orders.
‘Yo, what the—’
‘Turn around. Now!’
Cavell does as he is told, raising his arms slightly in surrender as he has probably done a hundred times before. Alvarez puts the muzzle of the Glock to the back of Cavell’s head, then
places his left hand on his shoulder. He pushes him forward into the apartment, kicking the door closed behind him.
He marches Cavell into the middle of the living room, his eyes darting as he moves. The room gives off to a small kitchen area and there are doors into two other rooms. Alvarez picks one and
guides Cavell toward it.
‘Open it!’
Cavell pushes open the door and stumbles in, Alvarez tight behind him. A bedroom. All pink and lilac and teddy bears. A huge unmade bed filling the space. Some kind of black skimpy nightwear on
the end of it.
‘The closet,’ Alvarez says, and Cavell twists his head slightly toward him.
‘The closet? You think you Inspector fucking Clouseau or something? You think I got fucking Cato hiding in there?’
Alvarez jabs the gun muzzle hard into Cavell’s skull. ‘Do it!’
Cavell sighs and steps over to the closet. Alvarez stays near the doorway, his gun on Cavell’s back but his eyes constantly flicking back to the living room and that other unopened
door.
Cavell yanks open the closet. There is a sudden movement within. Alvarez tightens his trigger finger. A red shoe falls from the shelf and lands at Cavell’s feet, and Alvarez steps down the
pressure on the trigger.
‘Back that way,’ he says. He keeps his gaze fixed on Cavell as he retraces his steps. As Cavell passes, he puts the gun back to his head.
‘You don’t gotta do that,’ Cavell complains.
‘Shut up! Open the other door.’
They cross the living area, and Cavell follows his instructions. Alvarez doesn’t need to enter the tiny bathroom to see that it’s unoccupied.
‘Happy now?’ Cavell asks.
‘No,’ Alvarez answers. ‘Against the wall.’
Knowing the drill, Cavell puts his hands high on the wall, alongside a window looking onto the street below. Alvarez kicks his feet apart, displacing his center of gravity so that any attempt to
come away from the wall will have him falling flat on his face. Keeping his gun in place, he pats Cavell’s armpits, then down both flanks. He checks Cavell’s waist, then drags his gun
down Cavell’s spine and runs his free hand over the man’s legs. Straightening up, he does a similar run along Cavell’s arms. Finally, he dips his hand into the hood of
Cavell’s sweatshirt.
‘Stay there,’ Alvarez says. He walks back to the apartment door and sees that it has a locking bar. He fixes it into place, just in case some friends of Cavell’s should decide
to pay a visit.
‘Now I’m happy,’ he says, putting the Glock away.
Cavell straightens up, drops his arms and turns to face Alvarez.
‘The fuck you gotta do all that shit for, man? I tole you I was trying to help you out.’
Alvarez is warm after the exertion and the stress of the last few minutes. He takes off his coat and slings it over the back of the sofa, then folds his arms and looks around the room.
It’s clean and tidy. Vases of dried flowers on the coffee table and on the kitchen counter. On one wall, a poster of the good-looking black doctor from ER .
‘You like that guy, Tremaine?’
Cavell curls his lip at the insult. ‘Like I said, this my girl’s place.’
‘One of your hookers?’
‘One of my own private collection. I don’t like to mix business with pleasure.’
‘Uh-huh. So why bring me here, Tremaine? What’s all this about?’
‘I got a message for you.’
‘A message, huh? Who from?’
‘Can’t say.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
Cavell just shrugs.
‘Okay, so why not tell me on the phone? Or send me a letter? Or a fucking carrier pigeon?’
‘Don’t know. I was just told this is the way it has to be.’
‘You always do what you’re told, Tremaine? Whose bitch are you being right now?’
Cavell flares
‘Yo, what the—’
‘Turn around. Now!’
Cavell does as he is told, raising his arms slightly in surrender as he has probably done a hundred times before. Alvarez puts the muzzle of the Glock to the back of Cavell’s head, then
places his left hand on his shoulder. He pushes him forward into the apartment, kicking the door closed behind him.
He marches Cavell into the middle of the living room, his eyes darting as he moves. The room gives off to a small kitchen area and there are doors into two other rooms. Alvarez picks one and
guides Cavell toward it.
‘Open it!’
Cavell pushes open the door and stumbles in, Alvarez tight behind him. A bedroom. All pink and lilac and teddy bears. A huge unmade bed filling the space. Some kind of black skimpy nightwear on
the end of it.
‘The closet,’ Alvarez says, and Cavell twists his head slightly toward him.
‘The closet? You think you Inspector fucking Clouseau or something? You think I got fucking Cato hiding in there?’
Alvarez jabs the gun muzzle hard into Cavell’s skull. ‘Do it!’
Cavell sighs and steps over to the closet. Alvarez stays near the doorway, his gun on Cavell’s back but his eyes constantly flicking back to the living room and that other unopened
door.
Cavell yanks open the closet. There is a sudden movement within. Alvarez tightens his trigger finger. A red shoe falls from the shelf and lands at Cavell’s feet, and Alvarez steps down the
pressure on the trigger.
‘Back that way,’ he says. He keeps his gaze fixed on Cavell as he retraces his steps. As Cavell passes, he puts the gun back to his head.
‘You don’t gotta do that,’ Cavell complains.
‘Shut up! Open the other door.’
They cross the living area, and Cavell follows his instructions. Alvarez doesn’t need to enter the tiny bathroom to see that it’s unoccupied.
‘Happy now?’ Cavell asks.
‘No,’ Alvarez answers. ‘Against the wall.’
Knowing the drill, Cavell puts his hands high on the wall, alongside a window looking onto the street below. Alvarez kicks his feet apart, displacing his center of gravity so that any attempt to
come away from the wall will have him falling flat on his face. Keeping his gun in place, he pats Cavell’s armpits, then down both flanks. He checks Cavell’s waist, then drags his gun
down Cavell’s spine and runs his free hand over the man’s legs. Straightening up, he does a similar run along Cavell’s arms. Finally, he dips his hand into the hood of
Cavell’s sweatshirt.
‘Stay there,’ Alvarez says. He walks back to the apartment door and sees that it has a locking bar. He fixes it into place, just in case some friends of Cavell’s should decide
to pay a visit.
‘Now I’m happy,’ he says, putting the Glock away.
Cavell straightens up, drops his arms and turns to face Alvarez.
‘The fuck you gotta do all that shit for, man? I tole you I was trying to help you out.’
Alvarez is warm after the exertion and the stress of the last few minutes. He takes off his coat and slings it over the back of the sofa, then folds his arms and looks around the room.
It’s clean and tidy. Vases of dried flowers on the coffee table and on the kitchen counter. On one wall, a poster of the good-looking black doctor from ER .
‘You like that guy, Tremaine?’
Cavell curls his lip at the insult. ‘Like I said, this my girl’s place.’
‘One of your hookers?’
‘One of my own private collection. I don’t like to mix business with pleasure.’
‘Uh-huh. So why bring me here, Tremaine? What’s all this about?’
‘I got a message for you.’
‘A message, huh? Who from?’
‘Can’t say.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
Cavell just shrugs.
‘Okay, so why not tell me on the phone? Or send me a letter? Or a fucking carrier pigeon?’
‘Don’t know. I was just told this is the way it has to be.’
‘You always do what you’re told, Tremaine? Whose bitch are you being right now?’
Cavell flares
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