All the Lucky Ones Are Dead (23 page)

Gunner was still intrigued by Ray Crumley's homicide, to be sure, but he no longer believed it was connected to the Digga's death. That possibility too had so far proven to be unfounded, and therefore seemed to beg no further active investigation. Unfortunately, ready as he finally was to move on, Gunner had one last lead to pursue before he could close the Elbridge case with a clear conscience: Bume Webb's assertion that Alred Lewis had had the Digga murdered just to put a stake in Bume's heart.

It was a theory rife with improbability, but Gunner did the right thing and endeavored to explore it anyway. His drug-dealing nephew drove a canary-yellow Porsche Carrera a nearsighted man could spot eight blocks away, and the investigator sat in his Cobra across the street until he saw Alred park the car in the Holiday Bowl parking lot, then saunter slowly inside. Alone, as requested.

After giving Alred enough time to enter the coffee shop, take a seat, and not find Del there waiting for him, Gunner went in himself and spotted his nephew sitting in a corner booth with his hands crossed in front of him, looking as out of place in a bowling alley as a tuxedo at a square dance. Tall, hairless, and strikingly handsome, the twenty-six-year-old was dressed from head to foot in black, in clothing that fit him to perfection and cost the equivalent of a pro athlete's monthly income, and the expression on his face, as always, promised nothing but trouble to anyone who dared even mildly annoy him.

He saw Gunner coming almost immediately, but didn't move, just watched him advance with a searing disdain. He let his uncle sit down in the booth across from him, then smiled, asked calmly, “What the fuck are you doin' here?”

“My league starts rolling in an hour. I saw you come in, thought you might like some company.”

Aired's smile shifted to the other side of his mouth. “That's funny. But I didn't come here to be amused. What the fuck is goin' on? Del said—”

“Del won't be coming. He only called you because I asked him to. I'm the one who needs to talk to you, Aired, not him.”

Aired glared at him, letting the smile slowly ease off his face as he tried to figure out if he should leave now, or wait a little longer. “I thought we agreed last time we saw each other, Uncle. We don't owe each other shit no more.”

“This isn't about what we owe each other. I'm not—” He cut himself off as a short, cheerful Asian waitress materialized beside their table to ask if they were ready to order. Gunner asked her to bring him some pork fried rice just so they could keep their table—great Chinese food being the coffee shop's atypical specialty—then turned to his nephew again when she departed. “I'm not looking for any favors this time, Aired,” he said. “This time I just want some answers to a few questions. Questions about you and Bume Webb.”

Aired hadn't been expecting that. “Bume who?”

“Come on, Aired. You're gonna pretend you don't even know the man, we're gonna be here all damn night.”

“Okay, so I know 'im. Bume Webb, lord of the record bus'ness. What about 'im?”

“I went to see him out at Chino this morning. He says the two of you are in business together.”

“Me an' Bume? Bullshit. That nigga's
yesterday's
news, what do I wanna be in business with his ass for?”

“He was actually speaking in the past tense. According to him, you were the money man who helped him get his label Body Count off the ground.”

Alred laughed. “Shit. He's delirious. Bein' locked down must be fuckin' with his mind.”

“You're saying he made the whole thing up?”

“I'm sayin' I don't give a fuck what the nigga has to say about me. And neither should you.”

“I'd be inclined to agree with you, Aired, except I'm not so sure what he says isn't true. An enterprising young millionaire like yourself has to put his money somewhere, and the stock market isn't always the answer. If Bume came around looking for a key investor in his recording company a while back, I could see you pitching in a few dollars to help rather easily. Just as I could also see you taking some serious offense later when he tried to deny you what you felt was a fair return on your investment.”

Alred grew quiet, offering no denials.

“The reason all of this concerns me, in case you were wondering, is that someone hired me earlier in the week to look into the death of Bume's boy the Digga, and Bume seems to think you'd be an excellent place for me to start.”

“What?”

“Basically, the man said you wanted more credit for Body Count's success than you were due, and that having the Digga killed was your way of thanking him for not giving it to you. It's a little far-fetched, I know, but you can't honestly say it could never happen.”

Aired was furious now. “It's bullshit,” he said. “And that's all I'm gonna say about it. In here with you, anyways.”

“What? You don't trust me to be discreet?”

“I don't trust you, period. You been ridin' my ass since I was ten years old, there ain't nothin' you wouldn't do to try an' fuck me.”

“If you're trying to say you think I'm wired here, you can rest easy. I'm not. Busting you on racketeering charges is a job for the Feds, not me. My only interest in you is finding out whether or not you had something to do with C.E. Digga Jones getting the back of his head blown off two weeks ago.”

“I already told you, I didn't. And you're a goddamn fool if you need me to tell you that shit.”

“Yeah? Why's that?”

“Because the Digga was worth more alive to me than he was to Bume, that's why. I'm the one lost out when the nigga shot hisself, not Bume.”

“Sorry, Aired, but you're losing me.”

“Talk to the Digga's manager. Desmond Joy. Ask 'im who the Digga was gonna be recordin' his next three records for. Body Count, or New Millennia.”

“I already know how Joy would answer that. He'd say New Millennia. He told me two days ago they were just waiting for the Digga to sign the contracts when the kid died. But what's that got …” His voice trailed off as his mind raced forward, answered the question he was about to ask before he could even state it.

The smallest of smiles appeared on Aired's face.

“You're
New Millennia. The Digga was getting ready to sign up with
you
.”

“I got some good people runnin' things for me, but yeah. That's right,” Alred said. “You just said it yourself, Uncle. A man's gotta put his money somewhere. And the stock market don't always do.”

