"Lux was alone today, that's why I returned, arguing about you not being ready," Burt replies as the door closes.
I press the elevator button, and start to tug into my leather jacket; it conceals the 9-millimeter. Elevator music does nothing to placate me; Lux being alone at the moment has me pissed. Traveling down the elevator, a call comes in from Monica, "Vic … it's … in town … "
"What?" I push the Bluetooth deeper into my ear, as if that will help. Fucking universal phone is useless.
"Nowitsky … sighted … New York?"
Nowitsky!
Fuck.
Nowitsky is ex-militia, has been a major player in the biggest terrorist organization in Europe, along with an intense joy of being an X-Member assassin. Normally he chooses political missions, but I've been known to bid on a few of his scores …
Fuck. This is about the last political campaign. I stole his mark.
Sidestepping sightseers in the lobby, I move past a bellhop with a roller full of Gucci luggage thinking about any previous X-Member assignments that might pique Nowitsky's interest. None.
I run hard and long, since the traffic is at a standstill. If Nowitsky has been here for a while, then he's seen Luxury with me and will use her as bait.
As I dial her phone again, I sprint through the middle of the intersection and weaving through the traffic that decided to sit in the pedestrian lane. At the street right before Urban Gardens, I make a quick turn and into the alley, going around back, just to scope the place out before making a fool of myself, if Nowitsky is not around.
Worry tangles the muscles in my abdomen. My selfishness won't allow me to stop seeing Luxury. Now she's the key to getting to me. Monica provided a report on Doctor Charles Everhart the brainiac who had hired my services. Monica had even provided the fact that he was the leading suspect in Gina's death.
I've never been off my game in the past. Too stubborn to acknowledge Burt was right in the first place, I see Lux off in the distance with his arm wrapped around her.
Fire rushes through my veins at how fucking pissed I am that Nowitsky has placed a hand on what belongs to me. Lux's legs are kicking out in the air.
They're attention is on something in the store, and my gun silencer comes out. Even though Nowitsky keeps moving around as she flails in his arms. No hesitation, I take the shot. Luxury twists and turns and it takes ages for the bullet to meet its intended.
Nowitsky goes timbering backwards, with Luxury in his arms.
"Ahhhh … " she continues to scream, lifting up from his dead weight at the speed of light and running back into the building. I brace myself for the scenario playing out before me. What the fuck is Luxury doing?
Sirens begin to ring out loud as I make my way to the building, back against the wall. Then I hear talking, as a man tells Luxury it will be okay and that he got the man. The guy is taking credit for my score. I notice a bullet that broke through the glass window of an abandoned shop on the opposite side of the alley. Yeah, he was a crack shot alright. Cracking windows right open.
Sirens blare out and more voices and footsteps are already at the shop, as if spectators are waiting to get an eyeful of activity.
Instead of saying anything, I take back down the alley and to the main street, and then cross over to the Taco shop across from Urban Gardens. Luxury is safe for the moment, and my identity won't be compromised.
Luxury
Detective Caruso, really? Of all the NYPD blue's, why this guy?
Everything about the Italian man, with his kind-etched eyes, and the smile wrinkles around his lips, made me sad. Soon as he stepped on the scene, his face drained of color upon seeing me. We have a history.
A year ago, Detective Caruso had been so sure about catching Mom's murderer. For six months, I would come into the precinct each and every day, just to see what new information he had on the case. Breaking my heart each time I came by. Till one day I kept Gina from my mind. Totally and utterly from my mind, only to be resurrected on Wednesday's an hour before noon, when I meticulously streamed together black roses.
And then there was Victor who has brought a flurry of unwanted happy memories back to me.
Now, back then, all though sure of himself, and encouraging, Caruso hadn't been entirely forthcoming from the start. Caruso would tell me that speaking of the potential suspect wasn't in the best interest for the case. He would promise that Mom's murder would be vindicated.
