“That guy was here?” he asks.
“Yeah, which you would have seen if you were paying any attention to me at all.”
“Oh, come on,” he starts, but I cut him off because that argument can so wait.
“I think he followed me.”
He puffs up his chest and scans the lobby. “You see him again, you tell me. I’ll take care of it.”
Seriously?
“That’s great,” I say. “But we have to go.”
“Go? It's only intermission!”
I glare at him.
He wraps an arm around me and pulls me into him. “You can’t seriously be suggesting we leave based on what some crazy guy said? I’m sure your mom’s fine.”
“I’m worried,” I mumble. More like warble.
He kisses the top of my head. “We’ll call the cops after the show and you can tell them all about the guy. Does that make you feel better?”
I consider this. He’s probably right. I shouldn’t take my cues from a wackjob. Mom is probably fine.
The sounds of warm-up drumming spill out from the auditorium, and we fight the crowd back to our front-row seats. Jay-Z takes the stage again, and the crowd erupts into cheers. But he hasn’t even made it through his first song when I tap Devon on the shoulder. He bends slightly, without taking his transfixed gaze from the stage. “It doesn’t!” I yell over the music.
He shakes his head, cupping a hand around his ear. “What?”
“I said it doesn’t make me feel better!”
And then I go outside and hail a cab.
6
The drive from the Staples Center to my house is a blink in terms of L.A. time, but it feels like an eternity right now. Traffic moves painfully slowly. Every time I see the brake lights of the car in front of us flash, my chest tightens and I’m sure I’m having a coronary.
It doesn’t help that the cabdriver insists on making small talk the entire way, in between obnoxiously smacking his gum and trying to kill us both with his insane driving. Was the concert any good? Did I hear Jay-Z’s staying at the Chateau Marmont? Aren’t I young to be out by myself ? Did I hear Magnet is the latest celeb hangout?
I want to scream at him to shut up. The only thing that stops me is the chance he might boot me if I insult him. Cabbies are weird like that.
I groan in despair.
God, why didn’t Mom answer my calls? I flip through the most horrendous options like I’m going through a Rolodex. Car accident. Drive-by shooting. Heart attack. I dig my nails into my thighs so hard I’m sure I draw blood. Okay, it’s probably none of those things. I’m probably being melodramatic. I’m sure it’s just Aunt Penny having a crisis again. That’s why Mom called—to tell me that the L.A. parking authority finally caught on to Penny’s zillions of unpaid parking tickets, and Mom has to go save her sister’s POS car from certain death at the impound lot. Or that she has to go talk Aunt Penny off a ledge after (gasp!) her latest douche of a boyfriend didn’t work out. Or that Aunt Penny quit her cocktail waitress/personal assistant/makeup artist job because what she really wants to do is act, and she’s not going to waste her time doing anything else.
I pull out my cell phone and punch in Aunt Penny’s number. It rings six times before she picks up. Club music blares from the phone so loud I have to hold it away from my ear.
“Aunt Penny?”
“My favorite niece!” she yells. “What’s up, girlie? One sec. Vodka tonic. No, I said vodka tonic! Thanks. Ugh, the bartenders are deaf here. So what’s up?” Before I can answer, she erupts into laughter. The phone makes interference noises.
“Hello? Aunt Penny? It’s important!” I yell.
Voices skip over the roar of the music, but none of them is Aunt Penny’s.
I end the call.
So there goes my theory. Not that it made much sense to begin with—not that any of my theories make sense. A big piece is missing, and that piece is Leather Jacket Guy. How did he know about Mom? Who is he?
I blow out through pursed lips, trying to slow my racing heart.
Somehow, not much time has elapsed before we reach tree-lined Fuller Avenue. The cabbie practically inches past the gated three-story mansions, through the intersection at Waring, and down a few more blocks, until we finally reach the squat white bungalow with the sad little flower box under the picture window that I call home.
But Mom’s car isn’t here. It’s after ten, and all the lights are off. She should be home.
“Change of plans,” I say. “Two Ninety Melrose.”
The cabbie throws the car in reverse. I start to think I really am having a heart attack as he navigates through traffic that only gets worse as prime bar hours approach.
But my muscles relax when we pull onto Melrose, and I spot the glint of moonlight on Mom’s car, parked right in front of the shop. They tense up just as quickly, though, when we roll to a stop under the Black Cat’s awning; darkness emanates from every window, yet the neon Open sign is on.
The cabbie twists to face me. Dispatch is barking orders through the radio. His lips move, but his words barely register.
I was in such a hurry to get here, and now I’m frozen, afraid to go inside for fear of what I’ll find. A breeze sweeps through the open cab window and raises goose bumps on my exposed flesh. Night has finally chased away the suffocating heat of the day. I shove the nine hundred dollars I owe the cabbie at him before stepping outside. He gives me a wave and then peels off.
I’m alone in the dark. That’s if you don’t count the hoboes and knife-wielding crazies I’m sure are hiding in the shadows.
“Going in, or what?”
I jump so high I’d laugh if it were someone else besides me doing it, then whirl around to find the source of the voice.
Leather Jacket Guy leans against the stucco side of the fast-check-cashing place across the street, hands in the pockets of his black pants and one army-booted heel up against the wall. Signature pose, I guess.
“You? What are you doing here?”
Laughter rings out through the night. “Relax, I’m not going to attack you. Just pointing out that you might want to get inside. Lots of baddies in L.A. at night.”
“Aren’t you full of helpful hints,” I say, backing up.
The light from a streetlamp etches shadows into his laugh lines and makes his smirk look sinister. He pushes off the wall.
“Don’t come any closer.” My voice comes out much shakier than I’d planned.
I climb up the steps, careful not to fully turn my back to him as I unlock the front door. Only it’s not locked. My stomach churns. Mom would never leave the door unlocked after close. When eight p.m. strikes, it’s the first thing she does.
Hands shaking, I push the door open. The little bell jingles as I enter, which, in the dark, sounds anything but inviting. I do a quick check to make sure the guy isn’t going to try to push me inside the shop, and then hurry inside, slamming the door so hard it rattles the windows. I flip the dead bolt closed.
7
I’m afraid to flick on the lights, afraid of what I’ll see. Then I hear Mom’s moan and I can’t turn them on fast enough. My hands fumble for the panel next to the door. I feel the cold plastic under my fingers and bash all the switches up.
I don’t see her right away. Having adjusted to the dark, my eyes are seared even by the dim lighting of the shop, and I have to shield them from the candelabra. And then Mom moans again, and I find her.
The ceiling-high solid oak bookcase has been overturned, and underneath it is an absolute mountain of books. Mom’s black-heeled boots poke out from underneath all the rubble. If it weren’t for the cauldron on display in the center of the room, which caught one end of the bookcase, the whole thing would have landed on top of her. Would have killed her. And judging by the way the bookcase bows in the middle, an inch-deep crack splitting the center of the arc, it could still happen at any moment.