"Can't even get a good whup-ass on out here!" she screamed into the nothingness.
Pure frustration claimed her. Two of them had gotten away. "Damn!"
Club music and street traffic filtered into the dark alley. Damali kicked the Dumpsters as she passed them, hoping the vamps might have changed their minds and been lying in wait for her, or at least might have gone somewhere to bring back a fresh crew for her to mix it up with. What was wrong in the world? Couldn't even get a good beat-down these days. Her hands were shaking, not from fear but from total rage. Anything left from Nuit's line had her name on it梩attooed to its skull like a bull's-eye. That was the least she could do. She felt hot moisture rise in her eyes, and she blinked it away. Fuck it. Whatever. If this was her life, so be it.
A sudden motion made her go still. She watched a male form approach her from the shadows, coming from the direction of the street just beyond the alley. She listened to its footfalls and clenched her dagger in her fist more tightly. Heavy. Too heavy. She sniffed the air. Sweat. It was human. She relaxed.
"Can't get a good alley fight on? Is that what I heard you yelling, young lady?"
Detective Berkfield shook his head as he stepped closer to Damali, holding up his shield, his expression of confusion now clearly visible under the dim alley lights.
"What the hell is a female rap star doing out, alone, at night, with no security, in the freakin' Jamaican badlands?" He glanced at her hand. "Clearly looking for a fight."
"I'm a hip hop, spoken-word artist - not a rap star. And for your information, my songs are neo-soul."
"Whatever," the detective said, pocketing his badge. "If you're looking for trouble, this is a place to find it. What's the deal? What're you doin' in an alley by yourself, hon?"
Damali looked at the pudgy, balding white man in the rumpled raincoat. He was still huffing just from the mere exertion of walking fast. She let her breath out hard and bent to sheath her blade in her boot.
"An expensive, flashy entourage ain't my style, and I only came out here for some air," she grumbled. "Some punks thought because I'm a fairly successful hip hop artist, I was soft, okay? What's it to you? They're gone and I didn't stab anybody. I was protecting myself and wouldn't recognize them again if I saw 'em."
She stood and folded her arms over her chest, defying him with her glare.
Berkfield nodded. "Okay, okay. But, lemme ask you this. Why is it that after you've been somewhere, there's always these mysterious piles of ash left in a goddamned alley, huh? What is it with you and Rivera?" He glanced at the ashy heaps and then stared at her harder.
"You really don't want to know. Trust me."
"Try me." He held her gaze, thinking about the last contact Carlos had made with him - an envelope with all the Jamaican territory laid out... this club listed as a source of trouble. And there was something in her eyes, the unsaid, that made him realize she had to know that Rivera wasn't the average Joe, Carlos's drug-dealing history notwithstanding.
Locked in a standoff, for a moment all he could do was stare at her.
This kid was so wrong when she'd just said that he wouldn't want to know. It had been the very question that had kept him up at night for months. Yet he didn't want to sound crazy, even to himself, by broaching the subject. He couldn't explain any of what he'd witnessed to another living soul. The unfathomable possibility of what Carlos might be had forever changed his life, his perspective, and it was now possibly threatening his sanity. He'd almost been able to chalk it up to the trauma of being double-crossed by a trusted partner and nearly shot in the process. That had somehow been a comforting rationalization - until the Brazil thing had gone down. The carnage there just reminded him too much of the unsolved cases that would always haunt him.
The detective searched the young woman's face with his eyes. He had to know if he'd seen what he'd seen in that alley in LA... had to know if there was something else on this planet that wasn't human.
Berkfield practically held his breath as he continued to eye the angry young woman before him. If she were somehow Carlos's woman, Rivera wouldn't have been able to stay away from her. Every instinct in him as a cop and a man told him that much. That's what he trusted.
"Look," Berkfield finally said more gently. "I'm not after him for something he did... I'm just trying to get a bead on something that went down. It struck me as odd. That's all I can say about it now, but when me and Rivera met in an alley, one time a while back, I saw some things... some shit I still can't totally comprehend. He saved my ass that night and - "
"If he saved your ass, you'd have to ask him," she said coolly.
"That's why I came looking for you - to find him," the detective said. There was no anger in his voice, just the urgent need to know. He could see her studying him, deciding, but every instinct he had as a cop told him she knew - had seen it - just like he had. "I don't care about the Jamaican territory," he said quickly, coming in close to her and holding her by both arms.
She appraised his hold with cool disdain, but didn't move. All she did was look at his hands and then narrow her gaze at him. "Then why did you ask me about it, huh? Why'd you roll up on me in the street while I was out grabbing some lunch and start poking around in the subject? Now you're sweatin' me, following me and shit? You keep talking about the Jamai - "
"That was the last contact we had with him," Berkfield said, his tone becoming more panicked as he watched her mentally retreat. But what the hell was he doing, telling an unknown risk about his info source - giving up his inside man like that? He either needed more stress counseling, or it was too late and he'd already lost his mind.
"Berkfield, I'm warning you. There are some things in life you just don't wanna know."
He quickly dropped his hands away from the young woman before him, now becoming terror-stricken as he stepped back. That's exactly what Rivera had told him. What if she was one of those things like Rivera? He was alone in an alley with no backup. The reality sent a chill down his spine.
Berkfield crossed himself as she simply stared at him. "All I want to do is ask him a personal question so I can sleep at night." His request came out as a plea. Heaven help him if he'd stumbled upon a female monster.
"Too late," Damali said softly, looking off into the distance.
"And why's that?" His voice caught in his throat as he glanced around. The darkness was now suffocating him, and he nearly pulled his gun on her, then remembered what Rivera had done to his partner - sent the bullet right back through the man's chest.
She didn't even look at the detective as she began walking away. "Because Carlos Rivera is dead."