“Could be. But still, that call was four years ago. How does that get us to killing Benson now?”

“Good question. I don’t know. But I bet I know who does.”

“Jasmine Cruz?”

“Yup.”

“Where is she?”

“Get this. Working as a spokesmodel at the Auto Show.”

Melanie laughed. “She’s come up in the world. Great, though, I love the Auto Show.”

“Yeah? I love the Auto Show, too.”

“Let’s go, then.”

“Only thing is, I’m in Brooklyn, and the bridges are shut now for some kind of enforcement activity.”

“Okay, well…”

“I’ll meet you there, but get started without me.”

“I’ll have the case wrapped up in a nice, neat package by the time you show up.”

“It’s a deal.”

25

HIS CELLI RING, IT WAKE HIM UP.

“What?” he said.

“What are you, sleeping?”

Wake him up like that. No courtesy. Motherfucker don’t realize he living on the edge already with the way he fuck up the job the other night.

“You know I work last night. The fuck you calling me!”

“Yeah, I know you did. Quite something.”

“You next, fool. Waking me up.”

“Okay, okay.”

“And you calling me here.”

“Think I’d do that if I didn’t know for a fact it was safe? Besides, this is important. We gotta move on some of these others right away.”

“You better get out of my shit. I decide, understand? I’ma do the architect next, that Chinese bitch. That’s it.”

“Will you just forget her for now? She’s not important.”

“What you saying? Makes me wonder about you, son. She what the job about, far as I’m concerned. We don’t get that information, we don’t get paid.”

“We gotta think about basic survival. We got two problems. First off, Barbie Doll needs to go. Fast, before she talks.”

“That ain’t my problem. It’s yours. You kill her.”

“I’ll pretend you never said that. Second, Jasmine.”

“What about Jasmine?”

“She knows too much. And if they decide to squeeze her, she’ll give it up in about ten seconds. She’s a weak link.”

He paused. “You know Jasmine got my little daughter.”

“Well, what do you know? I never saw you shy away from taking care of business before. Very refreshing.” He chuckled.

“This a fucking joke to you?”

“Hey, whatever. I’m not telling you how to handle it. I’m just saying it needs to be handled. So forget about the architect and deal with these other two.”

“You seem to think you giving me an order.”

“Not an order. Just some sound advice.”

“You better hope I don’t find you, fool, the way you pissing me off!”

He shut the phone and smash it hard against the wall. Fucking worm, telling him how to do his thing, saying he ain’t take care of business. He take care of business, all right. But he decide who, when, and where. He decide, not nobody else. And one day real soon, he gonna decide that motherfucker gotta go. Real soon.

He get out the bed now, drink some Gatorade from the refrigerator. Shit never go bad-leave it in there for a year and it still taste the same. At least something you can trust. He got the humming in his blood again, from that fucking worm getting all up in his face, fucking up his concentration. His head pounding. He gotta try to calm down. Maybe he go down the basement and see No Joke in his special room. He gotta clean up whatever left from No Joke’s party anyway. He do the work last night, and the fucking dog get all the reward. That ain’t right. Things is fucked up. He need to get his shit straightened out.

26

HOT SUNLIGHT SHONE THROUGH THE SOARING glass ceiling of the Javits Center, illuminating the tumultuous scene many stories below. Melanie stepped off the enormous escalator, blinding light and bright colors hitting the retina of her eye, making her feel like laughing aloud. She waded through wave after wave of revelers-Japanese businessmen in monochromatic outfits, bridge-and-tunnel types, gangs of hip-hop kids with heavy gold-and-diamond pendants dangling down to their waists-all climbing in and out of gleaming cars that spun on carpeted platforms. Car commercials looped endlessly on colossal video screens attached to sky-high partitions. She looked up, taking in the scene. A space-age cobalt blue concept car circled the room on a steel track mounted thirty feet above her head.

In this chaos she’d never find Jasmine Cruz without asking directions. Spokesmodels were everywhere she looked. Of every race and color, they were nonetheless completely interchangeable, with their gazellelike bodies, heavy eye makeup and identical powder blue leather pantsuits. Jasmine must be something to look at to get this job. Melanie walked up to the nearest one, a redhead, who stood holding brochures in front of an acid yellow race car, its doors opening upward like gull’s wings.

“Excuse me,” she said, “I’m looking for my cousin who’s working as a spokesmodel here. Her name’s Jasmine Cruz.”

“Jasmine? Hmm. If it’s the girl I’m thinking of, try the brochure bar right past Range Rover. Walk all the way to the back, make a left at the Hummer display, and keep going for a while. You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

But following the directions proved difficult in the wildly disorienting space. Screens flashing logos and 3-D diagrams were purposely set at odd angles to create eddies in the traffic flow, making it impossible to walk a straight path. She couldn’t get a clear line of sight more than twenty feet ahead. Weaving her way through thick crowds, she made slow progress across the vast floor of the convention center, arriving at her destination drained and a bit dazed.

Two spokesmodels, a blonde and a brunette, stood looking bored behind a tall wood-and-marble bar that displayed an assortment of glossy car brochures. The brunette looked like a cartoon image of a Native American princess, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut yourself on, straight black hair, and coffee-colored skin. Her eyebrows arched dramatically over powder blue glitter eye shadow that matched her leather pantsuit.

Melanie walked up to the bar, deciding to take a chance. “Jasmine Cruz?” she asked the brunette.

The woman looked confused. “Uh-huh. Were you here yesterday?”

Melanie took her credentials from her bag and flipped them open in her hand.

“I need to speak with you. I think you know why, but if you want me to say it, I will. It’s just…it might be embarrassing.” She glanced meaningfully at the blonde.

Jasmine’s eyes flashed. “I know the system. I don’t need to talk to nobody if I don’t want to.”

The blonde watched with open curiosity.

“Fine, if that’s the way you want to play it, Miss Cruz, then I need to advise you that you’re suspected of being involved in the murder of Jed Benson. You’re not currently charged with any crime, but I need to ask you some questions. I think it would be in your best interests to answer them.”

“I don’t even know no Jed Benson. You just hassling me because I’m of color.” She tossed her shiny hair dismissively.

“¿Eres boricua?” Melanie asked, in a dead-on imitation of her father’s staccato, rapid-fire Puerto Rican Spanish, studying Jasmine coolly.

Jasmine’s eyes widened. “Sí.”

Melanie tapped herself on the chest with just the right measure of arrogance. “También.” Me, too, so don’t fuck with me, chica.

“Oh,” Jasmine replied, in a more subdued tone.

“And, for your information, you’re all over Jed Benson’s phone records. Plus, we know all about you and Slice.”

Jasmine drew her breath in sharply. “I don’t know him neither. I really don’t know no Slice. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, or else I’m gonna call security.”