“Where we going?” Now his voice, though still blurry, was ominously quiet. “Someplace private?” The hideous, too-muscular bulk of him was between me and the control panel, and he hit the stop button. “Princess.” He said it scornfully this time. “Stuck-up bitch.”
He backed me into a corner and bit my neck hard, his beefy hands tearing at my blouse, forcing their way into my jeans. Into my mind popped the self-defense tactics I’d learned in health class—poke both fingers into his eyes, jab a knee into his crotch—but he was so much bigger and more insistent, his knees pressing my legs against the wall, his thick arms pinning mine. He started kissing me, though the word kiss doesn’t begin to describe it. His tongue kept me from screaming, and his aftershave burned my eyes.
I struggled, trying to wriggle my shoulders hard enough to shake him off me. I was beyond terrified; I’d passed into a place where I was thinking really clearly, foreseeing how upset Dad would be when he learned I’d been raped in his club. Maybe this guy wouldn’t stop there but would even kill me, and Dad would blame himself forever, but he shouldn’t because he tried to keep me safe, he taught me to take care of myself, and after all he couldn’t watch me every minute of the day and night.
The man’s weight shifted. His hands pulled out of my pants as clumsily as they had shoved their way in. For a second I felt relief, but then I could feel him fumbling with his own pants, and a new and useful idea popped into my mind. As he struggled with his zipper, his fat tongue still prodded mine, so I bit it. Hard.
He roared and fell backward off me. Sweating and red-faced, pants partly undone, he still stood between me and the elevator’s control panel. I was struggling to think of what to do next when I noticed a crowbar prying open the elevator door, and the blessed sound of somebody shouting on the other side.
The rapist noticed, too. By the time Hence had forced himself through, the man was cowering in his corner, tugging at his stuck zipper, this time hurrying to get it back up, as if he could hide what he’d been trying to do to me.
Then Hence was in the elevator, swinging the crowbar, his face glowing with electric anger. “Get out of here. If I see you in this club again, I’ll bash your head in.” His voice and face were so full of rage they scared me. The rapist was gone before Hence could even get the words all the way out.
I knew I should thank Hence, but I didn’t have the words. I felt for what was left of my clothes, tugging my now-buttonless blouse closed.
“Here.” Hence pulled off his T-shirt, handed it to me, and averted his gaze. We were silent a long time, frozen there in the elevator.
Hence finally broke the silence. “Did he…?” His hands were still hardened into fists.
“No. He would have. You stopped him.”
“You should tell your father.” His mouth was set in a grim line. “He’d want to know.”
“It would only worry him. Please don’t say anything. Promise you won’t.”
But he didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the red emergency-alarm button I’d been unable to reach.
“Hence,” I said. “Look at me. Please.”
And he complied, his expression still grim.
“You saved me from… I don’t even want to say it,” I said.
“If he’d hurt you, I’d have killed him.” Hence’s voice was quiet, with an edge to it I’d never heard before. His dark eyes had iced over, and I realized with a shock that he meant it literally. If things had gone any further, Hence would have willingly killed my assailant.
A chill passed over me.
“You’re shivering,” he added in a softer tone. It was true: I was trembling with relief and terror, and something new—maybe awe would be the right word. Later, when the shock wore off, I would tell myself I must have imagined Hence’s rage. Quiet, solemn Hence couldn’t be capable of real violence. But at that moment in the elevator, I completely believed he would do anything it took to protect me, and I was grateful.
Hence pressed the button for the fifth floor. In our apartment he waited, arms crossed over his chest, as I climbed into bed. He brought me a glass of water and fiddled with the doorknob so it would lock behind him when he left.
The next morning I got up early, hoping to catch him before he disappeared to wherever he spent his days off, but he was already gone by the time I got downstairs. Now more than ever I wanted to get to know him better. Maybe someday I could find a way to pay him back, to help him the way he’d helped me.
Chelsea
The next morning over breakfast, I rehearsed the speech I would give to convince Hence he should let me stay. But when I took the elevator downstairs, the club seemed empty. There was no sign of Cooper, or any of the other workers I’d seen bustling around the previous day. Before I’d fallen asleep the night before, I’d found something intriguing: the endpaper of Gone with the Wind covered with the word Riptide—doodled about a thousand different ways. Riptide rang a bell; I knew I’d seen it somewhere on The Underground’s website, but there was nobody around to give me the WiFi password. So with my laptop case slung over my shoulder, I set out in search of caffeine and Internet access.
The Bowery sidewalks were busier than they’d been when I’d arrived, which made me feel braver about venturing out and exploring. My path zigzagged into tree-lined streets, past funky stores unlike anything we had back home—boutiques selling high-design Japanese clothes in cartoon Harajuku colors; studded leather jackets and diamond collars for lapdogs; and ultrachic graphic tees in stark blacks, whites, and silvers—but I pressed on until I found a coffee shop with a WiFi sticker in the window. The place was crowded with tattooed hipsters. I probably stood out like the ordinary suburban girl I was, but at least I could sit in the corner and gawk while I drank my iced peppermint mocha and soaked up the free Internet.
