He moved to hug her. “Sylvia…”
“Don’t touch me, Black. Don’t you dare touch me.”
“But it’s not like it looks,” he said, sounding completely lame even as he spoke the words.
“No, I’m sure it isn’t. As usual, you’re innocent as a lamb, and it’s all just a big mistake. Did I miss anything?”
“Sylvia…”
“Good bye, Black. Have a nice life.”
He watched as she stalked off, angrier than he’d ever seen, and debated running after her. Christina watched him from one far corner of the backstage area, and Roxie’s eyes were tracking him like radar from the other corner, where she was still talking to Alex.
Pride won, and he slowly returned to where the band was waiting, Rooster toasting with Ed, beers in their hands. “Everything okay?” Rooster asked, sizing Black up.
“What? Oh, sure. Just a little drama. My life’s way too calm right now.”
“The ladies are good for a little excitement, that’s for damn sure. You want a beer?” Rooster asked.
“Sure. I see no reason to quit drinking today…”
Alex and Roxie approached as he was finishing his first bottle, Roxie with an odd expression on her face. Alex grinned as he neared, and Black hated him for his youth, success, and good genes.
“I hope you don’t mind me stealing Roxie away from you,” he began, but Roxie cut him off.
“We’re going to grab dinner. Alex knows a cool Italian joint somewhere around here…”
“Dinner?” Black repeated.
“Roxie hasn’t eaten, and I’m starved. I’d invite you, but the show rules are pretty strict – plus, you’re going to have to do the disqualification ceremony tonight.”
“Roxie, can I talk to you for a second?” Black paused, eyeing Alex. “Alone?”
“Sure, boss,” she said, and Alex found something else to do, wandering off to congratulate the various band members on making it past the first round.
“Roxie, you don’t know this guy. And ten minutes after meeting him you’re going on a dinner date?” Black complained.
“Yeah, what was I thinking? I mean, he’s totally hot, he’s rich and famous, he’s a singer – and so am I – and he seems to be into me. I guess I should be hoping the guy over at Jiffy Lube comes on to me or something. Thanks for clearing that up.”
“Roxie, he’s a huge question mark.” A sudden thought occurred to Black. “And he could be mixed up in this investigation.”
“Relax. He hasn’t asked anything about what you do. If he does, what’s your line? Security service? Don’t worry about that. He doesn’t seem interested in you at all. No offense.”
“I don’t know, Roxie…”
“I’m a big girl, okay? It’s just dinner, a few drinks, a couple of laughs. No biggie. Just me and the hottest pop sensation in America grabbing lasagna, swigging some cheap red. So chill. I can take care of myself.”
“I wasn’t implying you can’t, Roxie.”
“I know. You’re just worried about me. But don’t be. I’ll be fine. More than fine. Now, if you don’t mind, I kinda want to get back to Alex before he forgets I exist. Those Korean chicks were beaming death at me when I was talking to him.”
Black shook his head as Roxie strutted away, her black leather pants hugging her curves. The anger he’d felt in Nina’s trailer resurfaced, but with an uglier edge, and he realized as Roxie joined Alex, who seemed enraptured with her, that what he was feeling had nothing to do with the case, or Sylvia, or even Nina.
Plain and simple, he was jealous.
Chapter 13
The disqualification ceremony was depressing, even though Black wasn’t one of those getting the boot. But the look of defeat in the eyes of the losers was visceral, and not one of the assembled artists wasn’t affected. For those remaining, the second challenge two weeks later would be another gladiator battle to the death, and it could just as easily be anyone there the next time. The Irish lads took it in good stride, mostly half in the bag as far as Black could tell, and Lou and two other security men helped them get their things – they’d have one night in a motel and then catch the next flight back to Ireland.
Black called Sylvia that night at eleven, but she didn’t answer. He left a message on her voicemail asking her to call him, but he wasn’t holding his breath. That he was innocent of any wrongdoing didn’t matter – the innocent were routinely the first to get brutalized, he knew from experience.
