Crushed Ice

by Eric Pete

Genres: African American Urban; African American Christian

Synopsis

Chris Davis. Elvis Spielberg. Jamaican accent. British accent. Accountant. Author. High-stakes gambler. None of the above?

What is the truth? Who is the Truth? His whole existence has been a mystery to many, an enigma few people know to exist. He is a master of disguise, a dweller in secrecy, and a teller of many tales. And for the right price … a destroyer of lives.

But when the bodies start turning up after a job gone south, Truth realizes that someone is out to unmask his real identity and kill him.

Could it be the world famous rapper caught in Truth’s web by accident? Could his enemy be the alluring Collette, blinded after a mishap that killed her husband? Or is it Collette’s cousin, Sophia? For Sophia is down for anything—that is, if the price is right.

Or maybe it’s record company mogul Jason North. He taught Truth everything he knows about manipulating people. But what if Jason is fearful that Truth, in fact, knows too much.

Truth finds out how tough things can be when his calculations cease to add up, his carefully laid plans backfire and his life spirals out of control.

Bestselling author Eric Pete has woven a masterful tale of espionage, murder, and intrigue that will leave readers spellbound.

Release date: September 16, 2012

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 240

Sample

Now, like a mutha

I bleed.

I sweat.

I hurt, running as hard as I can while barefoot. Not an easy feat.

Feat. Feet.

Only a warped mind can find humor in the midst of disaster.

My feet burn as I push on. I can’t tell whether it’s from the hot ground or simply my pain.

They’ve stopped shooting. I realize that as I burst through the prickly brush. Feels like razors slashing across my calves.

A small country road looms ahead. As delirious as I am, I wonder if they’re waiting for me.

It would be an easy way to end it.

I can’t think that way.

My mind will save me.

It always does. It’s all I have.

From out of the sun, I make out an old farm truck as it meanders along. It’s the only thing I see on the road ahead. I pray it’s not a mirage.

Maybe I’ll make it.

Then I hear its steps.

Pads under its paws, gliding over the rock and sand as it closes on me. Tap. Tap. Tap.

No wonder they stopped shooting.

“Fuck!” I curse, knowing I shouldn’t be wasting a single breath. I push harder as more of the truck comes into sight. It’s an aged Ford. Paint long gone.

I could almost cry.

I begin waving my arms hysterically to get the driver’s attention.

I step into a tiny crevice, abruptly jamming my knee. I almost go down, but somehow balance myself with one hand. Stumbling, I resume my frantic pace. A vulture is circling overhead, just waiting on me to fuck up. He’d get leftovers at the plate of Truth, though, for my four-legged pursuer would get dibs.

Now I hear it panting. Imagine it leaping into the air, its teeth intent on finding my throat and not letting go.

My tortured feet touch scorching pavement as the truck swerves to miss me. As it passes, I grab the railing, yanking myself from my dire predicament while almost pulling my arm out of its socket.

The pit bull’s head smacks into the tailgate just as I raise my legs to safety. That doesn’t stop it, as it shakes it off and tries to leap again, its teeth bared.

The elderly Hispanic man begins to brake, looking to see what cargo he just picked up.

“Go! Ir! Ir rapidamente!” I yell.

Seeing the desperation in my eyes, he doesn’t debate the issue.

As we speed off, the dog’s masters arrive at the road as well, their black truck kicking up a plume of dust and rocks. Shooting but missing me and Grandpa. Rather than continue their pursuit of me and draw further attention to themselves, they hastily drive off in the opposite direction. I’m luckier than I deserve to be this time.

There will be reckoning, just not now.

“Gracias, señor,” I mumble before passing out in the bed, the desert sun still beaming down on me.

One month ago . . . Sin City/Las Vegas

Secluded, away from the pounding beat of the main stage, the supple bodies writhed across us in a sensual choreography of flesh. Satin and sex at our bidding. Quaking ass cheeks clapping beneath my very nose. Breasts grazing his pursed lips.

