She worked her way down a narrow hallway off the kitchen, sipping beer, studying the memorabilia.
Steve’s bedroom door was open. She peered in. The room, surprisingly, was neat, meaning the bed had actually been made and there were no clothes on the floor. He had a waterbed, too, from what she could see, and more goodies on the wall. She stuck her head in. A handbill from a concert. A photo of Mick Jagger in a white suit, leaning against Steve like he was a post, Steve with his arms crossed, propping him up, mugging for the camera. Another one, a grinning Keith Richards handing Steve a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Marianne Faithfull in a headband looked on, bemused. Colleen saw a gold record on the wall. She fought the urge to go into the bedroom.
She wondered who else was involved in the faux kidnap. One guy was dead. But there were at least two others involved: Duffle Coat and whoever was on that motorcycle who most likely took off with the bag of cash.
The shower shut off with a squeal, and she stepped back into the hallway. The bathroom door opened. Steve appeared in nothing but a towel.
Muscular and trim, with deliciously tousled hair. She was proud of herself for not staring too much. What she did do was blush at snooping around.
“Sorry,” she said, nodding at a photo of Steve sitting at a piano with Aretha Franklin. “Curiosity got the better of me. You should open a rock ‘n’ roll museum.”
“No problem, love.” He winked.
She did like being called that. He wasn’t fazed at all. He’d probably been around hundreds of women barely clothed. And vice versa.
She headed back into the kitchen while he went into the bedroom to get dressed.
“You left your album the other night,” he shouted. His bedroom door was open so they could talk while he dressed.
“I forgot it when your ex showed up, breathing fire,” she shouted back.
“Well, she won’t be doing that much longer,” he said, coming down the hall.
That didn’t sound right.
He wore a two-tone black-and-white short-sleeve shirt, nice tight jeans, smart black loafers, no socks. His hair was gelled, and he’d shaved. He looked a lot better.
“I know it’s easier said than done, Steve, but you need to watch how you react to Lynda.”
“What I meant was that she won’t be getting away with any more bullshit,” he said.
That sounded a little better. She sipped her beer. “We need to get your money back.”
“One way or another.”
The doorbell rang.
“Courier,” he said. “Rex’s papers.”
He answered the door, and she set her beer bottle on the counter, and followed.
A guy in an expensive suit with slick-backed hair and a briefcase stood there, holding an official-looking envelope. “Good evening, Mr. Cook,” he said, introducing himself as a lawyer representing Rex Williamson, Lynda’s father. “I’m here to go over the paperwork?”
“Of course,” Steve said, taking the envelope from him. “I can take care of it right now, if you like. I imagine you’re in a hurry.”
“I am, indeed.” The man beamed. “I do appreciate that, sir.”
Steve took the envelope, right on the doorstep, extracted the document, gave it a quick glance. Colleen looked over his shoulder. Legal papers. She saw the figure $20,000.
“Do you have a pen, mate?” Steve said.
He did. Steve took it.
And printed “VOID” in the signature box.
And wrote in big letters in a diagonal across the first page: P I S S O F F
Steve studied his handiwork, while the lawyer watched, mouth agape.
“Yes, I do believe that covers it,” Steve said. He turned his head to Colleen. “What do you reckon, love?”
“Looks about right to me,” she said.
Steve handed the document, torn envelope, and pen back to the lawyer. Before the man could protest, Steve shut the door on him.
He turned to Colleen. Their eyes met. His crinkled. She felt hers doing the same.
Both of them burst into laughter.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Pitt was what Steve called “heaving,” meaning the bar was two deep with thirsty, noisy customers. Steve and Colleen were surprised to see the band with no name setting up on the cramped stage.
Deena, the drummer, in a tight Ramones T-shirt, short slicked-back raven-colored hair, tuned up a snare drum with a key while the guy with the blond ducktail and pompadour thumped a bass guitar and adjusted a Hiwatt amp. The ghostly-looking character with stringy brown hair and blue guitar stared into space. Steve was met with arm slaps and good-natured ribbing all round.
The mystery of Melanie’s “kidnapping” might be behind them, but Colleen knew there was plenty of trouble left. They were still going to have to deal with Octavien’s twenty-K loan, and there were people out there who had assisted in the scam. One was dead, but there were at least two others: the guy in the duffle coat and whoever had been on the motorcycle. But step one was to get Steve’s money back. She’d pay Lynda a visit soon to start pulling that thread.
“Didn’t think you could make it tonight,” Vernon said to Steve from behind the bar, pouring shots for Steve and Colleen. He had a rare smile and it didn’t look right on him.
“Neither did I, until an hour ago,” Steve said, downing the shot as if it were water, then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Colleen sipped hers. Wild Turkey. “So Deena’s band is playing tonight?”
“Last-minute thing,” Vernon said. “The regular band fell through. She said you wouldn’t be able to make it.”
“I’ve had a few things on my mind, Vernon,” Steve said with sarcasm, setting his empty shot glass out for a refill.
