Joplin's Ghost (13 page)

Love across the miles, Phoenix thought ruefully, closing her phone to hang it up. She couldn’t complain, though. It wasn’t any better on her end.

“I don’t think Ronn knows who Scott Joplin is,” Phoenix said, thinking aloud.

Gloria was flipping through the menu channel to see what movies were on pay-per-view. Phoenix hadn’t been to a movie theater in at least three months, so she didn’t recognize any of them. “So? Lots of people don’t know who Scott Joplin is. Quit being such a snob. You didn’t know Ra-Kim. All you knew was M. C. Hammer.”

In truth, Gloria was a much bigger fan of rap than Phoenix. Phoenix’s staples on the road were Billie Holiday, Michael Jackson, Lauryn Hill, Stevie Wonder, Rubén Blades, Led Zeppelin, the Mississippi Mass Choir, Sweet Honey in the Rock and jazz piano wizard Gonzalo Rubalcaba. She could go months without her rap CDs, except for Talib Kweli and OutKast. She’d been embarrassed more than once at Ronn’s parties, where her ignorance was obvious.

Phoenix sighed. “I’m just not sure I’m really feeling this thing with Ronn.”

“You don’t have to have his babies right off. Just give him a chance, Phee. And don’t get silly and tell him about your extracurricular activities last night,” she said, smiling.

“That’s
your
fault. I’m not crazy, dang. Not that he’d care.”

“Don’t fool yourself. You know the double standard.”

They agreed to watch Denzel’s last thriller, but Phoenix only made it halfway through the movie before she fell asleep, and not because she wasn’t
trying
to hang on to Denzel’s every word and movement. She only realized she was sleeping when the image of Denzel and a woman in a hat riding on a dark, shaking train didn’t match the movie’s dialogue. That, and Denzel didn’t look at all like Denzel—and the woman in the hat might be her.

A squealing, frenetic car chase woke Phoenix. She sat up, confused. She didn’t see a train on the television screen, just a police car speeding after a gray older-model car. Gloria was munching on a bag of chips from the minibar. “You’re paying me for those,” Phoenix mumbled, half-asleep. Their last minibar bill had been nearly a hundred dollars.

Gloria gave her the finger, not looking away from the television screen. “Eat me.”

“You wish,” Phoenix mumbled.

“No,
you
wish,” Gloria said with a sly grin. They still argued over whose idea it had been to practice kissing through plastic wrap, each insisting it was the other.

“Eff off. I’m turning in.”

The room was cold suddenly, as usual.
Rule #1 of hotel life: All hotel rooms have two temperatures—too hot or too cold.
Phoenix forced herself to stand up. She could make up for her foolishness last night and get eight hours of sleep. Thank God her morning-drive radio interview had been canceled. She wouldn’t have to brace for Sarge’s six o’clock wake-up call.

“Love you, cuz,” Gloria called softly as Phoenix shuffled toward her room.

“Love you, too, cuz.”

Phoenix realized she was shivering, her molars clacking softly.
Now
she knew why this hotel, unlike Budget Inn, offered two thick terry-cloth robes hanging in the closet. Four-star hotels definitely had their charms, she thought. Phoenix pulled open the slatted doors to her large walk-in closet, hoping to find a bathrobe waiting.

With the door open, the overhead light in the sweetly scented closet flickered like a waking fluorescent bulb, then flared, bright. Phoenix’s concert costume hung in a dry-cleaning bag, the only clothes in the closet. Most of her other clothes were in the bureau drawer, already unpacked. She couldn’t relax anywhere until she had moved in, which drove Gloria crazy.

Phoenix saw a blue-covered ironing board hanging from hooks on the wall. Two terry-cloth robes hung beside it on plush hangers, so Phoenix tugged on the robe closest to her. As it came free, Phoenix noticed two shiny black shoes on the floor. Men’s shoes, by the look of them. Had Kendrick left a pair of shoes behind?

