Darker Than Any Shadow

Chapter Two

“Of course I didn’t tell you,” Rico said. “You’d do exactly what you’re doing right now—give me the third degree.”

Gone for this one night were Rico’s baggy warm-up pants and oversized football shirt. No baseball hat, no unlaced Converse. Instead he sported an ice-blue linen shirt, complemented with graphite gray trousers and spit-shined grown-man shoes. Every piercing he had remained, even the one in his eyebrow, but he’d gone with tasteful diamond studs and sophisticated silver hoops for the occasion. They gleamed against his chocolate skin like pirate booty.

“This isn’t the third degree,” I countered. “Third degree involves yelling and thumbscrews.”

I was almost yelling anyway, over the increasing din of the restaurant. Lupa was packed wall-to-exposed-brick-wall with poets and friends of poets and wanna-be poets—it smelled of perfumed sweat and air conditioning mingled with a barely detectable hit of polyurethene.

“It’s not like I wasn’t going to tell you,” Rico said. “I figured you’d notice when Trey strapped on the gun.”

“You could have told me before then.”

“I never had a chance.”

“You had lots of chances!”

He slid an impatient glare toward the front door of the restaurant, where Trey stood at the entrance, backbone like a ruler. I knew Trey required a wall against his spine. He needed a clear line of sight to at least two exits, plus a primary cover and a secondary one. No distractions, which meant no conversation, no food, and no drink—except for Pellegrino. Trey always had a Pellegrino close at hand, this time with a twist of lime. He was a man of habits. I’d been able to break only one—he now occasionally kissed me without being told to do so first.

We did other things too. He still waited for me to suggest those.

Rico looked frustrated. “Doesn’t he ever sit down?”

“No.”

“Can’t he at least be—oh, I don’t know—covert?”

“Former SWAT ops don’t do covert. In Trey’s experience, ‘look out for things’ means prepare for the threat of imminent lethal aggression.” I pointed. “See how he keeps his right hand free? That’s his gun hand. Even from a shoulder holster under a jacket, he has a draw time of one-point-four seconds. That’s how close he is at any moment from ventilating someone’s chest cavity.”

Two twenty-somethings at a nearby table simpered at him, crossing and re-crossing their legs. One wrapped her lips around a pink straw in a pinker drink. Trey took a sip of his Pellegrino and put the glass back down. He used his left hand to do this.

I leaned closer to Rico. “So maybe you don’t want me poking at your problem. Maybe you prefer Trey, who will keep a nice respectful distance and not ask any inconvenient questions. But remember this—you cannot undo him. He’s the nuclear option. Once you’ve engaged him, you’d better be prepared for whatever follows.”

Rico examined Trey again. I knew he was seeing the surface—polite, controlled, efficient. He couldn’t see the underneath. I’d tried explaining and gotten nowhere. But how could I explain? I myself had only glimpsed it from an angle, like seeing a ripple of patterned hide in the jungle and knowing it for a tiger. I had only seen its shadow. Yet the memory held me transfixed sometimes, like when his strong gentle hands went around my neck…

I swallowed the last of my champagne. Rico kept his eyes on Trey.

“Tell him to stand down, and we’ll talk.”

“Not until you spill it.”

“Not now.”

“Yes now.”

Rico eyed me warily. “Fine. But you gotta promise not to tell Adam. He’s freaked out enough already.”

He jabbed his chin toward the merchandise table, where his boyfriend Adam stacked tee-shirts and CDs. The two of them had been dating for five months, living together for four of them, and already I could tell that it was serious. They made a good couple—Rico dark and suave, Adam fair and boyish. Tonight he looked like a cross between a choir boy and a farmhand, with blue jeans and a windowpane plaid shirt, his corn-colored hair in a halo of tousles and cowlicks. He waved and grinned when he saw us looking, as innocent as cherry pie.

I waved back, then crossed my heart seriously. “Not a word to Adam.”

Rico poured another glass of champagne. “We want to put Vigil back on the team.”

“Vigil the switchblade-toting felon? Is that a good idea?”

“Depends. He’s a good poet.”

“If you like anger and attitude.”

“People do. And he’s got community support.”

I remembered the PR materials for the team, which played up Vigil’s do-gooder status. Vigil shooting hoops with kids at the Atlanta Children’s Shelter. Vigil attending community initiative meetings and working voter registration drives.

Rico poured more champagne for me too. “Only one problem. He’s got it in his head that I was the one who set him up.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. He called yesterday, told me I’d be sorry for slipping that knife in his pocket and siccing the cops on him. I tried to call him back, but he’s not answering, and nobody knows where he is, not his sister, not his mama, not the team.”

“How did this happen?”

“We were at a middle school art show, all of us, team members and alternates and significant others, everybody. The damn metal detector goes off as Vigil’s walking in, so the cops search him, find the knife, haul him downtown.”

“Why does he think you’re the one slipped it on him?”

“Beats me. And now he’s threatening me instead of letting me help him figure out this mess.”

I knew better than to ask Rico why he hadn’t gone to the police. He had a philosophical stubborn streak about organized law enforcement. The fact that he not only tolerated Trey but also genuinely liked him said more about Trey than about Rico relaxing his prejudice.

“So you decided to put Trey on lookout duty?”

