“You must be Mr. Garrity,” she said softly, with the slight twang of an old-Florida Southern accent.
“Mike.”
She led me through the house, which was decorated expensively, though tastefully. The heroin-money launderer had loaded his mansion with garish modern art and animal-print rugs. In contrast, the Sommerset décor wasn’t meant to impress. It was meant to be comfortable and inviting, which it did with $10,000 sofas and a TV the size of my bedroom wall.
“Can I get you a drink?” she said as we passed through the kitchen. “Iced tea?”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
I sat in the living room, looking out over the patio and the pool to the manicured lawn and small lake beyond. Arlene Sommerset brought my drink and sat in a nearby chair.
Even if I hadn’t gone through a quick briefing on the band (and TJ in particular), I would still have been able to tell which of the four Boyz was her boy. Mother and son had similar faces, although TJ’s was thinner. Same tanned complexion. Same eyes that hinted at both innocence and experience. Looking at her, seeing his face in hers, I realized how gentle and feminine his features were.
“You’re here about TJ,” she said evenly, as a statement, while I took a sip of freshly brewed iced tea.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, falling back on habitual cop politeness. “Everyone at Global Talent is concerned. They asked me to help.”
“Arlene,” she said, echoing my request to be called Mike. “Okay. What can I do?”
I paused a beat and opted for the direct approach. “Where is he?”
Her eyebrows went up. “What makes you think I know?”
“Don’t you?”
She considered me for a moment. “Did you want lemon in your tea? I completely forgot to ask. We have the most wonderful Meyer lemon tree in the backyard.”
“No, thanks. This is perfect.”
Clearly she wasn’t worried about her son’s sudden disappearance. Dusting off an old cop trick, I paused, looking at her pleasantly but patiently. A particularly effective interviewing technique is the skillful use of silences. Most people are uncomfortable with silences and will talk just to fill them. I waited, sipping my tea.
“I don’t know where he is, Mr. Garrity,” she said finally, meeting my gaze. “And, even if I did know, I don’t think I’d tell you.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because Eli Elizondo couldn’t care less about my son, except for his ability to line his pockets.”
I nodded, not doubting her for a second. “As I understand it, TJ is contractually obligated for this tour. He’s missing rehearsals, promotional events, photo shoots. He’s costing the company money.”
“The amount of money he’s made for that company, they owe him some downtime before he goes back into the machine for two or three years.”
“I was told it was an eight-month tour,” I said.
“U.S. Then there’s Japan. And Australia. And Europe. Then the awards shows on TV. A new album. Recording sessions. Shooting new videos. Interviews. It’s a roller coaster with no end. Sometimes you just have to step off the ride so you don’t throw up.”
“He’s pretty well compensated for the hassle.”
“He made enough money on the first album that he’ll be rich the rest of his life. He was smart with his money. He doesn’t need more. What he needs is a vacation.”
I drained the tea. “Arlene, I understand. I do. But the company is worried. They have a lot invested in this tour and no one’s heard from him in a couple of weeks.” I could hear a faint clinking noise, which I realized was the ice in my glass. Looking down, I saw my hand trembling slightly.
“He’ll be there,” she said. “Before the tour starts.”
“Perhaps we could call him on the phone, get him to tell us that. Have him tell Eli that. It would make everyone feel better.” I heard a high-pitched hum, very soft, from somewhere nearby. I glanced around and didn’t see anything.
“I told you. I don’t know where he is.”
“I think you do.” The hum was growing louder and it dawned on me that it was coming from inside my own head.
Arlene Sommerset frowned at me. “Like I said, even if I did, hull poor dunn liffer nash ven.”
I blinked at her. Her mouth was moving but the sounds coming out were completely unintelligible. I blinked again and saw her expression change. She leaned forward, a question crinkling her brow.
Her face grew smaller as the edges of my vision darkened. I swallowed and heard my glass of ice shatter on the tile. I felt her fingers on my forearm. She spoke again, now sounding like a recording at half speed with long, stretched vowels. Muffled, like under a pillow.
I pitched forward off the couch. The darkness at the edges of my vision expanded and, a moment later, swallowed me whole.
* * *
“Mike? Are you with us? Mike?”
I opened and closed my eyes a few times, making sure they worked before I tried to figure out where I was. I held them open and determined that I was lying on my back, staring up through gauzy vision at a textured ceiling with a nice oak-and-brass paddle fan.
It was Arlene Sommerset’s voice I heard.
“Mike?”
My mouth was parched, but I was able to croak out an audible “Yeah…”
“Are you okay?”
“I dunno,” I said, trying to sit up. She pushed me back down, a little too easily.
“Relax. Don’t move. You’re probably still groggy and feel like you got hit by a truck.”
That was a pretty accurate description. My joints ached and muscles throbbed. And I had a hard time focusing my eyes.
“Here,” she said, offering me a flexible straw in a glass. I put my lips on the straw and drank a long pull of cool water. It helped. A lot. “Just relax. Close your eyes. You’re okay now.”
I wanted to get up. Get out of here and go home. I was embarrassed and more than a little scared. But even more than that I was exhausted. Against my better judgment, I followed her suggestion and closed my eyes.
