Darker Than Any Shadow

Chapter Fifteen

Apparently, Padre roamed like a wildebeest on Sunday mornings. One neighbor said he’d gone to get a haircut, the other said he’d gone to get milk. I spent forty-five minutes walking Euclid Avenue, smelling the mingled Cuban food and motorcycle exhaust until I finally spotted him walking my way.

He took me up two flights of stairs to a cramped antique apartment, where he turned a box fan on full blast. And then he made tea. Unlike Trey’s tea, however, which came in pale white bags as pristine as linen pillows, Padre dumped spoonfuls of loose leaves from a Mason jar into a silver tea ball, then dunked it into hot water.

His apartment overlooked the street, a single shotgun room, dusty and filled with books. Photographs dominated the space—framed on the walls, propped against the floorboards, lying in stacks. Displayed sideways on the kitchen counter was a candid shot of a young Padre, his long hair ebony and wildly curled, a large mustache creeping across his upper lip.

I tilted my head to examine it. “How old were you then?”

“Barely out of diapers.”

A sewing table had been set up as a make-shift video editing station. Dozens of DVDs lay half-stacked next to a computer, surrounded by scribbled notes, lists, wires tangled like rats’ nests.

“What’s all this?”

“My latest project.” He pulled out the tea ball, added honey, then poured the whole concoction over ice. “It’s a video compilation of the team over the past few years, from their first pieces to their current work.”

He handed me my glass. It smelled like licorice and lawn clippings. A tentative sip revealed that it tasted the same way, only sweeter.

“That sounds fascinating.”

“It is. You can really see them come into their own.” He sat in an ancient cane rocker, sipping his tea. “Except for Lex. The only material I can find on him is from the last four months.”

“That’s because Lex was a phantom.”

“I’m inclined to agree. But the rest of them are all real.”

He leaned over and pressed a button on the player, and the screen flared to life. It was Rico. He looked impossibly nervous, sweating under the harsh light. “You begin in the softest of ways,” he said, and I knew I was hearing the very first time an audience had heard those words.

“Have you talked to him at all?” Padre said.

“A little.”

“Does he have family here?”

I shook my head. Ever since Rico had decided to live as an openly gay man, he and his parents had been on icy terms. Not that they’d officially disapproved, both of them being good liberals. But he was their only son, and they’d had different ideas about what his life, and theirs, would be like. I couldn’t imagine what would propel him back into their frigid enclosure, but I knew it wouldn’t be this particular trouble.

Padre returned his attention to the video. “I’m trying to show their range, but it’s been challenging. Vigil’s pretty good, but his poems are about money or sex or power. Good rhythms, but no heart. And Frankie doesn’t do sentimental worth beans. She’s only got one sweet poem that I know of, and it sets her teeth on edge every time she has to trot it out.” He fast-forwarded the video. “See? She looks like she’s chewing grit.”

I laughed. Frankie’s expression was strained, unlike her usual thunder and brimstone performances.

But I understood why she was trying. Rico had explained to me that being a performance poet requires a varied repertoire—something smart, something sexy, something political, something intensely personal. Winning a slam was more than delivering the poem perfectly. You had to deliver the right poem at the right time.

“Rico says choosing the poem to deliver is as much an art as the poem itself.”

“Ah, Rico.” Padre beamed. “A true servant of the word. Boy’s got heart and backbone. And he works hard.”

I’d noticed. Rico read, studied other poets, practiced for hours in front of the mirror. He always had a pen stuck somewhere, and usually an index card or two for scribbling. But if he didn’t have paper, he’d scrawl on his skin, the backs of his hand, his forearm, the dark ink almost illegible against his ebony skin.

“What about Cricket?”

Padre smiled and fast-forwarded yet again. There was Cricket, her eyes wide, her prettiness set on fire by the spotlight.

“That girl’s gonna go places once she gets some experience. She conceals too much on stage right now, like the real Cricket is tucked up safe inside. It all feels like an act.”

“And what about you, Padre? What kind of poet are you?”

His mouth twisted ruefully. “Me? I’m a relic. Haven’t you heard?”

He turned off the video, then bent and picked up the camera beside his chair, a clunky, multi-strapped contraption. He examined it, clicking through f-stops and film speeds, then he put one eye to the viewfinder and pointed it at me. I kept my face toward the window as he snapped shot after shot.

“Don’t say stuff like that. You’re a legend.”

“Which is a famous relic.”

“Stop being modest.” I took another sip of the tea. It was beginning to grow on me. “Why’d you stop leading the team?”

“It was time. I missed photography, plus Frankie’s good at being in charge. And making money.”

“I heard she runs an art gallery.”

“Owns an art gallery, a successful one too. Poetry doesn’t pay the bills, babe—all of us are something else from nine to five. But that’s not why she’s the leader. She’s a damn fine poet despite her lack of a sentimental streak.” He grinned at me from behind the camera. “Come on, give me a smile.”

I smiled, but kept my face averted, relieved when a knock at the door interrupted the impromptu photo shoot. Padre rose and peered through the peephole, then opened the door to reveal a young woman in a waitress’ apron, her ponytail swinging, face sweaty.

He looked puzzled. “Angie?”

“Hey, Padre. You left this on the counter this morning. We hit a slow spot, so I ran it over.” She handed him a white paper bag. “I slipped you another bagel too. Don’t tell.”

He accepted the bag, mumbled his thanks, then shut the door on the woman rather abruptly. He hustled the bag into the bedroom without explanation, shutting the door behind him, leaving me in the sitting area.