“We’ve all got a lot riding on this next week, as individuals and as a team. Not that I think anything’s going to happen. But you two were coming anyway, and I thought better safe than sorry.” He sent another look Trey’s way, like maybe he preferred risking sorry after all. “So will you tell him to sit down now?”

“Not on your life.”

“But you said—”

“You were threatened by a recently released felon with a vengeance issue, and you expect me to tell Trey to sit down? Screw that.”

Rico muttered a curse and tossed back the last of his champagne. Then he poured another glass, keeping his eyes on Adam, who still hustled merchandise beside the makeshift stage, empty except for a microphone stand. Rico was usually the crown prince of smooth, pure butter, but tonight he jangled.

I put a hand on his wrist. “Let Trey handle Vigil. That’s why you called him, right?”

“Vigil’s only a part of the problem. There’s another part right there.”

I followed his gaze to a table in the corner where two people sat, male and female. The guy was an ambisexual creature in black leather pants and a rivet-studded white tee-shirt, an artery of red highlights running through his ebony hair. The overall effect was art-kid and fey, but the details were pure goth, from the slant of eyeliner to the pendant around his neck, a grinning skull melded with an Egyptian ankh. It was as big as his fist, ostentatious, designed to provoke.

“Lex Anderson,” he said. “Vigil’s replacement. Frankie’s busting his chops for coming late to the photo shoot this morning and missing practice yesterday. Four days on the team and he’s falling apart.”

Frankie, I recognized. The team leader. Dazzlingly tall and built like a Valkyrie, she wore earth-toned flowing pants and a low-cut saffron blouse with bell sleeves. A massive curly mane tumbled in dark brown tendrils around her shoulders. She had eyes like sharpened pieces of topaz, and she never remembered my name. I was beginning to think that every time Rico introduced us, it was the first time all over again.

As she explained things to Lex, his smile froze in place. For a minute I thought the two would erupt into an argument, but Lex slid down in his chair and shrugged. Frankie leaned forward and tapped the table emphatically with her forefinger. Lex stared at her with slitted eyes.

Rico watched them over his glass. “Frankie’s two seconds from ditching him and putting Vigil back in, regardless of his vengeance issue.”

“But the competition starts next Friday! That’s—”

“A week, I know.” He shook his head. “It’s a gamble. But Lex is flaking out on us, and the team can’t compete without four people. And if the team can’t compete, then neither can its members in the individual competition. And I’ll tell you this about Frankie—she’s all for the team, but right now she’s got her sights set on that individual trophy.”

Of course she did. The winning team got a wad of money and a truckload of glory, but the team competition was merely a warm-up to the main event, the individual rounds. And this year, the first place individual finisher took home a lucrative prize—the starring role in a spoken word poetry documentary. Lots of lights/camera/action, plus the maraschino on the whipped cream—an all-expense-paid tour in the fall. Fifteen cities, featured billing, top venues.

“Is the movie business putting stars in Frankie’s eyes?”

“More like dollar signs. PPI signed the paperwork last night.”

“PPI?”

“Performance Poetry International, the umbrella organization. The big dogs. They made it official, so the film crew’s been setting up cameras at the Fox Theatre all day.”

The Fabulous Fox Theatre. Venerable, opulent, and capable of seating almost five thousand, it was the site for Friday’s team round and Saturday’s individuals.

Rico swirled his champagne. “Let me tell you, there’s serious money behind this, which means there’s even more serious money to be made. It’s making everyone a little crazy.”

Of course it was. Money sandwiched with fame was a performance poet’s dream come true. Let other poets have the clothbound books and juried awards. Performance poets craved the spotlight, the solo, the jazzed-up juice of a headline tour. Throw in hotels and plane fare instead of random sofa beds and packed vans, and I figured any one of them would toss his or her mother under a bus for the shot.

Even Rico.

In the corner, Lex fidgeted in his chair, his boot-clad feet stretched in front of him. His hands tapped out a drum beat on the tabletop, then played with the salt and pepper shakers, rolling them through his fingers. The backs of his hands shone with glyphic tattoos, and his nails gleamed jet black in the candlelight.

“He looks nervous.”

“He drinks too much Red Bull. Probably does other stuff too.”

“Is he good?”

“His poetry is okay. His big problem is that he wastes his energy on stage work, like eyeliner is gonna win this.”

“He keeps looking our way.”

“That’s all he’d better do.”

The acid in Rico’s voice was potent. I caught his eye.

“Something personal going on?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s a team problem, and we’ll deal with it as a team. And we’ll do it tomorrow. As for tonight, drink more champagne and stop asking questions. My nine days of vacation leave started four hours ago, and I’m not wasting another second of it arguing with you.”

He tilted the Roederer bottle, and a few drops dribbled out. He started to stand, but I beat him to it.

“I’ll get another bottle. But only if you promise we’ll talk more after you perform.”

“I told you—”

“You told me part of the story, not all. You’ve still got something tucked in your back pocket, and I want the rest of it after the show. Okay?”

He didn’t contradict me. “Okay. Now go get some champagne. And maybe fix this mess while you’re at it.” He reached over and wrapped a thick finger around one dirty blond, tumbled-down curl. “You know, into a hairstyle or something.”