“What do you propose?” I asked, knowing the answer before he did.

“I want him to pay,” the aging, yet still physically impressive athlete answered. He should be enjoying the pussy, the ultimate salve for his wounded ego; up in here instead. Of course, if he did that, he’d have no need for me. Peaches, one of the dancers here at The Standard, as in “gold standard” of gentlemen’s clubs, had earned her finder’s fee by putting him in touch with me. She was one of a loose network of people around the country, from barbers to A-list celebrities, who knew how to reach me when opportunities arose.

I fixed things. No, rather, I broke things. Manipulating and molding situations to suit my customers’ needs. Felt regret . . . sometimes.

But not too often.

“You sure about this? People have done worse,” I said.

“Worse? He’s fucking my wife, man!” San Antonio Jackson, the future Hall of Famer and soon-to-be retired wide receiver for Oakland, snarled, jarring Peaches from the lap dance she was giving him. I motioned for her and her dead sexy co-worker to leave us alone in the VIP room. She stuck out her hand, and I placed a hundred dollar bill in it. There’d be more later. Once we were alone, I spoke again.

“No offense, but wasn’t your wife a performer in a place like this when you met her?” I asked, anticipating him charging out of his seat just like he did. I was waving a red flag in front of this bull. He also stopped, as expected, without laying a hand on me. Always did my research. Even knew the man’s stats from back in college. Leaving nothing to chance was a priority.

“Peaches told me you could help, but I’m not about let you insult me, bro. That was many years ago when my wife was a stripper. I have worked too long and too hard at my career and my life for this kind of betrayal.”

“Does anyone else know? About the two of them being lovers?”

“They’re not lovers. He barely knows her,” San Antonio scoffed. He returned to his seat, probably besieged by images of his wife in the throes of passion at the hands or dick of a person thought to be his friend. “Nobody else knows about them.”

“And you don’t want anyone else to know. Especially your teammates.”

“Precisely,” he answered. He couldn’t tolerate the slap to his manhood among his peers. “I took Andre under my wing when I came over from Cleveland. Kid was a rookie . . . fucking fifth round draft pick. Fifth. Showed him how to read defenses, how to get a step on his routes. Even how to dress and carry himself in public. Now he’s a starter. And he’s fucking my wife.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Ruin his life,” San Antonio answered. “Take away what he thinks he has.”

“Well, your money cleared.”

“Damn straight,” he remarked. “So you better deliver.”

“I think it best to leave Andre’s ruination in your hands.”

I produced photos of Andre Martin, Oakland’s new golden boy, looking less than golden. I placed them in San Antonio’s hands, allowing him to digest what he was looking at.

“Are these real?”

“Does it matter?” I answered as I stood to take my leave. He broke from his examination of his new weapon of vengeance to look up. “They’re not photoshopped. But do you really care?”

“Yes—I mean, no. What if he’s . . .”

“Get tested. Both you and your wife. If you still care about her.”

Funny how things work out. Andre Martin wasn’t even my target when I’d snagged those photos last month. Just an extra fish in the net I’d cast on my last visit to Vegas. One person’s misfortune had turned into another opportunity.

Peaches and her friend were working two customers by the bar as I exited from the back. The DJ was spinning some David Banner.

“Did I do good, baby?” the overly endowed girl from Georgia asked as I passed. As she turned, she rubbed those big things against me as she had with San Antonio.

“You certainly did,” I replied with a kiss on the cheek and another nine hundred in her hand. “Keep up the good work.”

“Ahem.” The other one cleared her throat. Godiva, I think was the name she went by. “Anything for me?” she asked, more demand than request.

What I had for her wasn’t money. She was sexier, more assertive than Peaches. Wanted to take her back to VIP and finish what she’d begun. But staying in one place too long can be dangerous. From out of my pocket, I fished five large and placed it in her hand. Peaches didn’t like it, but competition between the two would do me good. And maybe I’d be back in town with time to spare one day.

