The Trials of Nikki Hill (17 page)

In seconds, two uniformed policemen, both white, were out of the prowl car, guns drawn and flanking their vehicle. “Hands on the dash,” the one near Virgil ordered.

Nikki placed her hands in front of her. Through the splintered windshield, she saw the Chevy disappearing into the distance.

“On the dash, now,” the cop shouted at Virgil, who finally complied. Nikki could feel the fury and frustration coming off of him like a blast of energy.

Through clenched teeth, he said, “I’m a plainclothes officer with the LAPD. My ID is in the top pocket of my shirt. I—”

“Just cool your jets,” the cop from Culver City said. He opened Virgil’s door and, keeping his gun aimed, reached in and fumbled the brown leather folder from the detective’s pocket.

With some reluctance, he holstered his pistol and placed the ID and badge on the dash between Virgil’s vibrating hands. “He’s a lawman,” the cop told his partner.

“Then he oughta know better’n to be flying down Washington like that,” the partner said.

“I was in pursuit of a vehicle,” Virgil told them, enunciating slowly.

“I didn’t see no vehicle ’cept yours, brother. And you was traveling at eighty-plus. Dumb fucking thing to do along a boulevard where there are kids and old folks. I oughta run you in anyway, but we’ll write this off to professional courtesy.”

“That’s mighty white of you, officer,” Virgil said.

The cop glared at him. “You got that right,” he said. “You better replace your windshield. It’s against the law, driving with it in that condition. The next officers you meet may not be as white as us.” He and his partner sauntered back to their bubble car.

Virgil turned to Nikki and said sheepishly, “I handled that pretty well, huh?”

She shook her head sadly.

“I’m sorry. It’s stupid to let my temper get the upper hand.”

“Those officers were right. You coulda killed somebody. Us included.”

“I know,” he said. “I had no right taking chances with your life. It won’t happen again, Nikki, I promise.”

“Maybe you’d better just take me home.”

“Please don’t say that. I know I just put you through a bad time, but let me try and make up for that.”

What in the world’s going on in my head?
she wondered.
Why am I cutting this lunatic so much slack? Do I really want to know the answer to that question?

“Okay. Dinner,” she said. “Can you drive with the windshield messed up like that?”

“Sure.” He took his gun from its holster and knocked out the pieces of broken glass until he had a clear view. “My insurance company’s gonna jus’ luuuv me,” he said.

The restaurant he selected was a new place on La Cienega Boulevard called the Other LA. It reminded Nikki of an upscale roadside tavern in some 1950s movie—wooden floor, heavy dark tables and chairs, and padded leaf-green leather booths with brass studs. The difference was that moss was hanging from the rafters and a huge oak tree seemed to have sprouted up in the center of the room, its leafy top extending toward an open skylight.

Once they were ensconced in their booth, Virgil seemed to relax, but she noticed he’d positioned himself in the corner where the leather met the wall, the better to get a 180degree view of the room and its inhabitants.
Great. Reckless
and
paranoid.

Their drinks arrived at their table with astonishing speed, carried by a handsome, very light colored man whom Virgil greeted enthusiastically, asking him to join them. The man’s name was Desmond St. Jean and he and his brother, Phillipe, both Creoles from Louisiana, were the owners. He was charming and flirtatious, assuring Nikki she was much more beautiful than her picture in the paper. He suggested that they let him create the menu for them.

Watching him move on to greet his other patrons, Nikki said, “That man’s a serious hunk. Somebody should put him in a movie.”

“He’ll think that’s pretty funny. See, him and his brother, we all met makin’ the rounds out here, tryin’ to get some producer to do just that.”

“
You
wanted to be an actor?”

“Sure. And I wound up working undercover. Pretty much the same, except the pay is lousy and the bullets are real. But I can guarantee you, actors—even the superstars—don’t eat any better than we will tonight.”

The first course, a delicious crawfish bisque, was followed by a seafood jambalaya. She studied Virgil while they ate, trying to get a fix on why she found him appealing. He was handsome, of course. But she’d had handsome. He was...different. A man who gave his emotions full rein, moving from laughter to anger, from crude to sensitive, in the blink of an eye. Life with him would never be dull. But wasn’t dull what she wanted? Hadn’t her time with Tony taught her anything? Was it recklessness that attracted her?

