The Broken Promise Land

by Marcia Muller

  He looked up and shrugged. “Not my department. What does it mean, anyway? Some babe who was with Savage pitched a fit when she saw it, and his security people weren’t too happy—”

  A chime sounded over the public-address system, and a male voice echoed off the marble-and-wood-paneled walls: “This is your last call for the Midnight Train to Nowhere, eastbound for Albuquerque, Dallas, Austin, New Orleans…”

  As the announcer continued to reel off all the stops on Ricky’s twenty-five-city tour—another of his publicist’s clever ideas—I started running toward the bright white-neon sign that said To Trains.

  The fit-pitcher, I was sure, had been the publicist, Linda Toole. After months of planning this send-off, she’d been working nonstop for two days at damage control. Although she couldn’t have known what the unauthorized banner meant, she’d probably seen that Ricky’s reaction wasn’t good. And if the star was thrown off balance at the very beginning of the tour, God knew what it would do to Toole’s carefully fostered press relations.

  God knew what I’d encounter when—and if—I boarded the train!

  I shoved my pass at the guard at the gate. He hit the button on his walkie-talkie and said, “Hold it, we’ve got one more.” Then he motioned to his left. “Track nine—and hurry.”

  The corridor was long and brightly lit. I ran under signs that indicated tracks to both the right and left—one and two, five and six. Nine, of course, was at the very end. An Amtrak employee stood there, pointing the way. I called thanks as I skidded past him—and was confronted by a long, steep ramp.

  “Oh, hell,” I panted and started up.

  The ramp’s slope was graduated, so every now and then it got easier, then got difficult again. The outside air rushed at me—warm and muggy and full of fumes. I tried not to take too much of it into my lungs, but they filled anyway and I coughed. I could hear the train’s engine grumbling above, but the ramp seemed to go on forever; reaching level ground was such a shock that I staggered to a halt.

  “McCone! This way!”

  I pivoted. Hy stood beside the last of four double-level silver cars with a man who—from his dark-blue blazer and cap—looked to be a conductor. The windows of the cars blazed with light, and people milled around upstairs. I hurried over and Hy boosted me up the steps. The conductor waved toward the engine and boarded after us.

  We were in a small area with baggage racks to either side and a narrow stairway to the upper level. A hum of conversation and laughter came from above. I leaned against the wall by the stairway, breathing hard; the conductor squeezed around Hy and went through a door toward the front of the train.

  “So where the hell were you?” Hy was flushed, stony-faced, and it shocked me. I’d only seen him like that once, years before, when I’d wanted to run into the scene of an imminent explosion to rescue its perpetrator, and he’d accused me of having a death wish.

  “Following up on a lead,” I said defensively.

  “You couldn’t call?”

  “I tried around five after eleven; you didn’t answer.”

  “That’s because I was busy trying to get Ricky and Rae into the limo before his fans dismembered them. You could’ve tried again, you know.” His eyes were narrowed, flashing angry signals I’d never expected to see directed at me. This was about something more than my failure to phone.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it.”

  I told myself it wasn’t worth arguing over. I told myself that we needed to be able to work as a team tonight. But then all the tension and anxiety of the past six days boiled over and I snapped. “What am I, anyway? Your employee?”

  He went white around the lips. “No,” he said, his voice shaking with restrained rage, “I’m your employee on this particular job, and I’ll tell you this—you’d better learn to treat the people who work for you with more consideration.” Then he turned and started up the staircase.

  “Where the hell’re you going?”

  “Back to my bodyguarding duties. In case you haven’t figured it out, we’ve—you’ve—got a client who’s badly shaken up and doing his best to carry on in spite of it.”

  “He saw the banner?”

  “How could he miss it?” Hy disappeared around the bend of the staircase.

  I remained where I was, pressing my hands and body flat against the wall. The train was moving now in a gentle rocking motion. I closed my eyes, thinking, Jesus, what was that about?

