Page 63 of Hunter's Hidden Camera
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 oddlyold-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.