Alone.

My conscience prickled. I’d been trying to reform myself since hooking up with Trey—no sneaking, no peeking, no fudging. But the opportunity to snoop was irresistible.

I stood quickly and went to Padre’s desk, dominated by stacks of notebooks. A wooden bowl contained random detritus—rubber bands, paper clips, pens. Receipts and coupons and flyers crammed his in-box, and crumpled paper overflowed the wastebasket.

Then I saw the folder. It was shiny, clean, and thick with paperwork. I peeked inside and saw contacts and indemnity agreements, all of them lawyer-dense with small print, all of them riddled with zeroes. Lots of zeroes. Soon, Frankie wouldn’t be the only financially successful team member.

Except that Padre wasn’t an official part of the team anymore.

He came back from the bedroom as I closed the folder, but if he noticed me standing there hunched and furtive beside his desk, he didn’t say a word. When he sat again, he was much calmer.

“Sorry. Old man brain again. I leave stuff lying around everywhere.” He hoisted the camera, then lowered it. “Come on, Tai, I know you’re not here to get your picture taken. What’s up?”

“So maybe I have one question. Who usually provides the CDs for team events?”

“Frankie.”

“But Friday night, Adam said Frankie hadn’t brought enough. Who else would the team call?”

He scratched his chin. “Maybe Frankie’s assistant?”

“She has an assistant?”

“Yeah. Debbie. Weird chick. Wannabe poet. Almost your age and still lives with her parents. She claims to be a textile artist.”

“A what?”

“You know, she runs one of those online shops full of hand-knit beanies and fingerless gloves. Wearable art. She and Lex were tight, but I think he was only shining her on.”

“About what?”

“About being a poet. She frankly sucked. Her work was juvenile, sloppy, derivative. I think he liked having a groupie, though, so he kept her on the hook.”

“Do you have her contact info?”

“Sure.”

He went to his desk and rummaged in the in-box. Then he paged through a decrepit notebook, finally scribbling a phone number on a piece of scrap paper.

“Here you go. That’s her cell.”

I put it in my bag. “Was she there Friday night?”

“I didn’t see her. I got there late, though. Traffic.”

I remember Trey’s pronouncement, that Padre had been lying. And yet when I looked into his face, all I saw was honesty, clear and plain.

He sipped his tea and watched me watching him. “How well did you know Lex?”

“Not at all. You?”

“Only a little. He had potential, but he spent too much energy on the clothes and hair, not enough on craft.”

“Did you get along?”

“Nah. He didn’t want to drink from my fountain of wisdom. His loss.” He winced. “Our loss, I mean. Lex was a baby. You’re supposed to think you’re hot shit when you’re a baby. Like I said, he had potential. Frankie and I may have our disagreements, but we both agreed on that.”

We hung out in the silence for a second. Through the open windows, I heard the babble of tourists, the roar of Harleys. Padre picked up the camera again. He seemed more comfortable with it in his hands, something to keep between us.

“You and Frankie don’t get along?” I said.

“Oh, we do okay. She’s mad about the documentary, but she’s gonna have to stay mad. I made that happen, so I get the proceeds, I get the control, and she has to suck it up.”

He said it pleasantly, too pleasantly. I suspected the conflict between him and Frankie ran a lot deeper than he was letting on. He hoisted the camera again. This time I didn’t look away as he fired off several shots in a row.

“Was Lex a problem for your documentary?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because he was a problem in lots of other ways.”

“Drama means ratings, ratings mean money. And Lex was good for drama.”

“But you wouldn’t provoke drama for drama’s sake, would you?”

“I wouldn’t. But then, this isn’t totally my show.” He shrugged. “That documentary is theatre, as scripted as a sitcom. We get our dialogue written, all of us, and then we strut and fret upon the stage.”

“Famous words.”

“Famous last words.” He stood up and stretched, returning the camera to its place beside the chair. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to get ready for tonight. I assume you’ll be there?”

“What’s tonight?”

“Lex’s memorial. Haven’t you heard?”

He handed me a flyer announcing a candlelight remembrance service for Lex Anderson, scheduled outside of Lupa. It was professional, tasteful and smacked of a PR agenda.

“This Frankie’s idea?”

“Of course. But as ideas go, it’s not a bad one. Whoever else he was or wasn’t, Lex was one of us.”

There was nostalgia in his words. He kept saying “us,” and yet he was no longer the team leader, no longer on stage. There was no “us” that included Padre anymore.

“Do you miss performing?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his chin. “But spotlights cast a long dark shadow, and I don’t miss that. I’m content being behind the scenes now. Less angst, more money.” He indicated the flyer with a jab of his chin. “So are you coming?”

I tucked the paper in my bag next to Debbie’s contact info. “I’m coming. I have a previous engagement I have to juggle, but I’ll be there.”

Padre tilted his head and looked at me curiously. “Are you convinced I didn’t kill him?”

“Is my Nancy Drew showing?”

He held up two fingers. “Just a smidgen.”

I laughed. “Reasonably convinced. But you might surprise me.”

“Nice to know I still can.”

He moved to the door and opened it. I shouldered my bag, paused at the threshold.

“Thanks for talking to me. You and your old man brain were very helpful.”

Padre didn’t react. Suddenly he did look old. Suddenly, in the stale light, he looked positively ancient.

“You’re welcome,” he said and shut the door quietly.