  I knew Hy didn’t enjoy security work, had only taken on the job as a favor to me. When I’d contracted with RKI to protect Ricky, I hadn’t envisioned my lover in such a hands-on capacity, and I’d also underestimated the magnitude of the threat. Hy had every reason to chafe. But I didn’t think that was what had fueled his outburst; this felt like something more fundamental.

  Something along the strong-man versus strong-woman line? Years ago I’d had that problem with a homicide lieutenant I’d been seeing. But Hy liked strong women; he delighted in my independence, just as I delighted in his. When we worked together we worked as a team, each supporting the other when necessary. So where was this anger coming from? And why couldn’t I read him, as I almost always did?

  As the train picked up speed I wondered if maybe I didn’t know my lover as well as I’d thought I did.

  Well, I told myself, that wasn’t something I could concern myself with now. I had any number of more pressing tasks—the first being to find Ricky and make sure he was okay. I pushed away from the wall, climbed the stairway to the upper level, and went through the door to the lounge car.

  It was gray, with modular furnishings facing large windows that were now black mirrors reflecting the festive scene. People in casual clothing—many wearing the Midnight Train tee—were talking and drinking and eating; most were standing, but some leaned or sat on the chairs and tables. A bar was set up in the center of the car, flanked by two buffets. The scent of marijuana drifted on the filtered air. I spotted Forrest Curtin chatting with a young woman in western wear; the bass player looked coked-up again. Norm O’Dell and Jerry Jackson sprawled on chairs; both were downing beer at a fast clip. Kurt Girdwood stood at the far end, in intense conversation with Linda Toole; every now and then the manager would run his hand over his bullet head, and the publicist would respond by pushing her fingers through her spiky hair. Pete Sherman leaned alone against a window, his reflected face pale and pensive, his thoughts probably on home. Finally I located Ricky, surrounded by a circle of media people; Hy and a bodyguard stood nearby.

  My brother-in-law seemed relaxed and in good spirits. He smiled at something a tall dark-haired woman said to him, tossed back half of a drink that looked to be straight whiskey, burst into laughter at a comment from a pudgy man in shorts. Only someone who knew him as well as I would have noticed the tension in the way he held his head and the set of his shoulders, in the way his fingers played with the glass. His gaze slipped away from the people around him, moved to his reflected image in the opposite window, grew bleak and empty.

  On the midnight train to nowhere it’s as cold as it can be

  In the window I see darkness and a face that can’t be me.…

  The lyrics playing in my head—and most likely in his—put a chill on me. I pushed toward him through the crowd.

  “Shar! You made it after all.” He introduced me to the people around him and offered me a sip of his drink. Whiskey, all right—bourbon, and straight. On the other side of him Hy turned away, not dealing with me.

  “The concert went well?” I asked.

  “Fantastic. And we’re not blacked out on KZLA anymore.”

  “I saw the banner. And I like your tee.” I plucked at the sleeve of the black shirt with silver lettering and graphics.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” For a moment his eyes clouded, and I knew he was thinking of Rae, missing her.

  The man in shorts, who was from Country Weekly, began to ask questions about Ricky’s public relations team. I tun
ed him out and stared at our reflections. They were superimposed upon lights that shone from buildings outside; silver Amtrak cars on a siding flashed past, then vanished, and the night seemed darker and colder. I took Ricky’s glass and sipped again to warm up, then excused myself and moved around him toward Hy. The train lurched, throwing me against him.

  He steadied me, his eyes cool and overly polite. “Sorry about earlier,” he said. “We can’t afford to fight. But when this is over, we’re going to have to talk.”

  His last words set off a pang of anxiety under my breastbone, but I only nodded. We couldn’t afford any disagreements now—nor could we take time to hash things out. I said, “I should brief you—”

  A cheer went up at either end of the car. I looked around, saw that TV sets mounted on the walls had been turned on. They were obviously on closed-circuit because a hand-lettered sign had appeared: Radio KMF-LA Ends Blackout! “Midnight Train” Aired at Midnight!