Their waitress chose this moment to deliver Gunner's rice, and he was happy to have the interruption. He hadn't figured Alred would freely confess to the Digga's murder, but this was an even greater surprise.

“Does Bume know?”

“What? That I own New Millennia?”

Gunner nodded.

“Naw. Don't nobody know. I was gonna wait till the Digga signed the deal, then show up at the press conference to announce it, get my face in all the pictures so Bume wouldn't have no choice but to see me.” He laughed.

“Bume doesn't believe the kid would've gone through with it,” Gunner said. “He says the deal was all in Joy's mind, that the Digga was too much Bume's boy to ever leave.”

“He does, huh? Well, he don't know. The Digga was
already
gone, he couldn't wait to do bus'ness with me.” He watched Gunner run a fork around in his rice listlessly, taste it like a kid forced to eat creamed spinach. “What's the matter, Uncle? Lose your appetite?”

Gunner didn't even look up from his plate, just said, “You can go now, Aired. Sorry I bothered you.”

“Oh no. Not yet. I ain't had a chance to ask
you
no questions yet.”

“Questions? What do
you
need to ask questions for?”

“'Cause information's a big part'a my business, Uncle. That's why. You say somebody hired you to look into the Digga's death. What the hell's that mean?
They
think I whacked his ass too?”

Gunner sighed, seeing his nephew was determined they converse like two people who could actually stomach each other. “You or somebody else. They've got the idea he was murdered, and they wanted me to prove it. Only you can't prove something that never happened, can you?”

“No. You can't. I coulda told you that when you first got started.”

“Yeah, well. Forgive me for not consulting you sooner.”

“I mean, if anybody was gonna serve that nigga, it was his wife. Danee. On accounta how homeboy played on her ass mornin', noon, and night. I seen some brothers run some games on their ladies, but the Digga, god
damn
…” He shook his head just thinking about it.

Gunner stopped eating, studied Alred intently. “Yeah, I've heard all about it. He even had some girls up in his room the night he died. Maybe by chance you know them.”

“I might. Who was it?”

“Couple of sisters named Antoinetta Aames and Felicia something or other, I don't have a last name for Felicia yet.”

“You ain't talkin' about Felicia White?”

“I just told you. I don't know. Am I?”

“That's the only Felicia I know. Felicia White. She use' to be one of my man Rocket's bitches. 'Fore she got sick, anyways.”

“Sick? Sick how?”

“Sick with the AIDS, man. What else? Felicia's a first-class ho', Uncle. Rocket use' to have her ridin' every dick in San Bernardino County, it was just a matter of time ‘fore she got the virus.”

Gunner put his fork down now, shoved his plate all the way to one side. “Hold it a minute, Aired. Let's back up here a little.”

“Back up? What for?”

“This Felicia White you're talking about. Does she have a girlfriend named Antoinetta, or not? Because if she doesn't—”

“Yeah, she got a friend name Antoinetta. Least, she introduced me to a girl by that name up at the club once. She was a freak just like Felicia. Two of 'em'd fuck a doorknob they thought it was gonna feel good to 'em.”

“But if this Felicia's HIV-positive …”

“Yeah. That's right. The Digga was lookin' to catch the shit hisself, he was gettin' busy with her like you say. 'Less he was wearin' a hat, which I seriously doubt.”

Gunner stood up from the booth, tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table under his nephew's nose. “You have an address for this Felicia White, Aired? Or a phone number?”

“No. Hey, what's up? Where you goin'?”

“What about her pimp? This guy Rocket you mentioned?”

“I got a number for him, yeah. Out in the car. But—”

“You're gonna have to give it to me. Come on, let's go.”

It was the worst possible ending to their meeting, and the one Gunner had feared above all others. Alred “Ready” Lewis, his insufferable, crack-selling nephew, telling him something useful, and thereby doing him yet another favor.

A favor he knew he would someday, somehow, be expected to repay.

f i f t e e n

“I
DON
'
T UNDERSTAND YOU
, P
OOLE
,” G
UNNER SAID
. “I
F
I'd've wanted you to come, you'd've told me to go fuck myself.”

Poole laughed. “Yeah. I probably would've. I've gotta get myself a hobby, huh?”

They were sitting in the LAPD detective's unmarked olive-green Crown Victoria, watching nothing happen outside of Antoinette Aames's Culver City apartment building from a half-dozen parking spaces down the street. It was a few minutes past nine Thursday evening, and dark. Quiet. Both men held a cup of coffee in an AM-PM cup in one hand, while a set of faxed mug shots featuring Aames and Felicia White, respectively, sat on the bench seat between them. Gunner had looked the photos over when Poole first handed them to him, then had put them down, disgusted. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen two women look more indifferent to being busted. White, in particular—fair-skinned, long-haired, and Asian-eyed—seemed to be grinning at the police photographer with all the come-on she knew how to manufacture.

Gunner wondered if she'd looked at Carlton Elbridge that way, just before going down on him.

“What time is it?” the investigator asked Poole.

The cop glanced at his watch, yawning, said, “Twenty-one-oh-nine. We're goin' on two hours here.”

Gunner nodded, fixed his eyes on the front entrance to Aames's building again. They'd already gone up to her apartment twice, received no answer when they rang the bell. It wasn't proof she wasn't home, of course, but the darkness behind her windows seemed to suggest that was the case.

“You wanna tell me again why we're doin' this?” Poole said. “Not that it's likely to make any more sense the second time around, but …”

“You didn't have to come, Poole. You invited yourself, remember?”