As he drifted off to sleep, he thought about his predecessor’s gaffe, which reminded him somewhat of his own back in the Nina days: a last minute screw-up that cost him everything. That Black’s meltdown had been a bar fight while Rick’s had been showing up wasted was more a question of style than anything material. They’d both made poor decisions that had cost them their futures. Black’s final thought as his consciousness faded was that he needed to track Rick down and have a heart-to-heart.
The next day was a balmy one, the sky clear and blue, the air fresh from a light breeze blowing off the ocean. Black knew from talking to Ed that Rick worked at a guitar superstore on Sunset. The store wasn’t open on Sundays, so Black would have to sneak out of the mansion on a curfew day to grill him. He resolved to duck out that night after dinner, when things were quiet, and see what he could glean from Rick in the hour before closing time. Black tried calling Sylvia twice more during the day, but her line went straight to voicemail.
Dusk brought with it a fog bank and a chill. Black shivered as he waited for the taxi he’d called down the hill from the mansion. His departure had gone unnoticed by Lou or any of the others, Mugsy the house mascot now the constant object of everyone’s attention and a useful distraction. Black’s hair was slicked straight back under a dark blue baseball cap, his clothes those he’d arrived in instead of his new rock look. He checked his watch and figured he would be able to get to LA before the store closed, talk with Rick, and make it back before his disappearance was noticed – three hours, four, tops.
The cab cost him nearly a hundred dollars, and he made a mental note to bill Bobby for the overage as he paid the driver and climbed out. The shop was located in a large building with a glitzy façade proclaiming a huge spring sale. It had been forever since Black had been in a music store, but not much had changed, and he remembered from his band days that this particular outlet had the reputation of being run like a car lot, replete with haggling over prices and requiring the manager’s approval to accept an offer. When he entered the cavernous space, with hundreds of guitars mounted on the walls, he had a momentary sense of claustrophobia accompanied by an overwhelming desire to run from the building.
Black knew what Rick looked like from the footage he’d seen, so he wandered the floor of the mostly empty store until he spotted him drinking a soda with two other salesmen. Black signaled to Rick and pointed at a nearby amplifier, and Rick almost ran to greet him, eager to make a sale.
“Can you tell me about this amp?” Black asked.
“Oh, yeah, that’s a great choice. Really versatile. Does well in small clubs, portable, and sounds awesome in the studio, too. Only fifty watts, but a real powerhouse. Two 30-watt Vintage 30 Celestion speakers, so it has that old-school warmth, with a boosted tube preamp. What were you thinking about spending?”
“Price isn’t an issue. The sound is.”
Rick’s interest was piqued. Every salesman dreamed of a customer walking in cold at the end of his shift and announcing that price was no object. Black could practically hear the gears meshing behind Rick’s amenable expression. “Well, let’s grab an axe and see what it sounds like, then. What do you play?”
“Gretsch.”
“Wow, really? That’s an awesome-sounding guitar. You have a reissue?”
“No. One of the original Sixties models.”
“Sweet. All I’ve got here is a reissue, but it should get the job done.”
“Cool.”
Rick returned after a few minutes with a black single-cutaway Gret
sch Duo Jet and plugged it in. He strummed a few chords while adjusting the gain, then handed Black the guitar. “What kind of tone are you looking for?”
“I play through a hundred-watt Marshall right now. Kind of a warm, soulful distortion, you know?” Black said.
“I think it’ll more than do that. And it beats hauling a stack around, am I right? What’s your name, anyway, partner?”
Black held out his hand. “Art.”
“Nice to meet you, Art,” Rick said, trying to build rapport.
Black noodled around on the guitar for a few minutes and then stopped, as if an idea had occurred to him. “Hey, you look familiar. You’re…you’re the guitar player from that TV band, right?”
Rick looked embarrassed. “I was.”
“I saw that show. You guys were awesome right up until the end.”
“Yeah. Well, that’s ancient history, you know?”