* * *
When I opened them again, it was still light out, so I couldn’t have been out that long. Although my body still told me that someone had crumpled me up like a piece of paper and then unwadded me, I felt considerably more like myself. I sat up on the couch, rubbed my eyes, and looked around.
Arlene Sommerset was not in the room. A puffy, little white dog sat on the floor, panting at me curiously. I regarded it with a raised eyebrow and eased myself into a standing position.
“Good morning,” Arlene Sommerset said, walking through the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.
“Morning? Jesus. How long was I out?”
“Just an expression. You’ve been asleep a little over an hour. You still thirsty?”
“Yeah…”
“Orange juice would be good.” She opened the closet-sized refrigerator door. “I’ve got some fresh squeezed in here somewhere.”
I noticed a fresh Band-Aid on the heel of my palm. It was tender to the touch. I winced.
“You cut yourself on the glass,” Arlene said. “When you fell. It’s not bad. I cleaned it out for you.”
“Thanks.” I took two steps toward her. “Listen, I’m really sorry about—”
“So,” she said, looking into the fridge, “is it epilepsy or brain cancer? Or something else?”
I froze, surprised by the question and the casualness with which it was asked.
“Ah, here it is.” She emerged from the fridge with a plastic pitcher of juice and poured me a glass. She walked it over, and as I took it, she said, “So?”
“Cancer.”
She nodded. “Primary or secondary?”
“Primary.”
“C’mon. Sit down. Drink your juice.”
She led me back to the couch and sat next to me. I took a sip. I could tell it was fresh squeezed. Sweet and pulpy.
“You called George?” I said.
She shook her head.
“I didn’t call anyone.”
“Not even 911?”
“You opened your eyes and spoke to me within a minute or so. I knew it was over. The best thing for you was to just rest awhile.”
I took another small sip of juice. “How did you know?”
She smoothed a wrinkle in her pants. “My husband had liver cancer. Very advanced by the time we found it. Before the end, it metastasized to his brain as a secondary tumor. He had seizures, too. I got to be something of an expert.”
“I’m sorry.”
She nodded appreciatively. “It was harder on TJ. He was only twelve at the time. He saw his daddy convulsing on the floor more than once.”
“Did I … convulse?”
She offered a reassuring smile. “A little. Not so bad.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that. And that I broke glass all over your floor. I—”
“It’s okay. Drink your juice.”
I did as instructed. Then I placed the glass, carefully, on the coffee table.
“Are you on any meds for it?” she said. “Arthur was on Tegretol for a while. Dilantin, too.”
I shook my head. “This is my first. I knew they were likely, based on … the tumor’s location.” I almost said based on Bob’s location, but caught myself. I wasn’t sure I could adequately explain Bob to Arlene Sommerset.
“You need to call your neurologist. Tell him that it’s started.”
It’s started. Or, more accurately, it’s ending. I nodded slowly and could feel Bob in there like a peach pit, smiling at the big show he’d put on, planning his next performance.
“You shouldn’t drive,” Arlene said. “I’ll take you.”
“No—”
“Or I could call a cab—”
“No. I’ll be okay. I’ll get home. Put my feet up. Go see my doctor in the morning. You’ve done enough. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
She walked me to the front door, but stopped before we reached it.
“Why are you looking for TJ?” she said.
“Global needs him for the tour.”
She shook her head. “I know why they’re looking. Why are you?”
A pause. “If I find him, I’ll make a lot of money.”
She regarded me coolly. “So it’s about the money.”
“Isn’t everything?”
“No, Mr. Garrity, I don’t think it is.” She opened the door. “And I don’t think you think so, either.”
I took a step. “A man in my situation has priorities other than money, right?”
“Something like that. I do have some experience with this. When Arthur died, we didn’t have two pennies to rub together. But all the money in the world wouldn’t have made any difference.”
I passed through the door and started down the cobbled walkway to the driveway. After a few steps I stopped and turned back. Arlene Sommerset was still in the open doorway, hand on the knob, watching me leave.
“If you talk to TJ,” I said, “tell him that I know a girl who would really like to meet him.”
“I’ll tell him. If I talk to him.” She watched me for a moment longer, then slowly closed the door.
CHAPTER 5
When I got home, there were two messages on my answering machine. One from George asking how the interview with Arlene went, and one from Cam. I played Cam’s twice.
“Michael William Garrity. What the hell were you thinking? Just when I think you can’t do any more to damage your relationship with Jen … She’s beyond pissed, y’know, and I can’t say I blame her. She says she won’t stay with you tonight and refuses to call her mother. Said she’d sleep on the street first, and I think she actually means it. I’ll put her up at my place tonight. Have a heart-to-heart. She’ll be back under your roof by tomorrow. Just stay outta her room, ’kay? Go in there again and it’s justifiable homicide. Thanks again for last night. Gotta run.” Beep.
So it was just me and Bob for the evening. I called George back. Told him that Arlene said she didn’t know where TJ was. I wasn’t convinced she was telling the truth. He told me he had prepared the background file I wanted and I could pick it up anytime tomorrow. Then he reminded me of the tour start date. Again.