By the time I emerged from The Standard, I’d already changed my clothes and ditched my faux accent. In Brooklyn, they thought I was from the Dirty South. In Chicago, they thought I was from London by way of Kingston. Out west, they thought I was an Ivy Leaguer. Here in Vegas, it depended on who I was dealing with. Like the high-dollar suit I now wore or the T-shirt and jeans I’d discarded, everything was an accessory.

As I drove away in my rental, I checked my rearview mirror, thinking my mother would have been proud.

For I am Proteus, wearer of many forms.

Way Back . . .

“Now, you know what to do if somebody knocks, right?”

“Yeah, Mommy. Don’t answer.” I glanced at the multiple chains and locks on the door. Could barely reach the top one without a chair to stand on.

“That’s my baby,” she gushed. They called her Leila Marie, like Marie was her last name. She got rid of her last name when we made it to Hollywood. She called it Hollywood, but I don’t think that’s where we lived. Hollywood wasn’t supposed to look like this.

“When can I go to school? I’m bored in here.”

“What about the books I got from the library?” she replied.

“I like reading them, but I don’t have any friends. I wanna play.”

“You don’t need friends, Truth. I’m your friend.”

“But you be at work all the time. Then you come and leave again,” I whined.

“I’m doing this for us, baby. You gotta network in this town,” she admonished, putting on her makeup. “Mommy’s gonna make a name for herself; then everything will be all right. Better than all right.”

“When can I come by your work? I like that lady who plays like she’s crazy.”

“We’ll see, li’l man. They don’t like kids on set, but at least you get to see me on TV.”

My mom told me of her dreams since coming here from New Mexico. I liked it better out there. At least I got to see her more often. As long as I could remember, she’d tell me stories of how she left New Orleans, pregnant with me, en route to her acting career in California. She didn’t make it to California just then.

I stopped her.

Now that we were here, she made up for lost time.

“I don’t like staying here by myself. Can we go back ta New Mexico? I miss playing with my friends.”

“Now, you know we can’t do that, baby. How am I gonna find a nice daddy for you if we go back? Speaking of that, did you see him yesterday?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I sighed. My mom was seeing the guy who played Randall Fischer on Promises for Tomorrow. In addition to her soap opera, where she played a poor mother from across the tracks, she made me watch his. He didn’t know about me. She said Hollywood needed to think she was single, so she could succeed. We barely went anywhere together these days.

I don’t think anybody knew about me. Sometimes I would sneak outside onto the parking lot, where I would watch the people. I didn’t quite understand all that I saw.

I told myself that one day I’d return to New Mexico, where everything was nice.

“How does Mommy look?”

“Beautiful,” I replied as rehearsed.

“Good!” She kissed me on my forehead. “Behave yourself and maybe I’ll bring you back a treat.”

I followed her to the door and quickly closed it behind her before someone in the hallway saw me or tried to come in. The hallway smelled like pee-pee, so I usually held my breath.

I didn’t feel like watching TV today. I turned back to my books on African and Greek mythology, escaping to another world. Kind of like my mom did with her acting.

Months earlier . . . Dallas

I was running late and didn’t want to miss her. I jogged up McKinney, dodging the antique trolley car that ran on the regular, while getting both facts and falsehoods straight in my head. My flight in to Love Field last night was rough, on top of losing my luggage. Luckily, I always kept the most important things close to me. Crossing Lemmon Avenue, I slowed to a casual stroll. No matter the attire, a black man running through trendy Uptown tended to attract unwanted attention.

The bookstore in the West Village shopping center is where we always met. Entering the front door, I surveyed the general vicinity. The line of cash registers to my right were half-staffed. More people were gathered amidst the rows of magazines on my left. The display in front of me told of an upcoming book signing by a local author. I laughed, thinking of a private joke. I tapped the bag at my side to ensure my laptop was inside and headed toward the smell of roasted coffee beans.

“Your usual?” the barista asked from behind the counter.