Black studied his face. “What happened?”
Rick hesitated, obviously tempering his response so as not to lose a sale. “I’ve made it a policy not to discuss it, if you don’t mind. How do you like the tone?”
Black could more than understand, but he needed to get Rick talking. He played for a few minutes, trying his hand at a few Hendrix riffs, then sat back. “I’m going to think about the amp. But if you’ve got a card, I’ll look for you when I come back.”
Rick tried to put the hard sell on Black, who was having none of it. They went back and forth, Rick assuring him that it was the best amplifier in the world and that it was the last week before a major price increase from the manufacturer, but Black politely declined. Eventually Rick took the guitar back and returned with his business card and handed it to Black. Black slipped it into his pocket and smiled. “You know, I used to do a lot of studio work around town about a hundred years ago. Worked with some of the biggies. Mutt Lang. Bob Rock. Bud O’Brien. Rooster Simms.”
“You worked with Rooster? Small world. I worked with him, too,” Rick said, still trying to get Black to warm to him.
“Yeah? On what albums?”
“No, nothing like that. He was the coach for the show.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize it. You were lucky. He’s a good guy.”
“Well, if you say so,” Rick mumbled.
“Why? He was always straight up with me.”
“I don’t want to talk shit about anybody, you know?”
“No worries. I won’t tell a soul. What did he do?”
“Maybe nothing. Only, that afternoon before the show…we were at the hotel bar, and I was hanging out with Rooster and my bass player, knocking back a few – nothing heavy, just beer and whatnot. The next thing I knew it was show time, I was hammered, and smoking a joint that was frigging rocket fuel. I figured it would just mellow me out a little, and instead it put me into a full-blown tailspin. And the funny thing is I have no idea how I got it. I’m not a big smoker…”
“You don’t remember anything after the bar? Not leaving it or anything?”
“Nope. All I know was one minute I was chilling in the bar, and the next I was backstage, shit-faced. How I got there’s still a blank. But Rooster should have stopped me if I was boozing that much. I mean, come on, he knew the stakes. Peter, my bass player, should have, too. I’m not saying they’re to blame, but still…”
Black appraised him. “You don’t seem like a big drinker.”
“I’m really not. I’ll have a few before and after a show, but I don’t get blotto, you know? That was the first…and the last. Great timing, huh?” Rick spat, self-loathing obvious. “Needless to say, Rooster’s not on my list of favorite people. Neither’s Peter.”
“That’s heavy, dude. It doesn’t sound like you got much support from them. If I’d have been there…well, never mind. I never had anything like that happen with him, but that was years ago. He was a stand-up guy then. And a great guitar player.”
Rick’s eyes narrowed. “It’s funny. I’ve never seen you in here before. You’re obviously local…”
“No, I’m from Vegas – been living there for ten years. I’m just in town and thought I’d look at some gear, you know? Kill some time, maybe get a good buy on something.”
“Vegas, huh? What part?”
“Up by Red Rock,” Black said, remembering where Nina lived.
That seemed to satisfy Rick, and Black was glad he looked significantly different from on TV – especially with the baseball cap. He’d known there was a small risk of being recognized but had to chance it.
Black made his way to the exit, Rick’s attention returned to his soda and the jokes of his co-workers, the big spender having turned into a looky-loo. Black felt a sense of unease – if Rick was telling the truth, it was possible he’d been slipped a Mickey, either by Rooster or Peter, in the bar. That was how it sounded. In which case, it was also possible that Nina’s gut feeling was more than a vague doubt and somebody had arranged for Last Call to lose. The question was why either the team’s coach, or its bass player, would do that.
His mind turned to Alex. It had been an incredible stroke of luck that his rival had bombed in the finals. That didn’t prove anything, but it gave Black something to follow up on now that he’d spoken with Rick. Which left Black with more questions than answers and a nagging sense of unease as he walked down the block, dialing the taxi company as he rounded the corner.