For starters, I searched for Riptide, my earbuds in this time so nobody would glare when the first link I clicked on started playing music—a song I vaguely recognized. With their narrow red ties, black button-down shirts, and skinny jeans, the four guys in the home-page picture looked to be from about my mom’s era. Had Riptide been her favorite band? Though that was kind of cool to know, unless she’d run away from my dad and me to become a groupie, it didn’t qualify as useful information. Discouraged, I exited the page, and just as the photo began to vanish, I recognized the second face from the left.
Dark eyes, caramel skin, sharp cheekbones.
I clicked and waited, holding my breath, while the page reloaded and Hence’s much younger self materialized before me. Here was a deeply uncomfortable fact: Hence had been hot once. The arm around my mother’s shoulders, the hand she’d been holding in those slashed photographs I’d found? I now had a pretty good idea who they’d belonged to.
Fun facts about Riptide: They’d had one big hit album and a platinum single (presumably the song playing through my earbuds). After one whirlwind world tour, they’d disbanded. Hence had been lead guitarist and vocalist. And, judging by the website’s forum pages, they still had a whole bunch of rabid fans willing to argue the meaning of their lyrics, or debate whether or not a Riptide reunion tour was on the horizon—lots of information, but very little of any use to me until I found one particular conversation on a thread about The Underground:
Hot4Hence:
This morning I scored two tickets to the Starving Artists concert in August and I’ll be making the long trek from Atlanta to NYC to see the show. Even more than seeing the Starving Artists, I’m looking forward to just being in The Underground, soaking up the atmosphere, and maybe catching a glimpse of Hence. What are the odds he’ll take the stage? What I wouldn’t give to see him play again!
TidalWave:
You’ll see him all right—introducing the bands and generally running things. But he won’t get onstage unless a miracle happens. He hardly ever plays anymore.
Hot4Hence:
Why not? You’d think he’d miss the applause, not to mention the chance to play for an audience.
T
idalWave:
That’s the central Riptide mystery, isn’t it? The band’s at the top of their game, they’ve got a number one hit, and their album goes platinum in the US and Europe, and then, out of the blue, they split up. The other guys go on to have decent solo careers or start up new bands, but Hence, who could have had the most brilliant career of all of them, gives the whole game up. It’s always driven me crazy.
LostSince89:
I hear he’s a jerk. I know somebody whose sister worked at The Underground and she says he’s a nightmare to work for—demands perfection from his entire staff, and goes berserk when the tiniest little thing goes wrong. You’d think he’d be a happy camper, but something or someone has soured him.
punkchik:
Maybe it was that ex-wife of his? By all reports she was a vindictive shrew. Has Hence even had a serious girlfriend since her? Here’s my theory: She’s spoiled him for all women forever.
Hence had an ex-wife? I did another search and found a picture of her right away, on the Infamous Groupies website: a busty redhead in a sheath of turquoise satin, eyes hidden behind cat-eye sunglasses. The caption read: Sexy siren Nina Bevilaqua changed boyfriends as often as she changed her hair color. Linked to Richard Linklater of the Hopping Johns, Skeeter Freeman of the Tumbling Dice, and Dane Slater of Pineapple Crush, she retained her swinging single status until she married Riptide frontman Hence, a tempestuous union that landed them both in divorce court. With her groupie days long behind her, Bevilaqua now lives a much quieter life far from the Lower East Side.
Next I tried searching for an address or phone number for this Nina Bevilaqua, figuring she’d know a thing or two about my mom—her ex-husband’s ex-girlfriend—but her number was unlisted, and I couldn’t turn up an address. Another dead end. The other person who could maybe help me, the Jackie my mom mentioned in her letter, was an even longer shot, seeing as how I didn’t know her last name.
Hopped up on iced mocha and starving for information I could actually use, I packed up my laptop and hurried past tattoo parlors, sex boutiques, and sushi bars, toward the one person who could tell me what I needed to know. Unpleasant as the prospect was, I needed to talk to Hence.
When I got to The Underground, the front door was propped open. Men in tight black T-shirts were noisily unloading amps and other gear from the back of a truck. I squeezed past them into the building. Cooper was so busy positioning guitars on the stage that he didn’t even notice as I breezed past.
I found Hence in his office, standing at the desk, arms crossed, glaring down at a ledger like it had done him some kind of personal insult. Maybe it wasn’t a good time to bother him, but from what I’d seen so far, I doubted there would ever be a good time. I’d have to be careful not to say anything to tick him off—a tall order, since ticked off seemed to be his more or less permanent state.
I took a deep breath and tried to sound confident. “So,” I said. “That’s my mother’s apartment I’m sleeping in?” I might as well start with the obvious.
“It was her bedroom. She had that whole floor to herself.” His tone implied something about my mother—maybe that she was some kind of princess. “Anyway, don’t get used to it. You’re not moving in.” He went back to scowling down at the desk.
“No, of course not.” I edged a little closer. A folding chair leaned against the wall nearest me. I grabbed it and plopped myself down. “But I’d like to stay a little longer… just till I figure out where to look for her next.” When he didn’t respond, I kept going. “We could find her if we worked together. I have some clues, and you have some clues. Maybe if we helped each other—”
He broke in. “Are you delusional? I told you last night that she can’t possibly be alive.”