“Understood, Steve,” Vernon said. “But, now that you’re here …” Vernon refilled Steve’s glass to the brim, gave Colleen a friendly, questioning look as he wagged the bottle to tempt her. She shook her head no. Someone had to drive, and she wasn’t done working. “House is more than half full, Steve—and they always dig to hear the guy with the gravel voice.”
Deena hopped off the stage, came tripping over in her torn jeans and black high-tops.
“I did not expect to see you, Steve,” she said in her nasal New York accent, giving him a look of concern. “What’s up with Mel?”
“Mel’s fine,” Steve said, turning to acknowledge Colleen. “Thanks to Colleen here. It’s a long story—one I’ll explain later.”
“Wow,” Deena said, clearly impressed. “But Steve, that’s—great.”
“I’m still in shock,” he said. “But it’s the good kind—mostly.”
Deena turned to Colleen. “You must be good.”
“She is,” Steve said.
Colleen said, “Like Steve says, it’s a long story. One that’s still in motion.”
“But Melanie’s definitely okay?” Deena said.
“More or less,” Steve said.
“Cool.” Deena smiled at Colleen. Then, to Steve: “I didn’t call you about the gig tonight since I figured you had your hands full with Mel. But I couldn’t afford to turn down Vernon, piss him off again, and lose our residency. And it is work.”
“And work is work,” Steve said. “Who you got on vocals?”
“Finn is going to fake it.”
Steve raised his eyebrows.
“I know,” Deena said. “If he only sang the way he looks.”
Steve gave the bass player with the hair a thumbs-up. “Hey, Finn.” Finn returned the same. “Get your ass up here, Steve!” he shouted.
“Well,” Steve said to Deena, “I’m here now—if you need me.”
She broke into a grin. “You don’t have to ask twice.” She slapped his arm. “Let’s blow some fuses.”
A flash of excitement filled Colleen. Steve was going to perform by the looks of it. He needed the distraction. It would be great for him and everyone else.
“Give me a moment to collect myself, yeah?” Steve said. “I’m a little
fried.”
“Deena!” Vernon shouted from behind the bar. He was holding up his wristwatch and pointing to it.
Deena gave him a dismissive wave and turned to Steve. “We’ll wing the first one while you get yourself together.” She trotted back to the stage, hopped up, got behind the drum kit, picked up her sticks, hit the high hat four times, and set the band roaring into a number with the bass player Finn doing his best to carry the vocals.
Shots came and disappeared. Vernon was applying liquid pressure. Steve had two. Even Colleen found herself downing one.
“Right,” Steve said, as the song rounded into the last chorus. “Here goes nothing.” He winked at Colleen, pushed himself off the bar. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it, Steve,” she said. “You’ve got more talent than the law allows.”
“That’ll do.”
“I do have a request, though,” she said.
He stopped. “Name it.”
“‘Shades of Summer.’”
He gave a smile. “I reckon you’re the only one besides my mum who likes that one.”
“It used to be my shower song,” she said.
“You sang my song in the shower?”
She gave him a smirk and slurred, “Are you asking me about my shower habits, dude?”
“I think you actually brought it up. But now I’m curious.”
Her face grew warm. How did one flirt with a onetime rock god? “So I did.”
“Are you any good?”
“What? In the shower?”
Now it was his turn to grin. “Singing.”
“I’m hot,” she said. And for some reason, that seemed pretty funny. They both laughed.
The band with no name’s number came to a crashing end. There was adequate applause. Vernon was looking at Steve. The crowd was looking at Steve. Deena was looking at Steve.
“Get up there, already,” Colleen said.
Steve slammed his empty shot glass on the edge of the bar. It fell off and crashed on the floor. Vernon scowled. Steve turned. “Out of my way, you bastards!” He pushed his way through the crowd, leapt up onstage like a cat, and did a staggering bow to hoots and hollers. He unhooked the mic and held it up to his glistening lips.
Deena pounded out an intro. And then Steve was leaning back, howling at the ceiling like a wolf.
The evening quickly turned into a blur. People bought Colleen drinks, seeing she was with Steve. The crowd was spending freely. Vernon was happy. She did her best to forget about getting Steve’s money back. All in good time. She had the one and only Steve Cook singing for her.
A few songs in, Steve stopped, caressed the microphone. “And now, if I might beg your kind indulgence, I’d like to bring someone special up here to help us out with her favorite shower song.”
Colleen froze.
“Come on, Colleen,” Steve said. “Opportunity knocks.”
She shook her head no.
“I think she needs a bit of encouragement, yeah?” Steve said to the crowd.
The audience started clapping.
What the hell. Colleen tossed back a Wild Turkey, set the shot glass on the slippery bar, making a point not to let it slide off. She turned, the room half a step behind her, and the sea of patrons parted as she negotiated her way to the stage.
Steve reached down, helped her up.
“This way.” Finn the bass player stepped aside so she could use his mic. He gave her a friendly smile.
“You’re in trouble now,” she said.
“What key?” Finn asked.
“How the hell do I know?” Colleen said, noting the many people out there, watching. “Whatever the record is, I guess.”
Steve turned back to the audience. “This is for all you punters out there who still think love has a chance.”
