Till Murder Do Us Part Read online

  “You guys don’t have to waste your time working on this little lady,” Mark says to them, gesturing toward Brandi. “She always looks absolutely perfect.”

  “Mark, quit it!” Brandi says with a smile, her cheeks turning rosy.

  They get even redder when Mark leans over and gives her bottom a firm pat.

  It’s precisely this smoldering chemistry between Mark and Brandi that has made them one of the skateboarding world’s hottest, most in-demand modeling duos—exactly as Mark’s manager, Bill Silva, predicted. The two have already appeared together in numerous print ads for Vision Street Wear and more. They’ve traveled to skating events around the world, in places as far-flung as Brazil and Japan, where they’ve been cheered by tens of thousands of screaming fans.

  Mark and Brandi’s fame—and bank accounts—just keeps growing.

  “Hey, Gator,” calls one of the other skateboarders standing nearby; he’s having powder applied to his sweat-dappled forehead. Mark didn’t know this guy before they met this morning on set. And after seeing his mediocre skills on the ramp, Mark isn’t terribly interested in changing that. In fact, he can’t even remember the guy’s name.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I ask you something? You’re one of the kings of vert skating, no question—”

  “Damn right I am.”

  “But what do you think about the rise of street-style skating? Seems to me in the last year or two it’s really started getting popular.”

  Mark scoffs. “Street-style? It’ll never catch on. Not in any real way. Trust me.”

  “I don’t know, dude,” the skater replies. “A lotta kids seem to be getting into it.”

  “It’s just a lame fad. It’s lazy. It’s boring. In vert, you do all kinds of fun, crazy shit. Like shifties and frogstands, ollies and gazelle flips, up and down ten-foot ramps. In street-style, all you do is grind on park benches and sidewalk curbs for a few seconds. Snore.”

  “But isn’t that, like, the whole point?” Brandi interjects. “You don’t need a half-pipe or an empty swimming pool to skate. Anybody can do it, anywhere. I love that!”

  Mark glares at Brandi and shakes his head, to the irritation of his makeup artist.

  “Do it, maybe. But watch it? Actually give a shit about it? Last I checked, anybody, anywhere, can play basketball with a broken milk crate tied to a telephone pole. Do you think millions of NBA fans are going to start paying attention? Gimme a break.”

  Mark is certain that vert skating is here to stay—and that it’s only going to get bigger. He’s also supremely confident that he’s going to remain a top skater for many, many years to come. After all, he’s already a minor global celebrity at age twenty-three, with more money than he knows what to do with. Not to mention he’s got Brandi, the hottest woman he’s ever met. He’s living a charmed life, and he fully expects it to stay that way.

  “Places, everybody! We’re about to go again!”

  Mark, Brandi, and the others climb back up onto the half-pipe ledge and get ready for the next take. Mark looks over at his girlfriend and gives her a quick, sexy wink.

  But then he makes the mistake of glancing down over the cliff’s edge.

  It’s a long, long way to the bottom.

  Chapter 8

  Spinning heelflip to a frontside disco spin. Five-forty into an ollie airwalk.

  His eyes squeezed shut, Mark Rogowski is visualizing his next run of tricks, up and down the ramps he knows so well here at his beloved Del Mar Skate Ranch. This is the place where vert skating—and his career—first began, just a few short years ago.

  Mark takes a deep breath and then opens his eyes.

  And slumps with despair.

  Mark isn’t perched on a ramp. He’s standing outside the park’s main gate, which is secured tightly with rusty chains and a padlock the size of a bowling ball.

  Some time ago, the owners of Del Mar Skate Ranch abruptly shut down the park, after selling the property to a hotel developer. Jackhammers quickly reduced its warren of concrete jumps and half-pipes to pits of rubble. Gone, too, are the hordes of fans. And instead of the pleasant scent of the Pacific, the air reeks of diesel fuel and tar.

  Mark gives the gate’s metal bars a forlorn, futile shake. He considers hopping the fence, just to wander around the former grounds, despite a large sign that reads NO TRESPASSING, VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED. A mischievous vandalizer has spray-painted over some words to make it read NO ASS VIOLATORS.