“How can you be so sure?” I asked. “Maybe she wanted to get in touch with me but couldn’t. Maybe she was afraid….”
“Catherine was never afraid of anything in her life,” he said, with a certainty that was starting to get on my nerves. He sank down into the chair behind the desk, still glowering.
A question occurred to me. “You say she got here and you weren’t around. After she left my dad and me. Where were you?”
Hence winced. “Trying to get out of England. First there was a railroad strike. I had to hitchhike to Heathrow. Then they kept canceling flights due to bad weather.”
“Well, maybe she got here and was mad to find you gone,” I said. “Maybe that’s why she didn’t stay.”
“Don’t you think I’ve considered that possibility?” He still sounded scornful, but he did look interested in what I was saying.
I figured if I sucked up a little, I might get somewhere. “I guess you knew her a lot better than I did. Which is why I need your help. Something happened to her. She didn’t just vanish. And if you let me stay here awhile, maybe we can figure it out.”
“I hired a private detective when she went missing,” he said. “He got nowhere. Just like the cops.”
“So if they couldn’t find her, nobody can? Not even you?”
He rubbed his eyes as if he was thinking I must be something out of a bad dream. But I’d appealed to his pride, and it worked. “I tried everything,” he said finally. “I looked for her everywhere she might possibly have gone.”
Something in his voice told me I’d found a little opening, and I knew I’d better squeeze through it fast. “Everywhere in the world? Maybe there’s someplace you didn’t think of. Maybe if we work together we can look for clues.”
“Clues?” His tone was scornful. “Like that letter you showed me? It was a whole lot of nothing.”
“Wrong,” I said. “There’s useful information in there. For one thing, she mentions going to visit her friend Jackie. We have to track down this Jackie person and find out if she knows anything about where Mom went after she left town.”
“Jackie Gray. She was Catherine’s friend in high school. I could have told you that.”
“And?” I crossed my arms.
“And what? Don’t you think I’ve already tried to get information out of Jackie? She said Catherine never came to see her.”
“Because it’s the truth?” I asked. “Or because she didn’t want you to know my mom visited her?”
Hence was silent.
“See, that’s why you need me,” I said. “This Jackie Gray person might want to be nice to her best friend’s poor motherless daughter.”
He slammed his ledger shut.
Behind me, someone cleared his throat. It was Cooper, his cheeks flushed and his hair disheveled. “The band’s done unloading. They’re going out for dinner. They’ll be back by six thirty for sound check.”
“Okay, okay.” Hence waved Cooper off, but he stood there a moment, looking questioningly at me. The vertical line between Hence’s eyebrows deepened again. “Go upstairs and make dinner,” he ordered. “I’ll be up in a half hour.”
Cooper hurried off. I still hadn’t worked out exactly what his relationship to Hence was. Cooper had said Hence was his friend, but to me it looked more like they were boss and lackey, or cranky father and eager-to-please son. I decided I’d better talk fast, before Hence shooed me off, too. “Of course, I’d be a much better detective if I knew more about my mother’s life before she had me.” I watched for a reaction, but didn’t get one. “You could fill me in.”
“Fill you in?”
“It sounds like you knew her better than anyone,” I said, thinking that might flatter him. And then I really pushed my luck. “You were her boyfriend, right?”
If Hence were like most normal people, he might have enjoyed the opportunity to talk about someone he’d been in love with. But no. He slammed his fist into his desk and stomped off, out the door and down the hallway. Just then, Cooper made a reappearance, still giving me that wary look.
“What’s his problem, anyway?” I gestured to the spot where Hence had been standing. “All I did was ask him a simple question.”
Cooper said nothing for a long moment. Then, le
aning in a bit closer, he whispered, “Hence will help you. Don’t make him so angry, and he’ll give you what you want.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He wants to find out what happened to your mother as much as you do. Maybe more.”
This piqued my interest. “How long till he stops sulking?”
“It depends.” Then, after a pause: “I can tell you things.”
“Things?”
“About Hence,” he said. I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.
“What do you mean by things?”
Cooper glanced around the room. “I have to go buy eggs.”
I followed him to the supermarket. He was a fast walker, the kind who crosses the street when the DON’T WALK sign is flashing; I had to struggle not to lose him. He didn’t say much until we got to the store, and by then I was completely out of breath. He pulled out a shopping cart and started filling it with raw meat—steaks and pork chops and ribs.
“I thought all you needed was eggs?”
Cooper swerved the cart into the next aisle and didn’t answer.
“So what do I need to know about Hence? Besides that he likes red meat.”
“You should cut him a little slack. He may not be the easiest person in the world, but he’s earned the right to be a little moody.”
A little moody? For a moment or two, I couldn’t speak. “Why?”
“He’s a genius, for one thing. Riptide was one of the most important bands of the whole post-post-punk New York music scene. No—one of the most important bands in the history of rock music.” The passion in his voice startled me.
Catherine Page 6