“Nope. He called yesterday, told me I’d be sorry for slipping that knife in his pocket and siccing the cops on him. I tried to call him back, but he’s not answering, and nobody knows where he is, not his sister, not his mama, not the team.”
“How did this happen?”
“We were at a middle school art show, all of us, team members and alternates and significant others, everybody. The damn metal detector goes off as Vigil’s walking in, so the cops search him, find the knife, haul him downtown.”
“Why does he think you’re the one slipped it on him?”
“Beats me. And now he’s threatening me instead of letting me help him figure out this mess.”
I knew better than to ask Rico why he hadn’t gone to the police. He had a philosophical stubborn streak about organized law enforcement. The fact that he not only tolerated Trey but also genuinely liked him said more about Trey than about Rico relaxing his prejudice.
“So you decided to put Trey on lookout duty?”
“We’ve all got a lot riding on this next week, as individuals and as a team. Not that I think anything’s going to happen. But you two were coming anyway, and I thought better safe than sorry.” He sent another look Trey’s way, like maybe he preferred risking sorry after all. “So will you tell him to sit down now?”
“Not on your life.”
“But you said—”
“You were threatened by a recently released felon with a vengeance issue, and you expect me to tell Trey to sit down? Screw that.”
Rico muttered a curse and tossed back the last of his champagne. Then he poured another glass, keeping his eyes on Adam, who still hustled merchandise beside the makeshift stage, empty except for a microphone stand. Rico was usually the crown prince of smooth, pure butter, but tonight he jangled.
I put a hand on his wrist. “Let Trey handle Vigil. That’s why you called him, right?”
“Vigil’s only a part of the problem. There’s another part right there.”
I followed his gaze to a table in the corner where two people sat, male and female. The guy was an ambisexual creature in black leather pants and a rivet-studded white tee-shirt, an artery of red highlights running through his ebony hair. The overall effect was art-kid and fey, but the details were pure goth, from the slant of eyeliner to the pendant around his neck, a grinning skull melded with an Egyptian ankh. It was as big as his fist, ostentatious, designed to provoke.
“Lex Anderson,” he said. “Vigil’s replacement. Frankie’s busting his chops for coming late to the photo shoot this morning and missing practice yesterday. Four days on the team and he’s falling apart.”
Frankie, I recognized. The team leader. Dazzlingly tall and built like a Valkyrie, she wore earth-toned flowing pants and a low-cut saffron blouse with bell sleeves. A massive curly mane tumbled in dark brown tendrils around her shoulders. She had eyes like sharpened pieces of topaz, and she never remembered my name. I was beginning to think that every time Rico introduced us, it was the first time all over again.
As she explained things to Lex, his smile froze in place. For a minute I thought the two would erupt into an argument, but Lex slid down in his chair and shrugged. Frankie leaned forward and tapped the table emphatically with her forefinger. Lex stared at her with slitted eyes.
Rico watched them over his glass. “Frankie’s two seconds from ditching him and putting Vigil back in, regardless of his vengeance issue.”
“But the competition starts next Friday! That’s—”
“A week, I know.” He shook his head. “It’s a gamble. But Lex is flaking out on us, and the team can’t compete without four people. And if the team can’t compete, then neither can its members in the individual competition. And I’ll tell you this about Frankie—she’s all for the team, but right now she’s got her sights set on that individual trophy.”
Of course she did. The winning team got a wad of money and a truckload of glory, but the team competition was merely a warm-up to the main event, the individual rounds. And this year, the first place individual finisher took home a lucrative prize—the starring role in a spoken word poetry documentary. Lots of lights/camera/action, plus the maraschino on the whipped cream—an all-expense-paid tour in the fall. Fifteen cities, featured billing, top venues.
“Is the movie business putting stars in Frankie’s eyes?”
“More like dollar signs. PPI signed the paperwork last night.”