Chapter 27 Stakeout
Stakeout
“We’re two blocks away,” says Oscar.
“Well, we can’t just drive up to the front,” I say, as I pull the car over to the side of the road, next to a junkyard full of busted-up vehicles. “We’re an hour early, which gives us a head start. We’ll walk over there and stake it out.”
“I live in a sketchy neighborhood,” says Oscar. “But even I’m kinda scared to be out here.”
“You wanna wait in the car?” I ask.
“Nah, man, are we bros or are we bros?” Oscar gets out of the car.
We start walking.
After a few minutes of rushing down the sidewalk undetected (nobody has passed us at all), we see a dilapidated building, three stories high, across the street from us. Some of the windows are boarded up, the paint is peeling, and the walls are tagged with graffiti.
The front door to the building is wide open. A white balloon filled with helium is attached to the doorknob. Written on it, in black marker, are the letters “P” and “S.”
I mouth the words, “Perpetual Sunset.”
The balloon sways back and forth.
“We need to find a place to hide,” I say.
Oscar points to a bus stop bench at the far end of the block. If we hide behind the bench, we would be able to see who comes in and out of the building without being seen. So we hurry.
After a few minutes just sitting here, Oscar says, “How you doing, man?”
“What do you mean?”
“You and Emma kind of broke up,” he says. “That’s kind of a big deal.”
“I haven’t had time to process it. My mind’s been on this situation with my brother. You know how serious this is, right, Oscar? I’m talking about murder. Alessandra is dead.”
“I get it, bro,” he says. “Sometimes I just try to lighten things up.”
“Maybe things don’t need to be lightened up.”
“But Hunter, I know how you get, man. You get in your head, and it can get real bad. And something like this, your brother trying to frame you for a killing, it’s the kind of thing that can push you over the edge, and I don’t want you to go there, man. I know how you get.”
“What are you talking about, Oscar?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“No, I don’t.” I’m confused.
“Freshman year?” Oscar says.
“What about it?”
“When we were at the beach. Hermosa Beach. That one day you almost drowned, and I pulled you out of the ocean?”
“Yeah. I remember that day. You saved my life. I’ll always be grateful to you.”
“Hunter, c’mon, we’re talking man to man now, so let’s talk man to man. I know you weren’t drowning on accident.”
Does Oscar know about my suicidal thoughts? I’ve never shared them with anybody. How does he know? How does he know I tried to kill myself that day by drowning in the ocean?
He continues, “We both know it wasn’t an accident. We both know what you were trying to do.”
Silence. I don’t want to talk about this. So: more silence.
But for some reason, I can’t bear the quiet.
So I whisper, “How did you know?”
“We’re best friends, bro. You don’t think I know you get depressed and shit, and like you’ll just shut down when we’re hanging out sometimes?
You don’t think I noticed all the times I saw those marks on your neck, on your arm, marks that looked like you tried to do something?
So yeah, when I see you get serious and shit, I just start talking about something stupid, try to distract you.
‘Cause that day? That day at Hermosa Beach? It was the scariest day of my life, bro. I thought you were gonna die. But you didn’t, and I was relieved.
But I didn’t know what to do about it. I’m not a professional or some shit.
I’m just a dumb-ass. What do I know about what to do?
Nothing. I don’t got words of wisdom and shit.
I don’t got things a therapist gonna say.
All I can do is make you laugh, bro. That’s all I got. I don’t got anything else to give you.”
I turn my head away from Oscar. I don’t want him to see the tears in my eyes.
I say, softly, “Oscar, you have a lot to give. You have so much to give.”
“You really think so, Hunter?”
I put my hand on Oscar’s arm and squeeze it. “I know it.”
“What’re you so depressed about, Hunter? What’s the matter? You can tell me, bro.”
I shake my head, as the tears roll down my face.
Oscar puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, dude. You don’t have to tell me anything. Just: the next time you’re thinking about doing something crazy, talk to me first, okay? Maybe I got a joke you never heard before.”
I nod my head and wipe my face.
