I nod and absently roll my tongue over the peeling skin on my cracked lips.
“The bodyguard will leave you there, in the living room, probably for a long time. If you see anything—anything at all… coke, money, jewelry—don’t touch it! Don’t touch anything! Do you hear me? ANYTHING!”
“I, I understand, John.”
He jerks me toward him; eyes glare like cold blue steel. “I mean it! There are two-way mirrors all over the house, even the bathrooms. If you touch anything—I mean anything—you are a dead girl with her arms cut off!”
I am scared. What if I mess up? Oh God, what if he can tell I’ve done drugs before? Fear turns my blood icy. Eddie Nash kills people, and John’s selling me out!
“And if he asks if you have a boyfriend, tell him, yeah, you have one back at school, but he doesn’t mean anything to you—mostly a friend.”
All I can hear is the thrumming of my heartbeat in my ears. I want to block out his voice; I wish he would just shut up.
“Stick to talking about nursing, Dawn. You know, the way you learned from Sharon… and play dumb with everything else.” John finally connects with the fear in my eyes. “Don’t worry, baby. Just do everything like I said, and it will be okay. Eddie will see that he can trust us again and then… then everything will be all right, baby. We won’t have to do this anymore. He’ll let me do the big runs again. Okay, baby, okay?”
Us? I think sarcastically and wonder how else I fit into his scheme.
John turns the ignition and grabs the charred pipe for one last, desperate pull of dope. He lets the flame go long against the translucent glass, till the heat is unbearable and he can hold down on the striker no longer, his finger black with soot. He curls his lip, throws his head back, and lets out a stream of hot, colorless butane. I can tell there’s nothing left to smoke, but I have no shame. I want to disappear and can’t stop the urge to taste the pipe, hoping desperately that John will offer me a turn. Instead, he slams the briefcase shut and puts the car in gear.
We backtrack our way down the road toward the Dona Lola cul-de-sac. This time John deliberately parks in front of the white stucco ranch-style house. The Christmas lights hanging from the gutters of Eddie’s massive roof flicker on, and I remember again what day it is. Am I supposed to be a Christmas present? I wonder dryly. I robotically look down at myself and notice the clothes he laid out for me to wear. University of Oregon—how long has he been planning this?
John gives me a nervous once-over, making sure I look my part, and then scans the other houses on the street for an all clear. “Come on. He’s waiting.” He opens his door, keeping his distance to shake off any kind of familiarity that could make it look like we are a couple.
I straighten up and follow the haunting echo of John’s boots against the concrete footpath, over the valley, and into the twilight, up to the colossal brass knocker of Eddie Nash’s front door.
As John described, a large black man opens the door and lets us in. He’s wearing a thick gold necklace and matching bracelet.
“Uh, Eddie here?” John twitches.
“John. Yeah. Wait here,” the man at the door commands firmly and points at a space inside the door. We stand in the front entranceway as he disappears far into a back room. The lights in the house are dim, as if the occupants might be ready for bed, except for a glaring light that comes from our left. In front of us sprawls a formal dining room adorned with an elaborately carved table and chairs upholstered with plush velvet seats that stand in majestic formation. An enormous coat of arms hangs from the wall and casts an ominous shadow across the well-polished table. I sneak a glance over at John and see he looks worried and is pacing his breath to not look as if he is jonesing. I take my cue and do the same.
The hulking man returns. “Okay, folks. Eddie will be a little while. She can wait for him in the living room.” He gestures toward the darker side of the house and gives a half-cocked smile. “John, you can go.” He places his body between us, edging John back toward the door. “Come back in the morning.” He waves him out. John’s brow creases as he darts a worried look my way, then turns to leave without a word and without a glance back.
“This way, hon,” the man says, changing his expression to a friendly smile. “Can I get you anything to drink?” He leads me to the right into a huge, sunken living room, where a man and woman stand together speaking melodically in some Middle Eastern language. Their conversation halts as we approach. They are both dark-featured, but the younger woman is taller, striking, as she casts a hardened gaze with her large almond eyes.
The gentleman, dressed in what looks like a maroon bathrobe, cracks a smile. “You must be John’s niece,” he says politely and cocks his head.
I grin and nod nervously.
There is an uncomfortable silence as they continue to scrutinize me. “This is my daughter. We are just saying good night.” He reaches over to place something small into her palm and kiss her fondly on each cheek, mumbling again the strange notes of their language. In her black, flowing shift, she walks past me as if she’s gliding on ice, with a demeanor just as cold.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” the black man interrupts, taking the lead again and guiding me into the sunken living room, allowing the gentleman to disappear behind the bodyguard’s massive build. He walks me through the grand room and gestures for me to have a seat on an expansive, deep red velvet sofa. Before me, the ornate brass and glass coffee table immediately grabs my attention. A solid gold Rolex, a fully loaded money clip, and remnants of cocaine in full view send my heart pounding.
“Umm, no. I’m fine. Thank you,” I say, barely able to speak and trying hard not to stare at the table. I pry my eyes away and am stunned by my gaunt reflection coming from across the room in an elaborate gold-framed mirror that covers almost the entire wall. That’s the two-way mirror John told me about. I sit up tall and pull a loose strand of stringy hair behind my ear. The room appears enormous now, as if every picture and piece of furniture has its eyes on me. I break into an anxious sweat and force every muscle in my body to maintain a perfectly nonchalant appearance.
As if he didn’t hear me, the bodyguard comes back with a glass of water and sets it down. “It’ll just be a while. You don’t mind waiting, do you?” he asks, giving a hard sideways glance at me and the table.
“N, no. Thank you,” I say politely, and he leaves. I take a drink and sit back, wringing my hands to keep them occupied, and I conspicuously look everywhere… except at the table.
A nearby clock ticks torturously slow. What seem like hours pass. My bones ache from the tense stiffness of my posture, and my gut churns from hunger and the need for drugs. As the twilight turns to blue, then the deepest shades of black, I am finally called in to see Eddie Nash. Escorted to a back bedroom in silence, I am announced and stand frozen at the door. The same small, dark, curly-haired man I met in the living room sits on the side of the bed, his maroon bathrobe lying open, his bikini underwear exposed. He smiles seductively when he sees that I notice his appearance, and he raises his face. “Come. Come on.” His accent is thick, and he waves me in. I walk toward him, eyes engaged with his round, bulgy, bloodshot ones. His stare pierces through me, and I jolt at the flash of callousness I see. “You need anything, uh? Your name again?”
“D—Gabrielle.” I’ve waited so long I’ve almost slipped up and forgotten the name John has chosen for me.