Like a Sister(54)

“Another great tip! My manicurist is on set with Scarlett. I’m not flying out to see her until next week. Though I guess I could book a flight tomorrow if need be.”

We couldn’t have that. I handed her the dishrag. It’d been whiter than Erin once upon a time but now was a shoddy gray as depressing as New York in January. “How about I wash, you dry?”

That’s how I’d done it with Desiree too, though Erin caught on quicker than my sister. Drying turned out to be her forte. We got into a groove, working in a silence so comfortable I was surprised when she spoke. “I’m going to help you.” She must’ve noticed my look because she kept on. “Find Karma Dodson.”

I smiled, then started washing even faster. We had the kitchen spotless in five minutes and were back in my place in seven, me showing her the three Karma Dodsons listed on Facebook. “We could definitely shell out for one of those people searches, but they’re not the most accurate.” I ignored her how-do-you-know-that look. “I figure we start here. If she was out that late at night, I bet she’s young, and what person under thirty isn’t all over social? Figure I could send them each a message.”

“Let me do it. I actually have a Facebook account. We might have better luck if I friend each of them instead of just sending them a note that goes to their ‘Creepy Stranger’ list they don’t check.”

She had a point. I hovered while we went through each page on her cell. It was much easier to read while stone-cold sober.

“Let’s not mention Desiree,” I said. “Maybe ask if they helped out with a car accident a couple of years ago in New York.”

Erin nodded. “I’ll mention there’s a reward.”

“But there’s not…”

“People respond better to stuff like that. And if they do want money, I’ll take care of it.”

That wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I went with it. I was watching her type out a note to number two when my phone rang.

Mel, or rather his line.

Not now.

I ignored it, hoping it would go away. It just moved to text. Tam.

Mel wants to see you ASAP. When can you stop by?

Never. I wrote back: Today’s not good. It’s Sunday.

An immediate response: He’s pissed about the profile in the News. Trying to calm him down but the longer you avoid him the worse it’ll be.

I’d forgotten about Stuart’s story. I pulled it up on my phone. Two paragraphs in and I could see why Mel was mad. I wasn’t too happy myself.

“Everything good?” Erin said.

It wasn’t, but I nodded. “I just need to go see Mel.”

Then I texted Stuart Jones.





Seventeen



Mel had gone viral a few months ago. I couldn’t tell you when or where the original video came from, but I knew it was old. Because of the fuzzy quality that looked ripped from a VHS. Because no one in the video was glued to cell phones. Because Mel had twenty less pounds and one inch more hairline, only the handcuffs tatted on his wrists looking the same. It had to be mid-’90s, probably from one of those MTV shows where they follow you around as you pretend it’s a normal day. Except back then, this was standard operating procedure for Murder Mel Pierce.

He was stomping around some conference room table like he was playing a round of Duck, Duck, Goose, walking past skinny blondes, old white men, and everything in between. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, his deep baritone reverberating like too-loud speakers. I counted seven creative uses of the word “fuck” in the first fifteen seconds.

All because the people in the conference room had decided to have a meeting about Free’s next album without telling Mel. It later came out that Free was the one who hadn’t wanted him there because he was signing a new deal sans Mel. But Mel hadn’t known that then. When he found out, using just seven fucks would’ve sounded like a lullaby.

If Free was known for his in-your-face bars, then Mel was known for his in-your-face bravado. There wasn’t an interview that didn’t mention his “reputation.” His quick fuse. His threats of ass beatings. His promises to end careers. I know because I read them all.

The video played on repeat in my head as I biked into Manhattan. Even though it was Sunday, Mel was at work. I’d taken a long shower and spent even longer laying my edges and deciding what to wear—a delay tactic more than anything else. In the end I’d just chosen my black Afroed Rosie the Riveter T-shirt and black jeans.

The walk to Mel’s office felt like another walk of shame, somehow made worse by the empty desks. I sat outside his door like a kid in a time-out.

“He’s ready for you,” Tam finally said.

My cell rang again as I stood up, but I hit DECLINE like I’d done the other five times. I made my way over, looking down as if I could actually see the eggshells. It took me four steps to get there. Then I knocked.

Truth was, Mel had never used his infamous temper on me. And I had never given him a reason to, treating his presence like a field trip to a museum. Don’t touch anything. Don’t run anywhere. Don’t talk to strangers, even if they’re your father. Desiree had handled it differently. Doing everything short of screaming for attention. Not me. Never me.

He yelled, “Come in!” and I finally opened one of the double doors. I figured he’d be behind the big black desk, staring me down behind ever-present sunglasses. But he was pacing, eyes on full display and focused on his cell. He didn’t look up when I walked in. Mel didn’t use a computer much, but he stayed on his phone constantly. The only time I hadn’t seen him on it was during our meeting with Green.