We both turn our attention back to the building across the street.
At about 9:30 p.m., a couple of cars with Lyft signs in the window pull up to the building.
A white guy and girl in their twenties get out of the first car.
An Asian dude and a Black girl, also in their twenties, get out of the second car.
The cars take off, and the two couples go through the front door of the building, talking to each other and laughing.
Then, over the next several minutes, a series of Lyfts and Ubers drop off more people, twenties to forties, all different races: white, Black, Asian, Latino, Middle Eastern, and more. They all head inside. None of them are Nash.
“If Nash shows up, what’re we gonna do?” asks Oscar. “We just gonna follow him inside?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think that far ahead.” I run all the options in my mind. “Maybe we should go inside, and somehow hide out at the party, and monitor Nash from in there.”
“Bro,” Oscar points. “That’s Twyla.”
Twyla, wearing a leather miniskirt and white tank top, gets out of the back of a car. She’s by herself. She walks toward the entrance.
I turn to Oscar. “Let’s do it.”
Oscar and I spring to our feet.
“Twyla!” I yell.
She turns around. “Nash! Victor!”
“‘Sup,” I say.
Oscar smiles. “You looking fine, girl.”
“Thanks.” She gives us both a hug. “Where’s Alessandra?”
“She’s coming later,” I say.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go. It’s gonna be so much fun tonight!”
We follow Twyla’s lead.
There are leaves and dirty flyers all along the dark hallway. One exposed light bulb hangs from above.
“It’s kind of creepy in here,” I say.
Twyla says, “It always is. You know that. But they really go all out with making the inside nice.”
The three of us climb a narrow set of creaking stairs to the second floor. Then we take another set leading to the third floor. As we get closer to that top floor, I hear music. It’s EDM. It gets louder and louder.
“They always hire the best DJs,” Twyla says. “The music is already making love to my body.”
The third floor hallway looks like it belongs in a completely different building.
It’s dim, but it’s not scary. The darkness is on purpose.
The walls and ceiling are clean. The floor is scattered with rose petals, leading up to an open door at the end of the hallway.
Music and colorful lights and special-effects fog spill out of the door.
A tall, middle-aged Latino man, wearing a slim tuxedo, stands in front of the door. He’s handsome and classy and oddly old-fashioned, as if he walked out of a black-and-white movie about high society.
Behind him is a plush red velvet rope held up by two brass stanchions, which blocks the entrance.
“Good evening, Miss.” He nods at Twyla and then at me and Oscar. “Gentlemen.”
Oscar whispers to me, almost giggling, “He called us ‘gentlemen,’ bro.”
“Hi,” says Twyla to the man.
“Hello,” I say.
Oscar lifts up his chin. “?Qué bola, asere?”
Twyla asks the man, “How’s the crowd in there tonight?”
“I believe you’ll be quite pleased,” he says, “but I do suppose it depends on what it is exactly that you’re looking for.”
“True.” Twyla nods.
The man says, “I kindly ask for you to give me tonight’s password.”
Twyla smiles. “The password is ‘Venus 1-8-7.’”
“Excellent,” he says.
Next to him is a shallow woven basket, sitting on top of what looks like a small antique table. Inside the basket are a stack of white masks, the kind that covers the top half of your face and that is secured with an elastic band around the back of your head.
The man reaches for three masks and hands them to us.
“As you know,” he says, “the first request, as always, is that you keep your mask on at all times.”
Oscar looks at me like, “WTF?!”
Twyla excitedly puts her mask on.
I shrug at Oscar. We put our masks on too.
The man unhooks one end of the velvet rope from a stanchion, creating a path for us to enter.
Now that we’re this close to the door, the fog begins to envelop us, and the rainbow of flashing lights bounces off of our bodies. The rhythmic, hypnotic music grows louder and gives us all goosebumps. It smells like flowers, like gardens, like nature.
The man clears his throat and holds his arm out, gesturing for us to walk through the door.
He then says, with perfect diction, “Welcome to Perpetual Sunset.”