  Mark snickers at the childish joke.

  But inside, his heart is breaking.

  This isn’t the first time he’s paid a visit to the shuttered Del Mar park since its untimely demise. But it will probably be his last. The memories this place brings back are just too painful. Memories of happier times. Of easier times.

  Of more successful times.

  About a half hour later, Mark pulls up behind Brandi’s white convertible, parked in their driveway.

  Their new driveway.

  Recently, the pair moved from the house in rural Fallbrook to a comfortable but much more modest two-bedroom condo in the coastal town of Carlsbad. It was partly because Brandi had grown tired of living out in the boonies, so far from work and friends, the ocean and the city.

  But mostly, even if Mark refuses to admit it, it was because the once highly paid skateboarding star simply could no longer afford the mansion.

  Mark trudges inside and makes a beeline for the cramped kitchen. Swiping a bottle of beer from the fridge, he chugs it, draining it in seconds. As he cracks open a second, Brandi enters. “Hey,” she says brightly. “Good: you’re home.”

  “If you can call this dump that,” Mark huffs.

  Brandi ignores the snide comment. “Bill called three times today. He’s really been trying to get ahold of you. Says it’s important.”

  Mark scoffs at the idea that Bill Silva, his longtime manager, could have anything noteworthy to say. “How damn important could it be? Bill hasn’t booked me anything in forever.”

  “Which is exactly why you should phone him back. It could be good news!”

  Begrudgingly, Mark does so.

  “Gator!” exclaims Bill, his tone chipper and upbeat. “How’s it hangin’?”

  Mark wants to answer with the truth: by a goddamn thread. But the enthusiasm in his manager’s voice gives him pause—and a tiny glimmer of hope.

  “I’m doing all right, man. Yeah, thanks. So what’s up?”

  Bill lets out a slow stream of air.

  “So…listen. I know these last few months—the last year, really—haven’t been great for us. I wish I could tell you that’s going to change. Instead I’m calling because…well, I’ve been hearing a rumor. A not-so-great one. Thought you deserved to know.”

  “What rumor? Spit it out.”

  “Vision’s profits are way down. There’s talk about a possible bankruptcy. Which means I think they’re going to want to renegotiate your contract.”

  Mark feels his breath catch in his throat. He’s been under a lucrative modeling and product sponsorship deal with Vision Street Wear for years. Especially now, it makes up a huge chunk of his income.

  “Shut up. Are you serious?! I’m their number one seller!”

  “You used to be. Truth is, your branded skate decks, your T-shirts…Gator merchandise just isn’t moving like it once did. Look, we gotta face the facts here. Kids are losing interest in vert skating. Now it’s all about the next generation: street-style skaters.”

  Mark is shattered by what he’s hearing.

  “The next generation?! I’m twenty-three! And street skating sucks. It’s a total joke!”

  “Hey, I know that. You know that. But the marketing bigwigs are convinced—”

  “Well, screw them! And screw you, too!”

  Mark slams down the phone. In a haze of fury and desperation, he gulps down the rest of the beer he’s holding and then storms out of his condo, grabbing one of the skateboards propped up by the front door.

&nbs
p; “Street skating?!” Mark grumbles angrily to himself, marching onto his driveway. “Pathetic little ollies off a sidewalk? Dinky little kickflips in the middle of a flat street? If that’s the shit you people want to see…fine! How hard could it be?”

  Mark drops his board and starts to ride. When he reaches the curb, he tries to sail off—but he times the jump wrong and nearly loses his balance.

  “Damn it!”

  Mark recovers and keeps skating, making wide figure eights around his quiet cul-de-sac. He tries to jump and get some air with his board, but without the help of a ramp, he can’t do it. He tries again but loses his footing and just barely rights himself.

  Growing frustrated, Mark tries one more time. He crouches extra low, leaps extra high—but he stumbles and face-plants on the concrete. Hard.

  “Shit, man, I suck!”

  Painfully, Mark picks himself up. Then he grabs his board—and smashes it against the street. Again and again, until the GATOR-logoed wood cracks and splinters.