And they broke into a song that had carried Colleen through some bad times. And when her part came to sing the chorus, she did just fine. She wasn’t sure how it happened; it just did.
Colleen and Steve walked—staggered—back to Steve’s, arm in arm, still humming, ears buzzing. The Mission was alive with people, the lights of little restaurants and bars twinkling in the alcoholic haze.
“Not half bad,” Steve said.
“You were frigging great, Steve,” Colleen said.
“I was talking about you.” She squeezed his arm.
They passed an elderly Latina selling roses out of a plastic bucket on the corner next to a liquor store on 20th. Steve stopped to buy one, over-tipped the Señora who thanked him in Spanish.
He presented the rose to Colleen as they walked, in drunken lockstep.
She gave him a curious look, wondering if it meant what a rose usually meant.
“I always buy a rose from her,” Steve said, seeming to catch her thought. “But tonight, there’s someone to give it to.”
She sniffed the flower as they turned down 20th, heading for Steve’s apartment. The rose was sweet and rich.
Steve broke out a cigarette, lit it up. “No one special in your life, Colleen?”
“Who has the time?” she said.
“There’s usually time for the right person.”
“Then I guess I’m not the right person.”
“I’m surprised men aren’t beating a path to your door.”
The only one who had been beating a path wasn’t a man. But it wasn’t right for her.
“I’m a loner,” she said. “It’s easier. Besides, isn’t that the way it is these days?”
Steve exhaled. “You’re asking the wrong person, love.”
“Okay,” she said. “Your turn.”
“No one right now,” Steve said, “if that’s what you’re asking.”
She laughed. “Sorry. In my line of work, I’m just naturally nosy.” But the truth was, she did want to know. She didn’t like many guys, especially since her ex, but she liked guys like Steve. Along with a million other women, she bet.
“Deena and I had a brief thing, but nothing screws up a good band like musicians screwing each other. And a good drummer is harder to come by than sex. Thankfully, we both saw it at the same time.”
She wondered if that was the case. “You have such a way with words.”
“Yeah,” he said, smoking. “I’m a regular Oscar Wilde.”
“Since we’re being so inquisitive, Steve, I’ve got another one for you.”
“Shoot.”
“What the hell happened?”
“What do you mean, love?”
“With your career? One day I’m a teenager of twenty-two singing ‘Shades of Summer’ in the shower, along with half the girls in the U.K., next day—bam—Stevie Cook is history.”
His face lost its smile. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Uh, no. Not at all.”
“You mean, you don’t know?” A frown extended across his mouth.
She started. “Should I?”
Steve shook his head.
She sensed she had stepped in it. “I had a change of plans that seemed to take up my entire life around that time,” she said. “I got pregnant when I was sixteen. Got married. Had to get married. My girl was about eight. My ex was intolerable. Guess I stopped reading Tiger Beat. So no, I don’t know what happened to your career.”
“Well,” he said. “You’re about the only one who doesn’t.”
She’d hit a nerve. The mood turned sour. She felt like a doorknob.
“I’m good at that,” she said wistfully. “I’m always the last to find out.” She was the last to learn about her ex. “Sorry, Steve.”
“No biggie,” he said solemnly as they walked. “Just something I’m not proud of.”
As they got closer to his apartment, she was keeping an eye out for the driveway. As each car passed, she checked for a black BMW sedan.
They got to his doorstep.
“Well,” Colleen said. “I’ll leave you here. There’s a lot we need to take care of—as far as your situation goes with Lynda and Melanie—but t
hat can wait until tomorrow. But once they know that you know about their scam, which should be soon, we need to be on our toes. You’ve also got the moneylenders from hell to consider. I’ve got an idea there.”
Steve looked a bit surprised.
“Come in for a drink, yeah?” he said.
She thought about it for all of one second. “Sure.”
He dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk, stepped it out. “I’m not planning anything nefarious, love. But you did forget your album.”
She felt like an idiot and covered it up with a laugh.
A few moments later they were indoors, jackets off, and he was pouring a couple of scotches in the kitchen. He came into the living room, handed her a drink.
The cheap little radio next to his toolbox was oozing some late-night Latin music.
They stood, clinked glasses.
“Thanks again,” he said. “For Mel.” His face darkened when he drank. The situation was still eating at him.
“I imagine Lynda’s father’s seen your paperwork by now.”
“Rex?” he said. “Yeah, I bet he has.”
“Which means Lynda probably knows, too.”
He drank. “I’m hip.”
“I hope you’re ready.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’m ready, all right.”
“What does that mean, Steve?”
“Nothing.”
Nothing. There was no such thing, as far as she was concerned.
“Change the locks,” she said. “Soon.”
“Right,” he said, sipping scotch.
She couldn’t remember when she had drunk so much booze. She had reached some kind of strange level of enhanced drunken consciousness.
They stared at each other.
A little voice spoke to her: go ahead.
“Why are we standing?” She went to the sofa, pulled the plastic cover to one side, sat down, patted the sofa cushion next to her.
“All right, then,” he said.
He sat down next to her.
She kicked her shoes off. Twiddled her toes.
Turned to look at him. Inches away. Gave him a little leer.
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