He glanced hard at me. I knew he wasn't waiting for me to flinch.
"Anyway, I have to go schmooze our favorite politician," he said to Wells, his personality picking up when he talked to her. He waved to Councilman Waters and pretended like I wasn't there as he went off to do his thing. Stadanko put his arm around Waters, whose district included the Coliseum and who was head of the Coliseum Commission.
"Having a good time?" That was lame when I was in junior high. But them brainy chicks always threw me off. Never knew what to say, or how to say it.
"Business," she said softly. "I'd rather be home reading a book or listening to Etta James and sipping a glass of merlot."
Fuck. Last book I read was the thing that explained my NFL pension and benefits. "I know what you mean." I was dying. But she hadn't moved off.
"I saw an interview you did while you were on the Dragons for the British Channel 4."
"You doin' better than me," I said, impressed. "How'd you stumble on that?"
"Interesting people always interest me."
"Uh, thanks." Damn, Urkel was smoother.
The muscle boy who'd been shadowing Weems all of a sudden decided to make himself handy.
"This man crowding you, Ms. Wells?"
"You better get back to the kennel, fang."
He got in my face, huffing and puffing. "You are a nuisance." He put a hand on me and I slapped it away
"It's okay, Trace, Mr. Raines and I were simply conversing." She smiled at me.
"Yeah, you know what conversing means, don't you?" I said, taunting the chump. Let him go off. I'd wind up with a couple of million in my pocket from the league if he did.
The muscle beneath his flaming cross throbbed, and we did the stare down for a few seconds. "As you say, Ms. Wells." Fang stomped off.
I wish you luck with the Barons, Mr. Raines. You should know that Jon Grainger and Tommy Earl are also doing a walk-on for the wide receiver slots."
I appreciate the tip." I wanted to ask her why she was giving me the heads up, but nixed it.
I better work the crowd myself," she said.
"Hope we have a chance to converse again."
"Surely"
I watched those hips moving underneath the clingy dress and forgot all about my problems, at least for a few minutes.
Chapter 3
What I need is some real support from you, Zelmont." Davida kicked at one of her throw pillows. "You say you're down for my career, but you don't act like it."
"I'm sorry, was I supposed to have your picture tattooed on both my arms instead of one?" A big jet zoomed overhead.
"Asshole." She threw a magazine at me.
"Be cool," I warned, wondering how the hell she put up with living near the airport.
She threw another magazine at me, a thick one must have been Cosmopolitan.
"What I tell you?" I shoved her down on the couch.
"Oh, the big bad wide receiver like to beat up on the poor Chicana from Boyle Heights who used to catch three buses to dance class and then go to work to help her family?"
"That how you gonna sell it to the tabloid shows?"
"Maybe. Could be the jump-start I need for my singing career."
I laughed without thinking.
She sat up in a hurry. "What the fuck's that mean?"
"Come on, let's go get some breakfast."
"No, we ain't got no time for no pinche breakfast. What did you mean?" She was right under my nose, shaking a red nail at it.
"Davida, ain't neither one of us exactly at the top of their game."
"Yeah," she said real quiet, waiting to spring.
"Look," I moved around her living room, "you yourself have said you knew you didn't have the strongest voice in the world. Damn, all kinda singers use, what do they call it, recording over their own voice a couple of times to beef the vocals up." Come on, Zelmont, talk your way through this. Don't blow this thing where you can jug this fine mama any which way but loose anytime you want.
"My voice is refined, Zelmont, like a precious vase. It isn't harsh like Tina Turner's or Anita Baker's." She was following me around.
"If they's harsh, maybe you ought to get your nana to light one of her prayer candles so you can run up on some of that." I knew I shouldn't have said it, but she got me mad, talking down to me and all.
She popped me in the chest and was about to go for two when I caught her wrist. I bent it hard.
"Shit. Bully."
"You like it."
She kicked at me but I scooted back. "That's old, and you're slow."
"Let go, motherfuckah."
"No." I forced her back and bent to kiss her. She slapped me, stinging. I got a look from her 'cause I could feel my mouth twist on one side. "You don't want that."
A shade of fear flashed in those black eyes of hers. "Zelmont, let go."
"Hmmm." I was going to back off, but then she gave me a certain smile. Like she was playing me. Outside she was scared, which I liked. I wanted respect. But inside she was marking me for a chump.
I put my hand on her face, my triceps tightening. I blitzed her head toward the wall, letting go right before she made contact with it.
"Puta!" she screamed.
I watched her, chewing on my bottom lip.
''Get the fuck out of my apartment, bitch,'' she yelled.
I felt like doing something else to her. I got a warm rush in my gut, like the time I beat Henderson's coverage on me for the Bears in 20 degree weather. I cakewalked into the end zone, having outrun a dude who the sportswriters said was gonna make me eat muddy ice. I was getting hard, like I did back then too.
"Leave." The worry was in her voice.
I came closer. "Why, late for your singing lessons?" I put a hand on her chest, rubbing that mound.
She stared at me, not blinking.
I brought up the same hand like I was gonna hit her, getting a gasp from her. "See you, Davida."
I was hungry but too worked up to eat. I started driving over to Nap's club for our appointment, knowing I'd be early. It was one of those gray, funky days that hit L.A. sometimes. I got off the Harbor at 9th, going around the one-way block. I went down Flower to 11th, then cut back west. I parked next to Nap's Lincoln and knocked on the metal door. Also on the lot was a silver Prowler with shiny black rims and one of those limited edition Nissans done up like a '34 Ford Coupe hot rod. Both had yellow running lights.
"Nap," I said, knocking again. I didn't get an answer, so I tried the latch. The door was unlocked and I went inside. A bottle of something exploded upside the door, spraying glass inches from my head. I leaped over a low rail, slamming a foot into a dude in a long leather coat. He fell back, knocking over a cocktail table.
He said something that wasn't English or Spanish, but I wasn't taking a language lesson. As he tried to get up, I brought one of Nap's thick ashtrays down on his skull and heard a satisfying crack. He wilted to the ground as I went forward.
Two others had ganged up on Nap. Another one was draped against the bar, his belly pointing to the ceiling. One of the two spun my way, bringing up an arm like a ref making a call. His gun clacked, but I was already diving behind a fat pillar.
I hunched there, heard a grunt, and came around the pillar. The gunman and Nap were mixing it up, Nap ramming one of his molded forearms under the dude's throat. The other one had been swatted against a potted plant. He now had a blade out and I lifted one of the small round tables.
"Yo, man." I threw it and tagged his ass in the sternum. I rushed over and stomped him twice in the face before he could spit.