  Mark finally stops. Catches his breath. Suddenly self-conscious about what he’s done, he slowly turns back to face his home.

  Brandi is standing at the window, watching him, arms crossed in concern.

  Chapter 9

  Late 1989

  Of all the thousands of people swimming, sunbathing, and otherwise enjoying this picture-perfect day at San Diego’s Mission Beach, only one person is wearing a colorfully embroidered bolero jacket and a pair of rawhide cowboy boots.

  Augie Constantino leans back against the boardwalk’s railing. Resting the heel of his boot on a skateboard, he surveys the crowd.

  Still no sign of him.

  Augie checks his watch. Strokes his bushy goatee. Then he pulls out the business card tucked in the pocket of his stonewashed jeans pocket and reads it for the hundredth time: MARK “GATOR” ROGOWSKI, SKATEBOARDER EXTRAORDINAIRE.

  Augie smiles, recalling the divine intervention that led him to this exciting moment.

  A few days ago, while out surfing, Augie’s wife struck up a conversation with a nice young man walking along the beach. He turned out to be a famous skateboarder and gave her his card. Sensing that God had brought this Gator guy into their lives for a reason, Augie gave him a call. On the phone, Mark seemed distant. Dispirited. Very much in need of guidance and salvation. Augie suggested the two meet up. Mark didn’t seem very interested—until Augie revealed that he, too, was a skateboarder and had a promising business opportunity he wanted to share.

  Augie looks up. Despite the droves of gangly, long-haired dudes ambling along the boardwalk carrying skateboards, Augie has a special feeling about this one.

  He calls out, “Excuse me. Are you Mark?”

  “Yeah. Hey. You must be Augie?” As the two shake hands, Mark eyes Augie’s leather boots. “Don’t tell me you actually skate in those things?”

  “Sure I do. The Lord protects my life, but these protect my feet.”

  Mark shrugs. “Uh…okay.”

  At Augie’s suggestion, the two turn and start strolling together down the boardwalk.

  “I have a confession to make,” Augie tells Gator. “I’m a little starstruck right now. You probably get that all the time. You’re an absolute legend in the skating world.”

  Mark averts his eyes. “I guess so. Thanks. You said you skate, too?”

  “All the time. I actually started off as a pro surfer. I was living in Hawaii. One night, I had a few too many. Got behind the wheel…bam. Next thing I know, I’m lying in the hospital.” Augie gestures to his thigh and then to his right eye, which has a slightly limp lid. “I severed my quadriceps. Nearly lost my vision. I knew my surfing career was over.”

  Mark nods pensively. “So you couldn’t surf anymore, but you could skate?”

  “Skateboarding is simply a tool I use. To connect with people.”

  “Uh…I’m not really following you, man. And what does this have to do with me?”

  “On the night of my accident, I believe God was watching over me. He saved my life. So I devoted it to Him. I dedicated myself to spreading the word of Jesus Christ.”

  Mark stops walking and turns to Augie, disappointed.

  “Dude, come on. You said you had a business thing you wanted to talk about. I need money. If I knew you were just some religious nut, I never would have—”

  “Hang on, I do have a business proposition. Hear me out. I work for a wonderful place not far from here called Calvary Chapel. I’m what I like to call a skateboard minister. I use the sport as a way to reach young people and share with them the teachings of the Lord. If someone as famous and influential in the skating world as you were to join us, I know we could have an even bigger impact on—”

  Mark throws up his hands in annoyance.

  “Enough. I get it. No thanks. I don’t mean to be rude, but that ain’t my thing.”

  Augie offers a kind smile. “I understand. But my door is always open if you change your mind. Or…if you’re ever feeling lost, Mark. Confused. Alone. Unsure of the right path to take in your life. God will tell you the answer. All you have to do is listen.”

  Mark bites his lip. Absorbs Augie’s words for a moment. It seems they might have struck a chord. Then Mark drops his board and hops on. “Nah. I’m good. Catch ya ’round.”

  Augie watches him skate off.

  But something tells him he’ll be seeing Gator again.

  Chapter 10

  Summer 1990

  Hallo und willkommen to the Hotel Schön, gentlemen. Please enjoy your stay.”