  The sign disappeared and immediately a tape of Ricky getting out of the limo in front of Union Station began playing. I watched with interest as he held up his hands for quiet, answered questions, then grew silent, a conflicted expression on his face as the reporters asked about Rae. When he turned and helped her out of the car, I glanced at Hy, raising my eyebrows. He nodded, watching as intensely as if he hadn’t already witnessed the scene.

  Ricky laughed and joked with the media people, fielding what I considered outrageously personal questions; Rae stood in the circle of his arm, her apparent nervousness and confusion making her vulnerable and appealing. She looked up at him, and he said something that made her flush with pleasure. Then he helped her back into the car, putting a hand on her head so she wouldn’t bump it.

  Again I glanced at Hy. He had an odd expression on his face—regretful and somewhat melancholy.

  “What?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Watch this.”

  The scene had shifted inside the station. A crowd surged against the security guards as they shepherded Ricky and the tour party down the main concourse. The camera followed, panned each banner as they passed beneath it, then returned to them. In the final shot, Ricky stopped walking and stared upward. Hy grabbed his arm and forced him on, his jaw set. To one side I spotted Linda Toole, pointing to the banner and yelling at a station security guard. The camera panned the gate to the trains and recorded the party passing through. Almost immediately a second video—of the concert—began playing.

  I touched Hy’s arm, standing on tiptoe so he could hear me above the music. “Did Toole find out how the banner got there?”

  “No, but she’s working on it. The last time I talked to her she’d just gotten off the phone with Amtrak’s PR director. Got him out of bed and gave him hell. He promised to check on it.”

  “Listen, can we go someplace quiet so I can brief you on new developments?”

  “Maybe later, when things wind down some. I figure most’ve these party animals’ll crash in their sleeping compartments around two, two-thirty. Then I’ll feel more comfortable about leaving Ricky with a couple of the guards.”

  “Just make sure they keep the band members at a distance.”

  “You still convinced there’s an insider?”

  “More than ever. By the way, have you seen Rattray?”

  “Yeah. The first car’s reserved for tour personnel, and he’s holed up there, sulking. Toole handed him a bottle as soon as he got on board, told him not to set foot in this car. She doesn’t want him stepping on any media toes, and I don’t blame her. Rats isn’t exactly Mr. Congeniality.”

  I smiled faintly. “I think I’ll wander up there and talk with him. Join me when you get the chance, okay?”

  He nodded and turned away.

  I weaved through the car, apologizing now and then when the train’s motion threw me against someone. In between cars the sway and bounce was more intense, making me feel as if I were walking over earthquake-rippled ground. I passed through two cars containing compartments that looked more like phone booths than sleeping rooms, then reached a third where they were more spacious—if spacious was taken as a relative term. At its far end I could hear Kurt Girdwood bellowing loud enough to raise the dead.

  “No, Toole, you do not need to know the significance of that banner! Stick to your job and keep the press happy. I’ll worry about our star.”

  Toole raised her own voice—probably in self-defense. “How the hell can I keep the press happy with all this weirdness going on? There’s one security guard for every five people, and Rick’s, like, completely bent out of shape.”

  “He’s doing fine.”

  “Bullshit! That thing he pulled at the station—I work for days to correct his image, and then he drags that bimbo out of the car.”

  “Dragging that bimbo out of the car may’ve saved his ass. Did you see her? She looked pretty and innocent—although if she’s with Rick, she can’t possibly be the latter. But it seemed a genuine love match.”

  “I thought you were dead set against it. You told him he was thinking with his balls.”

  “And he is. But he loves her, Toole. Or he thinks he does, which is damn near the same thing. You can’t fight it.”

  After a moment Linda Toole sighed. “Okay, whatever. I’m gonna call that prick at Amtrak again.”