The next call was to my neurologist’s office. I talked to the scheduler and got an appointment for first thing in the morning. Then I got a highball glass from the cupboard and filled it with Jim Beam. I downed the drink in three large gulps, standing in my kitchen. I poured another and brought it with me to the living room. By the time the second glass was drained, I was out cold, snoring fitfully on my couch.
I woke the next morning, still completely dressed—even my shoes—and noted pleasantly that Bob had spared me the usual skull-splitting wake-up call today. Probably sleeping late after his big show yesterday.
An hour and a half later I was in an exam room in the doctor’s office. My neurologist, Dr. Tanner, came in hurriedly. He was about my age but with chiseled features and in better shape. He wore glasses that slipped down his nose. When he looked up at me over those glasses, as was his habit—his eyes serious with more knowledge about my health than I’ll ever have—my stomach always did an Oh, shit spin.
He greeted me and took a moment to review my chart, flipping pages and nodding. He ran me through the usual battery of tests: penlight in the eyes; follow the finger (my favorite); look over here, look over there; count backward from one hundred (he always stops me in the low eighties); touch your nose; etc.
He asked about the biopsy scar on the side of my head, an inch and a half above my left ear. Poked at it. Seemed satisfied it was healing okay.
“Tell me about the seizure,” he said.
I did, as much as I could, considering I didn’t remember any of it. Mostly, I remembered the sensations just prior: the trembling, the hum in my ears, that I suddenly couldn’t understand the English language.
“Those are called auras,” he said. “Hints that a seizure is imminent. A lot of people never get any warning. If this is your pattern, you’re actually lucky.” Yeah, I thought, some people win the lottery, I get auras with my seizures. Whoopee. He continued, “An aura will help you prepare for it. If you’re driving, stop. If you’re standing, sit down. Get away from hard surfaces or sharp objects. Basically, safeguard yourself.”
He reminded me that the brain’s temporal lobe, where Bob lives, is involved with the understanding of sounds and spoken words. I may run into more episodes where I can’t understand what people are saying. He recommended that I carry a card with a short explanation that I can hand to people when it happens.
He wrote me a scrip for an antiseizure medication and went through the impressive list of possible side effects: double vision, impaired balance and coordination, dizziness, drowsiness, tremors, headache, and nausea. He told me to keep track of any side effects and let him know. There were a lot of drugs on the market and sometimes it took a few tries to find the right one for an individual patient. He instructed me not to drive until I got the meds.
Then he looked up at me over the top of those glasses and I knew what was coming.
“So what do you want to do, Mike?”
I said nothing, silently wishing we could go back to follow the finger.
“It’s been a couple of weeks since the biopsy,” he continued. “Have you given any thought to the treatment options we discussed?”
“Not really.”
“Every day it takes to decide is a day your tumor is getting bigger.”
“I’m aware.”
“A grade-three astrocytoma needs treatment as soon as possible. It’ll eventually turn into a grade-four and then growth will accelerate rapidly.”
“None of the treatment choices you gave me were exactly good.”
“You have a brain tumor, Mike. Nothing about it is good.” He closed the folder that held my chart and leveled his gaze at me. “You know, of course that not making a choice is a choice.”
I knew.
* * *
I decided n
ot to tell anyone about my new party trick. If Cam or Becky or even Jennifer knew about the seizure, it would only worry them. I’d try the medication, and hopefully they’d never have to see one. I could feel Bob’s disappointment.
After filling the scrip I headed over to Global Talent, where I met George in the lobby. He handed me a surprisingly thick folder.
“The best I could do on short notice,” he said. “We don’t have credit card numbers or any personal financial information. All we have are records of salary payments and expenses. Tax withholdings and stuff.”
“What about friends?” I said, flipping through the pages. “Who would he disappear with?”
“What friends? TJ’s kind of a loner. Keeps to himself. Writes a lot. He wrote almost half the lyrics for the new album. Last time, when he vanished into the desert, he was all alone.”
“There’s nobody I can talk to? Nobody he might confide in?”
George shrugged. “I swear, I’ve never seen him hanging out with anyone but the other Boyz. To be honest, this gig is pretty all-consuming. Once they taste some success, most of our clients don’t have time for old friends. Too many planes. Too many hotel rooms. They drift away.”
“There’s no one from his pre–Boyz Klub life he might get back in touch with? Seems like a stretch.”
“Maybe, but I don’t know ’em. Wait—I do remember a cousin or something. I met him once or twice at a concert, but never saw ’em hanging out. Freddie or Eddie or something. Kind of a hanger-on.”
That’s all George had on friends. This kid was going to be tough. I’d look up the cousin. And I’d definitely be back to Arlene Sommerset’s house once I had more to go on. I hoped to pick up a clue or two by scrubbing through the file. Surely TJ had some kind of social connections.
“I did get you this,” George said, reaching into his pocket. He produced a silver house key on a Boyz Klub key chain. “His apartment. We have keys for all the guys, in case we need to get in there while they’re on tour. We also help out with a cleaning service, pest control, perks like that. It makes them more available for work.”
Head Games Page 4