Blood Games. Faye Kellerman

It isn’t hard to get weapons at B and W. You can get guns, you can get booze, you can get dope, you can get porn, and you can get good grades and test scores.”

      “That easy, huh?” Decker said.

      “That easy,” Joey answered. “All you have to do is pay for it.”

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      DURING THE FINAL duet—“Gran Dio, morir si giovane”—Gabe’s eyes wandered to Yasmine, whose face was buried in her hands. Her eyes were visible through splayed fingers, tears streaming down. The entire time he had been concentrating on pitch, voice timbre, sound mixture, and volume. But the little girl next to him was sobbing because Violetta was about to succumb to tuberculosis.

      So who was really getting the most out of the afternoon?

      As she blinked, a new batch of tears poured out of her eyes. In a protective motion, Gabe put his arm around her shoulder and she simply melted, fat saline drops soaking his shirt. When Violetta finally died and the curtain came down, she sat up, took a tissue from her bag, and wiped her face. Curtain calls took another five minutes, and then the house lights went up.

      It was five-thirty by the time they actually made it out of the building. The sky held the afterglow of a dazzling sunset—pinks, oranges, and purples. The ground was wet, and the air was chilly.

      Yasmine hugged her body. Her voice was still shaky. “How do we get a taxi?”

      “We don’t.” Gabe checked his watch. “By the time we call it in and the guy gets here, it’s easier to take the bus.”

      “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