  I began walking, checking out the compartments. In the center one, Virgil Rattray slumped spinelessly next to the window. The lights were out, but I could see the bottle in his hand. When I stepped inside, he turned his head and his eyes glittered, reflecting the high beams of a car at a crossing.

  I asked, “Can we talk?”

  He raised the bottle to his lips, drank, and motioned at the seat opposite him. I sat, my knees so close to his that they touched when the car swayed.

  “You been banished, too?” he asked.

  “Sort of.”

  “Story of my life. Not that I mind. I hate big crowds of assholes sucking up to each other.”

  I glanced out the window. We were passing through a town, but I could make out little of it. “Where d’you suppose we are?”

  He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. “Someplace outside of San Berdoo. Pomona, maybe.”

  “Still a long way to go.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Rats, I was talking with Ethan Amory earlier.”

  “Good for you.”

  “It occurred to me that you must notice everything that goes on at a concert.”

  “Damn right I do. Take notes on it, too. That’s my job.”

  “At the one in Sonoma County on Friday—did you arrange for a limo for the band members, or did they provide their own transportation?”

  “No limo that night.” He frowned, thinking. “Norm and Pete had their own trucks. I think Norm and his lady took a few vacation days beforehand, maybe up the coast. Pete, he just likes to drive. Jer and Forrest flew; they had a rental car, did some wine tasting the day before. Why d’you ask?”

  “Just filling in some blanks. Did you actually see any of them leave the concert?”

  “Nope. What happens afterward isn’t my business.”

  “But you made what Ricky did afterward your business.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “You told Ethan about Ricky dedicating ‘The House Where Love Once Lived’ to my sister. And about him leaving with Rae.”

  “So? There’s a law against that?”

  “Did you know how he’d use the information?”

  “Didn’t know, and didn’t care. Amory pays me to keep him informed on Rick’s activities, and I can use the cash.” Rats tipped the bottle and drank.

  I asked, “What do you remember about Patricia Terriss?”

  Abruptly he lowered the bottle, spilling liquor on his chin. We were at another crossing, one with flashing lights, and his eyes shone red. “Who?”

  “Patricia Terriss. Austin, Texas, three years ago this past spring. Ricky did a concert there, and afterward you all we
nt out to a place called the Sunset Lodge, where she was singing. He picked her up and took her along to Houston and Dallas.”

  “Oh yeah, that one. Hard to keep all of them straight.”

  “Well?”

  He set the bottle between his thighs, fumbled in his shirt pocket and took out a joint. Rattray, I now noticed, was the only member of the tour group who wasn’t wearing a Midnight Train tee. A match flared, and the pungent smoke drifted toward me.

  “Well?” I asked again.

  “Well, what? Rick got lucky that night. She was one pretty lady.”

  “He wasn’t so lucky. She followed him to the coast afterward and made his life hell.”

  Rattray didn’t respond.

  “Or maybe you knew that,” I added. It was a wild shot, but it hit on target; the road manager stiffened, moving his knees away from mine. “You did know,” I said.

  “… Okay, so what if I did? And so what if she made his life hell? I’m sick and tired of people like Rick who get all the breaks and screw everybody over and never have to pay the price. That Patricia was a pretty lady and he hurt her bad. He made her promises he had no intention of keeping.”

  I thought of Terriss’s habit of leaning on the men she knew for whatever she needed, and made another guess. “Did she come to you when he wouldn’t deal with her?”

  Rattray took another hit off the joint. “So what if she did?”

  “Did you sleep with her?”

  “Me?”

  The single syllable was poignant. I waited.

  He added, “Nobody like that would ever sleep with me.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I let her cry on my shoulder. Just let her cry.” My face must have reflected my disbelief; Rattray misinterpreted its source, though. “You think I can’t comfort a crying woman?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to; I’ve got eyes. You think I don’t have feelings? That I can’t care for somebody? Oh, sure, I’m just Rats—the mean son of a bitch with the foul mouth. Well, maybe I got cause. You think it’s easy being me?”