The robe still hanging above the shoes fluttered in tiny ripples, as if it were a flag billowing in a slow breeze. That was when Phoenix realized there was a lump behind the robe. She saw the neck and chin of a black man half-hidden beyond it, not four feet from her. Her heart dove. The two black shoes shining on the floor were
on this man’s feet
. A man was hiding inside her closet! At first, Phoenix only gaped at the shoes and back up to the lump and the exposed skin, feeling her rib cage bind itself around her lungs. The robe’s fluttering grew so violent that Phoenix heard the hanger rattle against the wooden rack. What was he
doing
?

With a yell, Phoenix balled up the robe in her hands and threw it at the man as if it were a weapon. Then, she backed outside of the open closet door, slamming it shut behind her. The sudden motion made her lose her balance, landing squarely on her backside. Despite the carpet’s padding, electric pain stabbed Phoenix’s taibone.

The pain did it, as if it were a harbinger of more to come. Phoenix let out a fevered scream unlike any that had passed her lips since she was ten.

B
y ten o’clock, the hallway outside of Phoenix’s suite was so jammed with people that it looked like a concert after-party. Even in Phoenix’s shaken state, a half dozen police officers seemed excessive.
They must have me confused with Beyoncé.

Security officers had come in matching numbers, dressed like parking valets in crimson jackets with the hotel emblem sewn in golden thread across their breasts. Arturo hung protectively near the elevators, his eyes watching anyone coming or going. The other dancers—Milli and Vanilli, as Phoenix had started calling the dreadlock-wearing teens—sat cross-legged on the hallway’s carpet, eating snacks as if they were watching a movie. Sarge went from person to person, overseeing as usual. Gloria had not left Phoenix’s side, holding her hand.

The police hadn’t found the intruder yet. Two officers were still in the suite, and Phoenix had overheard a discussion about a K-9 unit to back them up—which wouldn’t be a good thing if Gloria still had the dime bag she’d scored in Houston—but so far the search had failed. The room had windows, but who would be crazy enough to try to escape from ten stories up?

This was not what she needed the night before a concert. Phoenix tried to block out the commotion so adrenaline wouldn’t keep her awake and blow her gig.

Gloria’s voice suddenly caught her ear: “His name was Kendrick Allen Hart, from Brooklyn, New York.” She was talking to a wiry, crew-cut officer taking notes.

At first, Phoenix thought she must be hearing wrong. But Sarge had overheard Gloria, too, because he stood behind Phoenix like a towering oak. “Who’s Kendrick Allen Hart?”

Gloria gave Phoenix an apologetic look over her shoulder, then she went on, “He’s a fan who stalked her last night. I’m sorry, Phoenix, but it’s true. He found the room last night and kept knocking on our door. Someone from the hotel told him she was here. He wouldn’t leave.”

“Why the hell didn’t I hear about this before?” Sarge said.

Phoenix pulled her hand from Gloria’s grasp, irritated by the heat of her cousin’s palm. “That’s my private business. The man in my closet was much shorter. It wasn’t Kendrick.”

“You saw his face?” Sarge said.

“No. But I
know
it wasn’t Kendrick. He wouldn’t do that. Gloria’s exaggerating.”

“How the hell do you know what a stranger would or wouldn’t do? A
fan?
” Sarge said it like it was a dirty word. He’d put a few overzealous fans in the hospital, or jail, over the years.

“He’s right, Phoenix,” Gloria said.

Gloria had been the one trying to push her into bed with that boy, warning her to keep it quiet, and now she’d made it public record! Phoenix couldn’t wait to get her cousin alone. Angry tears smarted in Phoenix’s eyes. She forced herself to gaze directly at her father’s face, where anger glittered from his molasses-colored irises. She recognized bright fear there, too, and she had never seen Sarge afraid of anything.

“He spent the night with me,” Phoenix said softly, but not softly enough. Phoenix glanced toward Arturo down the hall, who had lowered his chin to give her a
say-WHAT?
look. The anger in Sarge’s eyes melted into disbelief, then snapped to anger again. He didn’t speak, but his eyes spoke volumes, The Ray times six.

“For the sake of argument,” the officer said, “just tell me what you know about this Kendrick Allen Hart. He won’t get in trouble if he didn’t do anything wrong.”