“You got it, man,” I replied as he prepared my dose of Seattle’s Best. In reality, I didn’t care for the Vanilla Bean blend, but it wasn’t for him to know. I plunked down my cash and took a sip from the oversized ceramic mug.

She sat in a comfortable chair nearby, situated midway between me and the magazine row endcaps. I watched her tend the cup whose blend mirrored mine. Brown curly strands cascaded around the perimeter of her noble face. Full, sensual lips indulged in the coffee, her mouth appreciating every detail of the warm brew. Minus one obvious change, she was as poised and elegant as the day I first saw her.

At first, I walked past her. Took a seat at a nearby table where I could place my laptop. Still close enough to speak to her. I watched her as her fingers moved over the pages of her book, dark sunglasses obscuring her eyes. James Patterson. Her favorite author.

Opening my laptop, I powered up and waited for my Internet link to establish. When ready, I sent a packet of information courtesy of my latest trip.

Before I could exit, the recipient replied, a window opening to her thoughts:


No thx. Like my life the way it is. Out.

“You changed your cologne,” my friend said as she paused from her reading. I clicked, disconnecting my online connection with my associate, then shut it closed.

“You’re scary,” I replied. “Then how did you know it was me?”

“Your musk. I caught it when you tried to sneak by me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not like that.” She smiled. I liked it when she smiled. “Your natural odor. It’s pleasant. You’ve been running or something?”

“Maybe just a little.” I walked over, giving Collette a hug. “Didn’t want to miss seeing you today.”

“Whatever,” she scoffed. “Where’ve you been? Didn’t see you last week,” she joked as she turned her head toward the sound of my voice.

“Still coming with the stale jokes.”

“Hey, you keep coming back.”

“Had to meet with my editor,” I lied.

“How is that story coming along, Hemmingway?”

“So far so good.”

“You ever going to read it to me?”

“Too early to tell. You know how I am about that. All my stuff is under a pen name. Maybe you’ve already read some of my stuff and didn’t know it.”

“So you really are James Patterson. Would you please autograph a Braille edition to one of your biggest fans?”

“You missed me,” I teased, feeling unusually calm around her.

“I’d never admit it.”

One year.

One year of this unusual, casual friendship. A somewhat weekly rendezvous of sharing over coffee. No names. No strings. No invitations to one another’s places, in spite of my knowing where she lived. Thoughts in general and wisecracks were our sustenance in spite of the mask I wore. But what purpose is a mask to one that cannot see it?

“Another coffee, ma’am?” the barista asked, bringing over a fresh cup out of habit. On the small table beside her was an additional cup. Either she was hitting the caffeine hard, or Collette wasn’t alone. I thought I knew everything about her.

Shame on me.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, grasping my arm. I flinched, distracted as I was.

“Nothing,” I replied, suddenly realizing how nice her hand felt. Was it just in response to someone intruding on our unique space?

“Your voice doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“Just remembered something I need to do,” I stated calmly.

“Oh,” she mumbled, tinged with regret. “I wanted you to meet someone. Sophia!” she called out.

From somewhere between the News Publications and Arts and Hobbies sections of the magazines emerged a refugee from the Fashion and Beauty section. In her hand, she carried a copy of Essence, featuring Beyoncé on the cover . . . again. Although casually dressed in tan shorts and a white blouse, her face was flawless. Her height, demeanor, and stride said, I am model. Hate me, bitches.

“Collette, this your friend?” she asked. Accent was southern California. Maybe Inglewood, although she tried disguising it as non-regional. Another person with a mask. Wondered what Collette had told her about me.

“Yeah. He’s being shy. Was about to leave, but I wanted the two of you to meet.” Collette rose. I reached out to help her, but she shooed my hands away. Independent, she was. Brought a smile to my face that I’m sure she could sense.

“Sophia, this is my friend . . .”

“Chris,” I answered for her, referencing the name on my lease. I wrestled with my natural instincts to change accents, morph into something. . .