The trip back took longer than he’d hoped, and by the time he made it to the house, the front doors were locked and most of the lights were off. Black cursed himself for not thinking about something as obvious as being locked out, and reconciled himself to having to make his way inside through the great room.
He pulled his baseball cap off and stashed it in the bushes as he crept around the side of the house. Music drifted from the pool area, and Black could hear splashing – which would make it more difficult to slip in without being detected. Three of the Love Jupiter singers were in the pool with SnM, and Black could smell the pungent odor of marijuana drifting from the darkened area. He spotted an ice chest and silently moved to it, extracting a beer and opening it before striding into the great room like he’d just come back from a walk.
It was obvious that his ruse wasn’t going to work when he found himself being stared down by Lou and Peter, who were sitting at the breakfast bar.
“Where were you?” Lou demanded, no trace of friendliness in his voice.
“What? I went for a walk. Why? Did Mugsy destroy something?”
“Where did you walk to?” Lou asked.
“Just around. I wanted to think.”
“Be specific. Did you leave the grounds?” Peter asked, his tone ugly.
“What’s it to you? Are you my mom?”
“You know the rules, Black,” Lou warned.
“Shit. I totally spaced on that.”
“We have you on the security cameras going down the street, and a taxi comes by a few minutes later. Last time, Black. Where were you?”
Black saw no choice but to tell the truth. If they contacted the taxi company, they’d know his destination by morning.
“I apologize. It’s just…I’ve been trying to fit in, get the band’s style right, but I feel like I’m not getting a lot of direction. So I figured I should talk to your old guitar player and see if he could help me out with any tips. I went into town to see him. Nice guy, by the way.”
“You what?” Peter sputtered. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Dude. It’s not like I went on a killing spree or to buy heroin. I need some help, so I went to find some. You don’t do anything but snarl at me, and Christina pretty much ignores me, and Ed’s a drummer…so that leaves me with either getting guidance from someone who knows, or continuing to struggle.” Black turned his focus to Lou. “I would have asked permission, but it was just building up inside of me…so I took action. I’m really sorry, but no harm done, am I right? And I did it for the show.”
Lou shook his head. “I don’t make that call. Sarah and Simon
do. But if you ask me, it was pretty damned stupid.”
“Maybe it’s the break we’ve needed. They’ll boot you, and then we’ll get a real guitar player,” Peter said, his face tight.
“Yeah, because your last one did such a great job for you. Solid, right?”
Peter made to stand, and Lou put a hand the size of a ham on his arm. “Girls. Don’t make this any worse than it is. I’ll call Sarah and tell her what happened. The rest is up to management.”
“Thanks for the support, Peter. Nice to know you’ve got my back,” Black said. “Are we done?”
Lou nodded. “I’ll let you know about their decision.”
“Do that. In the meantime, I want to try to get another hour or two of practice in before I hit it.” Black took the stairs two at a time. When he got to his room, Ed was snoring, Mugsy cradled in his arms, and the atmosphere was redolent of beer and farts. Black retrieved his guitar and tiptoed back out and made for the rehearsal studio, hopeful that his explanation would be good enough to keep him on the show.
Chapter 14
The following morning at breakfast, Black took the opportunity to drill Peter about Rick’s story. Peter was sulking over an English muffin when Black came down the stairs. Christina rose and left without saying a word. Black got a cup of coffee and a scoop of eggs from the container by the stove and sat across from Peter.
“I know you don’t like me going to talk to Rick, but it’s over, and we have to make this work. So lighten up, will you? It’s not like I pissed in your Wheaties.”
“You endangered the band and our chances of winning. I’m supposed to be delighted about that?”
“I haven’t endangered anything, except maybe whether I stay on the show – and you’ve made your preference more than clear. Christina’s an awesome talent and the band rocks. If they shitcan me, you’ll get someone else. If not, I’m putting in the hours to do my best. So what’s your beef?”
“You’re just like Rick. Do whatever you feel like without thinking about how it affects us. I saw how that worked out.”
BLACK to Reality Page 10