Virgil freshened their glasses with the dry white wine Desmond St. Jean had sent to their table. “I saw your boss on TV today,” he said. “You and him any way involved?”

She shook her head. “Strictly business.”

“I thought I caught something in his face when he started talking about you.”

“He was talking about me on TV?”

“Said you were his eyes and ears on the Madeleine Gray investigation.”

“Well, that’s nice of him,” she said, feeling a little giddy from the drinks and the wine. “And you caught something in his face, huh?”

“The camera picks up funny stuff,” Virgil said.

“An actor,” she said. “Came all the way out here to be an actor.”

“Why else would anybody come to this loony land?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t have a choice. I was born here.”

“Where abouts?”

“Grew up in South Central.”

“Paper said your daddy was on the job for a full twenty-five.”

She nodded, keeping her face neutral. “I didn’t see much of him. My grandma raised me after my mama died.”

“Brothers or sisters?”

“No.” Actually, she had a half sister, but she barely knew her. “You?”

“Had an older brother. Passed away.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We grew up down south. Thibodaux, Louisiana.”

“Then you’re a Creole like Desmond?” she asked.

“Not exactly. See, the St. Jeans were part of what they call the Creole aristocracy. Their ancestors were opera singers and poets and composers. My daddy was a sharecropper. The thing we have in common, Desmond’s family and mine, is that we’re too black to suit white folks and too light to suit blacks. That’s down South. Out here, we’re professionals.”

He looked at her. “You’re sorta fair yourself,” he said. “Got that touch of red. ‘Redbone.’ ”

“You’re starting to sound like your alter ego, Juppy.”

“Yeah.” He grinned at the memory. “I called you ‘Red’ that day. It fits. You mind the name?”

She always had. But maybe she was changing.

“It kinda goes with those freckles.”

“Never liked the freckles.” She was definite about that.

“They’re sweet.”

“Enough about my freckles. I want to hear about you.”

“Well, like I say, my daddy farmed land. His daddy was a local judge. A white man. Had himself a legitimate white family but he saw to my grandma, and he seemed to like her well enough. When he died, he left her some money. She passed it on to my brother and me. I took my share and got out of that little tarpaper shack fast as I could. I was sixteen.”

“You came out here then?”

“Nope. Got as far as Atlanta. Met a woman who picked me clean. Followed her and her pimp to Chicago where a cop friend of my daddy helped me get some of it back. I stayed on with him and his wife, finished high school, and then came out here to be the next Billy Dee Williams.”

“Did you know anybody out here? The St. Jean brothers?”

“I didn’t meet them ’til later,” he said. “But my bro was out here. Caesar. You gettin’ the idea my mama liked Roman history? Anyway, I spent my first year in L.A. sleeping on the couch in Caesar’s downtown loft.”

“How’d he die?” she asked.

“He was an innocent. Couldn’t tell the scumbags from the good guys. Wound up on crack.”

He looked down at the tablecloth, lost in some private memory.

Nikki felt her heart opening up to him. “It’s getting late,” she said.

During the drive to Ladera Heights, they communicated mainly in silence, he glancing her way from time to time, knowing her eyes were on him. “I definitely get the feeling we’re starting something here, Red,” he said.

She had that same feeling. It scared her.

As they strolled to her front door, they heard Bird inside galumphing across the living room to greet them. Virgil stopped Nikki and drew her to him. When they kissed, she felt like Sleeping Beauty. Sexually speaking, she’d been asleep for so long the intoxication of a new romance was waking up her body.

But as good as she felt, hot from the kiss and pleasantly woozy from drink, she didn’t want to give it up just then. Not on the first date with this reckless wildman. That’s why she’d left the bunny slippers out, why she hadn’t bothered to clean up the bedroom. Of course, she could run in there and fix it up in seconds .. .
No! I don’t really know this man. And as good as his body feels next to mine, and it does feel good...

With some reluctance, she pulled away from him.

He stared at her in surprise.

“Time to say good night, Virgil.”

“Seemed to me that that kiss was saying ‘Come on in, Virgil.’ ”

“Then I guess I should have saved it for next time.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“That’d be—”

She was interrupted by the roar of a souped-up engine. The Chevy they’d been chasing earlier rounded the corner and screeched to halt beside Virgil’s T-Bird. Inside the house, the big dog sensed conflict and began to bark.