Phoenix felt her face burning, and she prayed she wasn’t blushing, one more reason she wished she had more of her father’s melanin in her skin. “I know it wasn’t him.”

“He’s a student at NYU,” Gloria said. “He said he came to see her on a bus.”

Phoenix had to physically restrain herself from slapping Gloria’s face. What was
wrong
with this girl? This wasn’t an episode of
Law & Order,
this was her personal business!

As if on cue, Phoenix’s phone vibrated. The phone suddenly felt like a rescue boat, and Phoenix snapped it open, turning away from both her father and the police officer. “It’s probably my mother,” Phoenix said, before anyone could object.

But it wasn’t Mom. “Are you all right, baby girl?” Ronn’s voice said. He sounded hyped up, like he could pounce through the phone.

Phoenix couldn’t repress her tears. She felt moisture roll down each side of her face, racing toward her chin. “Yeah,” was all she could manage.

“You don’t sound like it.”

I’m about to kill my cousin, that’s all.
“Just a little stressed.”

“You want me to fly down there on the next red-eye?”

“No, don’t do that. Really, it’s fine. They’ve got half the force up in here.” Phoenix glanced up at the officer, whose attention had turned back to Gloria while she gave him a physical description of Kendrick. Her cousin sounded as if she were a police officer herself, full of meticulous detail. Phoenix’s anger and embarrassment cinched her stomach.

“I’m just worried ’bout you,” Ronn said.

“Don’t be worried. He didn’t touch me. It’s probably a joke or something.”

“Naw, fuck that,” Ronn said. “I don’t like this shit, Phee. Not with this DJ Train drama. You know what I’m sayin? There’s mad beef against Three Strikes these days.”

“I know.”

“Well, it’s like I just told Sarge—this ain’t no game. I was gonna pull you out, but if you wanna finish your business, I’m hooking you up with a new room at the Ritz. You go on and do that show tomorrow night if you want, but my cousins from Kansas City are on the way, and they’ll be in front of your door until the sun comes up. Then I want you to fly to L.A. first chance you get. I wanna hold you and make sure my baby girl’s safe. A’ight?”

Phoenix nodded, momentarily forgetting he couldn’t see her. She wondered if Ronn’s cousins would be armed. Her life was becoming a foreign landscape. “All right.”

“Miss Smalls?” the officer said, irritated. “I need your attention. I’m filling out a report.”
You spoiled-ass diva,
he was probably thinking.

“I gotta go, Ronn,” Phoenix said, almost a whisper.

“A’ight, baby girl. Call me from the Ritz. I love you, Phee.”

Ronn had never said that before. Kendrick never would have gotten through the door if Phoenix had suspected the words
I love you
were anywhere in Ronn’s mind.

After she hung up, Phoenix told the officer no, she didn’t have anything to add to her cousin’s statement—
Except that Gloria can kiss my ass,
she thought
—
and could she please be excused? The officer gazed at her skeptically, then closed his notebook and fanned it, dismissing her, as if he figured she’d brought whatever had happened on herself.

Gloria squeezed Phoenix’s shoulder, whispering in her ear. “I’m sorry, Phee. If it turned out he was the one, and something happened to you, I’d never forgive myself, cuz.”

“Don’t even talk to me right now,” Phoenix said in a frozen voice, and Gloria let her go.

The two officers investigating the suite came out with relaxed shoulders, shrugging. “Well, whoever was in there is gone now,” the heavier officer said. “It’s all clear.”

Phoenix brushed past Gloria to go back inside, hoping for peace, but she heard a din of voices behind her as others followed. In her bedroom, the bureau drawers were wide-open, and her clothes and underwear had been scattered on the floor, in trails. The linens were thrown from her bed, exposing a slightly stained mattress cover underneath. She recognized the black tank top that was part of her concert costume crumpled on the floor inside her closet, inside a tangle of dry-cleaning bags. Sonsof
bitches
.

“These damn cops are crazy. This is bullshit,” she said.

She hadn’t realized anyone was standing behind her until she heard a man’s voice. “It was like this when we got here, miss.” A black hotel employee stood in the doorway.