Each time I close my eyes, feeling Notwisky's heavy body wrapped around me, I can see Mom …
13 months ago
… We had a two bedroom in the Bronx. Childhood home. Just shy of 21, bottle of wine in one hand, with the other, I unlatch the arsenal of locks at the front door. It's that annoying daylight's saving time again, providing such a dark and dreary evening as early as 5:17pm. I'm walking in; trying to deal with Arnold's dumping me, my dropping out of college. I really don't drink, but Aliyah had said this Moscato was the tastiest. Since it was on sale, I picked it up, deciding Mom and I would enjoy it this evening.
"Mom, … Mommy, nothing is better than your words of wisdom, but I bought us a drink," I begin, stepping into the apartment and pulling off my crossover purse. It's one of my hobo days, in khakis and a crumply t-shirt that may or may not have been clean when I picked it off the floor this morning.
Smiling at the thought of Mom-and-me time since Dad is away at a health convention, I flip on the lights, saying, "Why is it so dark in here?"
The smile on my face fades.
At this very instant, my life as I know it is dead to me.
Nothing would ever be the same, as my knees gave way to gravity. Equilibrium in disarray, I hit the floor as a sob escapes my lips. I begin to crawl frantically to my mom's body, pierced with stab wound on top of stab wound, and soaking wet with blood.
The smell of death brings bile up from the pit of my stomach, but I choke the sourness back down. Gina's blouse is painted red, if I didn't know that it was a blue and white flower design before, it's fully indistinguishable now. Tears stream down my face, twining with snot and dribbling at my chin as I touch her once beautiful warm, brown skin. Lips purple.
"Mommy, please," I cry so hard that spit flies from my mouth. For a while, I hold Gina closely as every thought escaped me.
Then I called the cops, and Detective Caruso promised that my heart would one day begin to beat again …
Now I'm at the very same place, explaining a situation to Caruso, verbatim, what I told the uniform cops a few hours ago. We're seated in a white interrogation room at the precinct off 157th street. There's a two-way mirror to the left of us, besides that, and these two chairs and table chained to the ground, only cement and brick complete the sore ambiance. I take a sip of the stale, cold coffee that was offered to me about two hours ago.
Stifling another yawn, I finish up the story. "The Russian guy, or Nots … ? Nowitsky, as you say, was forcing me out of the back of my store. At that moment Deondre came in and pulled out a gun. Deondre was probably halfway into the store by now and he shot, twice." I consider if I said two or three times before. But I'm so ready to go home that I hope I have satisfied the detective by now.
"Miss. Whitson we're almost done," the Italian detective gives a warm pat to my hand. "So, Deondre Watts, he's your boyfriend?"
"No," I shake my head.
"How well did you know Xander Nowitsky?" he asks.
"Not at all, Detective Caruso. He came into my shop at lunchtime. I thought he was going to rob me, then I … well, I guess I did something stupid," I shrug, feeling so uncomfortable speaking with Caruso. This all plunges me back to the past when we were going over the timeframe that I stepped out to get more eggs for Mom's éclairs. I'd ended up hanging out with Aliyah, since we hadn't really gotten together while I was away at college.
"I told Nowitsky that I had a gun, but – "
"Was there another gun?" he asks, speaking slowly and articulate, "Besides Deondre's gun?"
"No," I shake my head sniffling back tears. "I've never touched a gun in my life. Thank God Deondre was coming by to ask me for a late lunch. Today was the first time we had really talked."
Detective reroutes the questions again and I get confused.
"You sure there wasn't another gun?"
"Look, I have blood on my shirt," I say, looking down at myself. My hands come up and they're shaking. For an instant, my slender fingers are drowning in cold, steely crimson. That familiar smell of blood has my mind playing tricks on me.
"This is the craziest day of my … of my … " In another world I could complete the sentence, as ‘this is the craziest day of my life.' Yet, I can't stop thinking of Gina. Before Victor, like I said, Mom was only on my mind during the times that I took flowers to Dad. It has become my ritual to help me cope. Then Victor just listened as I talked about Mom and me from the past. The coupon shopping, the baking, the cooking. Victor had given her back to me.