Virgil ran down the walk, drawing his gun. The driver’s widow descended and the boy behind the wheel tossed a beer bottle that broke at the detective’s feet. Then the Chevy spun away, leaving rubber streaks along the otherwise spotless street.

By the time Nikki reached Virgil, the car was long gone.

“You were gonna shoot ’em for throwing bottles?” she asked.

Virgil looked at the gun in his hand and smiled, putting it away. “See, Red. You’ve been a good influence on me. I didn’t even pull the trigger once.”

“Any of that broken glass catch you?” she asked.

“Naw.” He shook his head in wonder. “It just keeps get-tin’ worse. Kids so crazy, if you don’t roll over when they first mess with you, they spend the whole night following you around, tryin’ to get even.”

“That how you see it?”

He frowned. “Yeah. You got other ideas?”

“They went to a whole lot of trouble. Laid in wait to trail us to the restaurant, then here. Just because you chased them on the freeway?”

“Why else?”

“Maybe they recognized you. Or me.”

“Ahhh. I see what you’re gettin’ at.” He smiled. “This is the price I pay for going out with a celebrity who’s a figure of controversy.”

“You
can
be an idiot,” she said. “A sweet idiot.” She kissed his cheek. “Try to stay out of trouble on your way home.”

Watching him drive away, she doubted he was taking the incident as lightly as it seemed. She wasn’t taking it lightly at all. She gave the street a wary scan, then stepped around the shards of broken bottle and went into the house to calm Bird down. The glass cleanup could wait until morning.

T
WENTY-NINE

J
amal Deschamps woke up Friday morning to the smell of coffee. He didn’t care for brew, didn’t like the taste of it, but the odor was definitely def. He smacked his lips a couple times to break up the sleep dust, then let himself slowly drift to the surface of consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw two dudes parked near his bed, quietly sipping from white cups.

He was propped up. The nurse, a horsey-looking sister with a lot of miles on her, had rigged some kind of pillow thing to take most of the pressure off his back wound. But he could feel the deep cut throbbing away. The sutured slash across his leg was singing a little pain song, too.

Medication time.

“One of you guys reach the buzzer for the nurse?” he asked.

Jesse Fallon, who was nearer the hanging buzzer, gave it a squeeze.

“Nice of you to come visit, Mr. Fallon,” Jamal said. “Been here long?”

“Just long enough to enjoy a cup of coffee. Care for one?”

“Nope. I get my breakfast later.”

“They treating you well?” Fallon asked.

“It’s okay. Who’s your shadow?”

The man sitting on Fallon’s left was of medium height, just a bit on the skinny side, in his forties, maybe, with the goofiest comb-over Jamal had ever seen on a white guy. It sorta swirled around the man’s dome without doing much for the bald center.

“This is Ernest Jolley,” Fallon told him. “He’s going to be handling your suit against the Los Angeles Police Department, the district attorney’s office, and the City of Los Angeles.”

“Since when did I decide to sue City Hall?” Jamal asked.

“We’ll ask for ten mil. I think we can expect a settlement of upwards of two,” Jolley said. He was a very pale man with blunt features and something that might have been a strawberry rash on his right cheek.

Jamal turned to Fallon. “I don’t get it.”

“Simple business,” Fallon said. “In today’s market, when someone makes a mistake, they pay for it. Arresting you was a mistake.”

“Two million, huh?”

“At the very least.”

“How do we split that?” Jamal asked.

Fallon seemed to find the question amusing. “Sixty forty,” he said.

“I suppose I know who gets the forty,” Jamal said. “Let’s see, forty percent of two million dollars is...”

“A good day’s work,” Fallon assured him.

T
HIRTY

B
y ten-fifteen that day, Goodman and Morales were in Halyard & Company Fine Jewelers, standing at the rear of the main showroom with the store’s manager, Leland Petit, a rangy fellow with a deep tan who resembled the late actor Rock Hudson during his healthier days. He glanced at the ring that Goodman had just handed him, then returned it, saying, with a surprising amount of sincerity, “I wish I could help you, but it’s store policy not to give out information about our customers.”