Levi's with a slit in the left knee, a white designer T-shirt and flip-flops.

“It's love, man. Don't freak—they know you,” Henderson called out, laughing. “Pepper! Seville! Come back here!” Henderson
commanded the Dalmatians. “Come on, girls! Come back in the house.”

When he stepped out of his car, Khalil received a call. He elected to disregard it in case it required time or privacy. When he reached the door, he and Henderson shook hands and shoulder-bumped.

The house loomed quiet. Henderson walked Khalil through the entrance gallery that led to an airy living room highlighted in soft watermelon-hued walls. The artwork that hung in the room was purchased while he lived in Italy: vivid and exceptional pieces that made no sense to Khalil. A fire was burning which added a serene ambiance to the ornate room. Several plush sofas and chairs sprawled the wide, rectangular area. The living room's arched French doors enhanced the indoor-outdoor spaces, as each led to a different angle of the west loggia outlined in aged brick that spilled out onto the limestone-paved courtyard and pool.

They left the rambling living room and entered a sitting room richly decorated in chocolate and amber, with suede sofas and velvet overstuffed chairs. A striking photograph of Daphne on the cover of
Vogue
Paris hung in an oversized frame on one wall, and the opposite wall was adorned with black-and-white and copper-colored photographs of Henderson's children—in the park, at his games, one of the children's sleepover, having a bubble bath, at a birthday party, asleep in their father's arms while he read a newspaper. Those photographs—unbelievably breathtaking—relayed an ambiguous tale.

“I thought we could have beers…or naught. It's a nice day. One of the reasons I worked my ass off to get here. Or would you rather stay inside?”

“Either way. I've always been pulled to this room.”

“Cool.” Henderson sat in one of the exquisite ivory-black chairs.

Khalil took a seat at the edge of the suede loveseat.

“Should I have Lucinda bring us something?”

Khalil crossed his legs. This was, to all intents and purposes, his employer. Since taking him on as a client, they went to a few Dodger games together, and last year Henderson took him to see Kathleen Battle for his birthday. He spent one weekend with his family on Catalina Island during the off-season; and they drove to Palm Springs for a golfing tournament and to Vegas for a boxing match. They were not friends per se; Khalil made every effort to draw the line between business and personal matters because it had the potential to cloud his judgment if he became too close to a client. Yet when Henderson called and invited him to do this or go there, he was often irresolute. He was among several of his most visible clients, and getting personal came with the job; thus, one showed up! Generally, he knew why he was meeting with Henderson. All day the day before he could not imagine why he summoned him to his home.

“I'm cool. But Lucinda does make one good margarita.”

“Should I?…”

He threw his hand out. “No, really.” Khalil uncrossed his leg.

While the room did not feel stuffy in the least, Khalil was not exactly relaxed and at ease with his client's intrigue. He crossed his leg again while Henderson, casual, rested comfortably in the seat. His long legs stretched out, he placed his finger to his temple while his thumb rested under his chin. “You know I have two, possibly three good years left, right?”

“Of course.”

“Jabbar is my hero, but I don't want to be forty-two when I retire my number.”

“Sure; fine.”

“How's your friend?” Henderson asked.

Khalil realized he was inside his head and was not exactly sure what Henderson said to him, although he knew it was a question. “Excuse me?”