  Keys in hand, Mark Rogowski and the gaggle of other pro skaters he’s traveling with all pile into the elevator and race to their rooms.

  This team, sponsored by Vision, is in West Germany for a weeklong vert skateboarding tournament. The style might be losing popularity in the U.S., but it still has a decent following here in Europe. At least for now.

  Mark sets down his bags. “Incoming!” he hollers, and belly flops onto the king-size bed. He hears the bed frame snap, which makes him howl with laughter.

  Flipping over, he gazes out his hotel window. The whole team is staying on this floor, which looks out over a bustling city street. The sun is just starting to set. Down the block is a construction site, ringed with fencing. A crane is lifting a piece of rebar high into position. Mark watches. Something about it is mesmerizing. Almost hypnotic.

  His room phone rings. “Guten Tag, sexy,” he answers, expecting it to be Brandi.

  “Gross, Gator. Keep it in your pants.”

  It’s actually John Hogan, the traveling team’s manager. He’s not only a fellow skater but also in charge of keeping an eye on his young, reckless teammates—even though he’s pretty much the same age.

  “Where are you, dude?” John asks. “We’re all in the lobby. We’re going out!”

  Within minutes, they’re at the closest neighborhood bar the group can find, and it’s Mark’s turn to pay for a round of Jägermeister shots.

  This isn’t the team’s first drink that night. And it definitely isn’t their last.

  “Here’s to the greatest damn vert skate team in the world!” Mark declares, hoisting his dark-hued drink high into the air. John and the others do the same.

  They cheer. They clink. They drink.

  They repeat. Again. And again. They go to a second bar. Then a third.

  Hours later, now well into the night, Mark stumbles out of the men’s room. His head is spinning. His legs are wobbling. But he’s having a grand time.

  He manages to make it back to the busy bar area, but to his surprise, John and the rest of his team are gone. The gang was planning to go to one last spot, but Mark assumed they’d wait for him to get out of the john.

  “Dumb assholes,” he mumbles, more amused than annoyed.

  Mark steps outside. Still no sign of them.

  With a sigh, he decides his best bet is to head back to the hotel and wait. But where the hell is it? Looking up and down the dark, foreign, unfamiliar German str
eet, Mark struggles to get his bearings.

  Then he sees something peeking over the buildings.

  The construction crane he glimpsed earlier from his window.

  He heads toward it. It’s only a few blocks away. But with each clumsy step he takes, Mark feels himself getting drunker and drunker. The Jägermeister is hitting him hard. Every few feet, he has to cling to a streetlamp to keep himself upright. He leans over and throws up into a gutter. Twice.

  Mark finally reaches the edge of the now-vacant construction site. He grasps on to the spiked, wrought-iron fencing for support. He looks around for the hotel.

  Shit, which way is it now? Left? Right?

  He knows it’s here somewhere. If only he could get a better view.

  Like from a higher vantage point.

  His foolish, drunken idea taking shape, Mark homes in on the towering metal crane.

  John Hogan wakes up to a frantic knocking on his hotel-room door.

  It’s after three in the morning. Still wearing his clothes and sneakers from earlier that night, he’s lying passed out on top of his bed, facedown, having collapsed almost the second he staggered in.

  John tries to ignore the knocking—until he hears “Hogan?! It’s Gator! Open up!”

  John grunts. Rubs his eyes. He’s irritated at being roused but relieved that Mark made it back to the hotel after somehow getting separated from the rest of the group a few hours ago. When they went back to look for him, he was gone. John was concerned, but not terribly. He knew Gator was tough. He’d be just fine.

  John drags himself out of bed. Shuffles over to open the door.

  “Holy shit!” he exclaims, nearly tripping backward in shock.

  Mark is drenched in blood. Thick and syrupy, flowing literally from head to toe.

  He has a massive gash on the side of his face and numerous gaping puncture wounds on his hands and forearms. All wounds are bleeding profusely, with the speed and sound of soda pouring out of a can.

  Mark looks woozy. Dazed. He’s standing upright but seems barely conscious.

  “What the hell happened to you, man?! I need to get your ass to a hospital!”