Faye Kellerman - Blood Games

“How long will it take to get home?”

“About an hour plus.”

“I told my mom I’d be home by six.”

“That’s not going to happen even with a cab. We’ve got to hustle. The bus is due in five minutes, and it’s a half-hour wait if we miss it.” He took her hand and pulled her along. They arrived a minute before the bus pulled up. She was jumping up and down, massaging her arms. “Cold?” he asked.

“I’m always cold.”

“It’s cold outside.” He rubbed her shoulders with his hands.

When the bus came, she said, “I’m sorry I got emotional. I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”

“It’s theater. You’re supposed to be moved. We performers live for people like you.”

They boarded the bus, and he paid for the tickets. The inside was stale smelling, but at least it was warm. Gabe found two empty seats toward the back. He gave her the window seat and took the aisle—better for his legs and his body would shield her in case some gangbangers decided to board. In L.A., rapid transit didn’t really exist. Buses were the primary transportation of those too poor or too young to have cars. She took out her phone and began to talk in a foreign language—presumably Farsi. A few minutes later, she hung up.

“Everything okay?”

“My friend said she’d cover for me. I’m supposed to be at her house anyway.”

“Nice friend. Why didn’t you just take her to the opera?”

“She would have come with me, but she would have hated it. It’s not fun to go with a person who’s looking at her watch all the time.”

“Gotcha.”

“Thanks so much for doing this for me.”

“Honestly, the pleasure was mine. I’ve never heard Danielli live. She was great.”

Yasmine brought her hand to her heart. “Oh my God, it was like being transported.” She took in a deep breath and let it out. “This might be terrible, but I didn’t think the guy who played Alfredo did her justice.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, he hit a few clunkers.”

“Like right at the end … oh my God, wasn’t he embarrassed? I mean how can you sing like that when you’re singing with Alyssa Danielli?”

Gabe regarded her face. “You really do have a great ear. Is your family musical?”

“My mom used to sing.”

“Opera?”

“No, just like sing at parties and stuff. She doesn’t do it anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s married. I mean, she still sings, but just not professionally.” Yasmine looked deep in thought. “She has a lovely voice.”

Gabe nodded. “And your parents didn’t give you any music lessons?”

“Oh sure. We were all given piano lessons. It didn’t take. I’m terrible.”

“How long did you play for?”

“Technically, I’m still playing, but I’m hopeless. I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not with you.”

They rode for a few minutes in silence. Gabe took a Balance Bar out of his pocket and as soon as he did, Yasmine’s eyes glanced to his snack. Wordlessly, he offered it to her.

“Do you have another one?” she asked.

“Take it.”

“We’ll share.”

“Take it.”

She took it and broke it in half.

Gabe kept his hands in his lap. “I’m really fine.”

“Then why did you take it out if you didn’t want to eat it?”

“Force of habit. Sometimes I need a sugar rush.” He regarded her face. “You look tired. Did you have anything to eat today besides the Diet Coke at intermission?”

“I had coffee.” When Gabe rolled his eyes, she said, “I didn’t have time.” Carefully, she took a nibble at the bar.

Gabe waited a moment, then said, “Do you like piano music?”

“Of course I like piano music. I like the way you play it, just not massacred—which is the way I play it.”

He smiled. “The reason I ask is that SC is having a concert next Saturday afternoon.” He paused. “Wait. Are you Shomer Shabbat?”

“We go to shul in the morning, but we drive and stuff.” She looked at him. “For a Catholic, you know some pretty obscure expressions.”

“You live with the Deckers, you pick up a few things.”

“Anyway …” She averted her eyes and bit her lip. “What were you saying?”

“Oh, yeah. Anyway, the pianist is a guy I know from competitions. Paul Chin. He’s a student at SC, and we have the same piano teacher. He’s pretty good.” A beat. “I’m definitely going. If you want to come with me, I’ll be happy to take you.”

“I would love to come. What time?”

“Same time, three o’clock.” She didn’t talk, her eyes calculating something unknown. He said, “Why don’t you just tell your parents?”

“They wouldn’t let me go.”

“Yasmine, it’s not a date—”

“I know that.”

“You obviously have a love of classical music and it’s a shame to stifle it.”

“My parents are old-fashioned. Especially my dad. He doesn’t allow me to go out, period, even with Persian Jewish boys.” A pause. “I know it’s not a date and you’re just being nice, but …” She sighed.

Gabe said, “Well, the offer is open. If you change your mind, just show up at the bus stop.”

She nodded, looking thoroughly dejected.

“Finish your bar.”

“I’m not hungry.” She offered it back.

“Eat it. Don’t be one of those ridiculous anorexic girls.”

“I’m not anorexic.”

“Then prove me wrong and eat.”

She took another lackluster nibble.

“Hey, don’t fret.” He gently nudged her arm. “You’ll have plenty of time to hear concerts when you get to college. Besides, it’s probably better not to sneak around your parents.”

She didn’t answer. Then she said, “What is the pianist playing?”

“It’s all Saint-Saëns. I think the orchestra’s doing some golden oldies like ‘Danse Macabre’ and ‘Bacchanale.’” He thought a moment. “When I was a little kid, I saw Samson and Delilah. My father took me. I inherited my ear from him. Anyway, it wasn’t like a Met opera, it was one of these experimental things that the New York avant-garde just love to do. So when the company did the ‘Bacchanale,’ they started stripping until they were nude and started simulating you know what.” He grinned. “Man, I don’t think I heard a note of music.”

She giggled. “How old were you?”

“Around nine.”

“What did your father do?”

“I dunno. I was too embarrassed to look at him.”

She giggled again. “So you got your talent from your dad?”

“Yeah, only I’m better than he is and we both know it. It’s funny. My father is an absolute tyrant. I’ve never, ever talked back to him except in music. It’s the one area where I can tell my dad that he’s full of shit in that language and he’ll just laugh or agree with me. It’s weird.”

“You’re probably living his dream.”

“Nah, my father likes what he does just fine.”

“What does he do?”

It took a few moments for him to speak. “He owns brothels.” Yasmine’s face was blank. Gabe said, “Brothels. You know. Whorehouses.”

“Whorehouses?”

“You don’t know what a whorehouse is?”

Her complexion darkened. “I know what a whore is. I didn’t know there was a special house for them.”

Gabe said, “Eat your Balance Bar.”

She took another bite. “Like how does that work? Do all the whores just decide to live together?”

“Change the subject.”

“No, I’m curious.”

“A brothel is a place where whores work.” A pause. “So instead of having to go out on the street and hustle for guys, they just stay in one place and the guys come to them.”

“To have sex?”

“That’s the idea.”