“Now pick out a driving song,” Huge said. “Something that gets you over the Beltway.” Hannibal’s head began to move back and forth a little, and with his eyes closed he mentally thumbed through his CD collection.
“So many good tunes,” he said, almost too low to hear.
“One with a sexy undercurrent. Lots of innuendo. Aerosmith is always good. Or…”
All of a sudden, Hannibal was mentally singing along to an AC/DC anthem that seemed to sit quite comfortably on top of the beat.
“Alright, you’re in the car,” Huge’s seductive voice murmured in the headphones. “You’re all alone.” The beat got louder, stronger. “You’re imagining how this song would sound if you just said the words instead of singing them.” Hannibal’s whole body was moving now, and he was aware of being watched but somehow feeling isolated from the audience, invisible.
“Go ahead. I want to hear what’s in your head.”
The beat was booming in his head, blasting, the words mixing smoothly with it, and Hannibal just wanted to join in. Not wondering how silly he must sound, he faced the ocean of sound and jumped in.
“She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean,
She was the best damn woman I’d ever seen,
She had me sanctified, telling me no lies.
Cause she was knocking me out with those American thighs.
She took a lover’s share,
She had me fighting for air,
She told me to come but I was already there,
Cause the walls was shakin’,
The earth was quakin’
My mind was achin’
We weren’t faking, cause…”
At that point, Huge’s falsetto joined his in the headphones:
“You shook me all night long, shake it baby, shake it baby, shake it baby.”
And in the distant background, he could hear Monte say, “Oh my God,” in a pained, plaintive voice.
16
Hannibal winked at Fay as he stepped out of his car. He didn’t think she recognized him at first, which would have been no surprise. He had not been sure he recognized himself in the mirror that morning. After winning his bet with Monte, Huge had taken some delight in helping Hannibal get into character for his return to Mariah’s place. Under Huge’s stylish eye he had learned to tie a do-rag, knotted at the back of his head. When he said he was aiming at “low level hustler,” Huge had escorted him to what he described as the low-rent hustler’s boutique: the nearest Wal-Mart.
Huge recommended a simple white tank style undershirt and dark cargo pants. The pants needed to be hanging lower than Hannibal was comfortable with. Huge’s fashionable compromise was for them to be worn over a pair of swim trunks. He completed the look with a pair of black and white shell toed sneakers. Hannibal was stunned to be able to put the whole “costume” together for about thirty bucks.
“Am I cool now?” Hannibal had asked.
“Too cool,” Huge had said, snatching the Oakley’s from Hannibal’s face. “You said low level hustler, right?” Huge replaced Hannibal’s shades with the first pair of black plastic sunglasses he saw on a nearby rack. “Now you got the cheap hustler thing going on.”
Hannibal was at least happy about the undershirt choice. It was another hot day, mid-eighties even with the ocean breeze coming in from the East. But he didn’t think the weather was what prompted Fay to allow her knees to lazily drift apart while she smiled at him. He figured he must now fit the profile of the men who qualified for her unsubtle flirting. He nodded a quick thank-you for the offer and turned toward Mariah’s stairs.
Hannibal’s plan was simple. He would introduce himself to Mariah and come up with some excuse for her to introduce him to Mantooth. If he hung around for a while he would either figure out where Mantooth would hide something valuable or learn that he had already cashed in on the Cooper formula. Whether or not Mantooth had already turned the formula into money would determine his next move.
At the top of the stairs he rapped at the small pane in the top of the door. After the third series of knocks he accepted that no one was home. This was an unexpected wrinkle in his day. Had she been and gone? He could certainly get an update from Fay across the street. He really didn’t want to play games with her, but he might not have any choice.
Halfway down the stairs Hannibal found himself faced with another visitor about to climb them. He took her in at a glance: pale complexion, platinum blonde hair hanging past shoulder length, big bosom, narrow waist, long legs. She wore spike heels and a short, white denim skirt. In place of a shirt or blouse she wore a yellow bikini top. Lemon yellow, he reflected, and one more article that he would have given no significance a month ago. A braided leather choker encircled her neck.
The girl paused on the fourth step, looking up at him in surprise. Hannibal did not want to be established as the one who didn’t belong there, so he spoke first.
“You looking for Mariah?” he asked in stern voice.
“No,” she said, spinning a key chain on her finger. “I just came back to pick up some stuff.”
Her Nordic blue eyes held questions, but her words and keys had answered his. “You must be the roommate,” he said, holding out a hand. “They call me Smoke.”
“Really? I’m Sheryl.” She offered her fingertips for a barely-there handshake. For an awkward moment they shared the staircase. Then Hannibal stepped aside and waved Sheryl forward. She offered a shallow bow and went to the door. When she unlocked the door Hannibal followed her inside. The apartment smelled like dry dog food. Sheryl looked around, surprised but not resistant. Hannibal crossed his arms and leaned back against the door.
“She’s not here,” Sheryl said, waving a hand at the rest of the apartment. Her swirl-patterned nails extended her fingers by almost an inch.
“That’s all right,” Hannibal said with a cold smirk. “You’re going to take me to her.” Then he locked her eyes in place with his and would not let them go. He stayed in character and tried to project the attitude he had observed during his chat room visits. After a few seconds he could see tiny tremors in her shoulders. Finally she pointed behind herself without moving her eyes from his.
“I, um, have to get some stuff.”
“Then get it and let’s go,” Hannibal said.
Sheryl’s eyes shifted left and right. Then she darted into the rear of the apartment. Hannibal heard barking and yipping from the unseen room. A dresser or bureau slid across the floor. Then it moved back into place. The dog whined the way small dogs do when an owner rubs them but they know they’ll soon be alone. Then came the hurried click of stiletto heels and Sheryl appeared, carrying a medium sized handbag.
‘What’s in there?” Hannibal asked.
“Stuff,” she said. When he pushed away from the door she added, “It’s for Rod.”
He opened the door. “I’ll follow you.”
Halfway down the stairs, Sheryl said, “You might not want to do this.”
“What, meet Mariah? You afraid she’s not my type?”
At the bottom of the stairs she stopped and turned. “I know Mariah can be wild, and I bet she gave you a serious come on, but…”
“But?”
“Mariah, she’s Rod’s girl.”
“You mean one of his girls,” Hannibal said. “I bet you are too.”
“No, no really,” she grabbed his forearm. “Mariah likes to flirt but she’s Rod’s girl and things could get real ugly if another guy shows up looking for her. Ugly for her.”
Hannibal took Sheryl’s wrist to lift her hand from his arm. He held her arm vertically, squeezing and gritting his teeth against the part he had to play. He increased the pressure until she gasped. His voice dropped into a hoarse, grating whisper.
“Listen here, bitch. I will get real ugly unless you get in your car and take me to her. Ugly on your ass. You feel me?”
Sheryl whimpered and gave a series of vigorous nods. Hannibal forced a smile as he released her. She hurried to her car, a white Volkswagen beetle. Hannibal opened the passenger door, waved good-bye to Fay, and settled in next to Sheryl.