by Cory Barclay
Now, he was just content she’d decided to stay for a little longer.
He wanted to know her reasoning, but he didn’t want to chance scaring her away.
So quiet was the way to be.
En route to Aiden’s, they listened to an array of classic rock songs on the radio: Black Sabbath, then Tom Petty, then Deep Purple’s “Highway Star.” It was an eclectic mix.
Steve smiled when “Highway Star” came on. He said, “Ah, my band covered this song, way back.”
“Really?” Annabel said, excitedly. It was like she’d been itching to say something the entire ride but didn’t know how to break the ice. And now when Steve had, she was ready. “When was this?”
Steve sucked in and puffed his cheeks into bubbles, like a frog. “Oh . . . about eight years ago, I guess.”
“Why’d you guys break up?”
“Well, our drummer went off and had a kid. That kind of put a damper on the whole thing . . .”
“Yeah, but there are plenty of drummers out there, right? I mean, if we make music, we’re going to have to find a drummer.”
Steve liked where this conversation was going. Annabel talking about their music together made it sound like she was here to stay!
“True,” Steve said, trying to sound calm, “but it seems there’s usually only one drummer for every twenty guitarists out there. That’s why so many drummers are in so many bands . . . they’re like the unabashed whores of the music world.”
Annabel frowned and stared ahead. She clearly didn’t enjoy Steve’s quip. She said, “Is that really why you broke up, because you lost your drummer? Did he write the songs or something?”
“No,” Steve said, then sighed. “I did. And I guess the reason the band died is because of me, if you wanna split hairs.”
“I do.”
Steve glanced at her. Suddenly, he wasn’t enjoying this conversation as much as he had been thirty seconds ago. He said, “We got Yoko Ono’d.”
“Oh?”
Steve nodded. “My girlfriend. Her name was Julie. Is Julie. It’s not like she’s dead.”
“She wasn’t supportive of your music?”
“Originally, she was. But then the deeper I got into the music world, the less supportive she became. Eventually she gave me an ultimatum: the music or her.”
“Ah,” Annabel said, shaking her head. “I’m guessing you chose the music?”
“No,” Steve said. “I chose her. I dismantled the band—that’s how we died. And then two weeks later I caught her fucking my bass player. Then my relationship died, too, and I obviously couldn’t get the band back together because of the drummer situation and because my bassist was a backstabbing bastard.”
Steve breathed heavily. He noticed he was gripping the steering wheel awfully tight. He loosened his grip and a heavy silence fell over the car.
“I’m sorry to bring up such painful memories . . .” Annabel said at last.
“It’s fine,” Steve said. “I agreed to answer your inquisition. I try not to think about it too much, but from time to time I get riled up. During that period is also when I got heavy into drinking.”
“Oh,” Annabel said, “sounds like you got hit from all sides at once.”
“You could say that,” Steve replied. “But I’m in a much better spot now.”
“Do you ever miss her?”
Without missing a beat, Steve said, “Not since I met you.”
After a short pause, Annabel broke into a big smile.
Then she leaned over and pecked Steve on the cheek.
BACK AT AIDEN’S HOUSE, Steve called out Dale and Aiden’s names multiple times, hearing his words echo against the high walls of the mansion. Finally, he and Annabel found them in the game room.
Aiden wasn’t kidding when he said he was somewhat of a pinball connoisseur. Classic arcade-style pinball machines lined up all four walls of the room. There was a Lord of the Rings machine, Funhouse, Star Trek, Mr. & Mrs. Pacman, Monster Bash, Tales From the Crypt, and other classics of a bygone era. A dartboard was between two machines.
Aiden was on a plushy couch, nursing his hangover and a Budweiser.
Dale was playing on one of the pinball machines.
The room smelled of stale booze and man-sweat.
“Jesus Christ, have you guys even moved since last night?” Steve asked as he entered the room, holding his nose. “For the lady’s sake”—he motioned to Annabel—“can’t you crack a window or something?”
With half-slitted eyes, Aiden just shook his head. “No windows in here,” he said. “I made sure of it, mate. Wouldn’t be a mancave with windows now, would it?”
“I think it’s a fault in the design,” Steve replied.
Annabel reached into her jacket and pulled out the studio business card. “Lookie what we found,” she said with a big grin.
Aiden lurched up from his slanted position on the couch, his eyes widening. “Ooh, what is that, a Babe Ruth Rookie Card?”
Steve put his hands on his hips. “No, you idiot, it’s the Conveyor.”
Aiden took a long pull of his beer, then reached out his hand and said, “Can I see it?”
Annabel dropped it back into her jacket pocket. “I don’t think so,” she said with a mischievous grin.
Aiden snapped his fingers.
Steve turned his head to Dale, who still had his back to them, slightly bent over, smashing the side buttons of a pinball machine. “Did you hear what Bel said, Fats?”
Dale said, “Yeah, great.” He was either entirely enthralled by his game, or utterly uncaring. When he said, “Why are you still here then?” Steve knew which it was.
“Hey, what’s your problem, man?” Steve snapped, walking toward Dale.
Aiden took that as his cue to finally get up off the couch. “I’m getting another beer and breakfast. Anyone needs me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Once the leprechaun disappeared from the room, Dale cursed, after losing his game, smacked the side of the pinball machine, and turned around. Steve’s angry visage was right in his face, but Dale stared him down.
“What should I be happy ‘bout? I’m glad you found it, but that just means you’re going to leave and we’re going to be out a songwriter and Steve’s going to be back to being miserable again.” He was looking at Annabel as he spoke.
“You should apologize to Bel,” Steve said.
“For what?”
“For being a dick.”
“I’m not being a dick. I’m being truthful, Steve-o.” He wandered over to a different pinball machine, if only to get away from Steve’s unnerving glare. “I mean, let’s face it. Annabel’s the best thing that’s happened to us in a long time. Even though we lost the studio . . . I still think it was worth it. If the studio had to burn down again to meet Bel, I’d do it.”
Annabel “aww’d.” She said, “Thank you, Mister Fats. That means a lot.”
But Dale wasn’t done. He turned to Annabel with a mixed sad and angry look. “But now we’re losing you . . . well, why don’t you just get it over with and spare Steve-o the suffering? The longer you stay, the more it’s gonna hurt when you go.”
The last sentence jabbed Steve straight in the heart. He felt it in his bones. It was true, what Dale was saying. As much as Steve didn’t want to admit it, he knew it.
“Well I’m here now,” Annabel said, trying to lighten the mood. “And we’ve come to discuss what you and Aiden talked about, right Mister Steve?”
Steve was still lost in his thoughts, stuck on what Dale just said. When Annabel called his name again, he shook his head vigorously. “Y-Yeah . . . we are. Did you ever talk about funding the project with Aiden last night, or did you just spend all night getting shithoused?”
“Oh, we talked,” Dale said. “And we came to a conclusion. He’s going to bankroll us on a continuing basis . . .”
“What does that mean?” Steve asked.
“It means that as long as we keep producing, he’ll keep throwing
money at the project. He’ll help us skyrocket, man.”
Steve was ever-suspicious. He’d known too many business executives—like John Levi—and wheeler-dealers to know no one did anything out of the kindness of their heart—not when it came to money. “Why?”
“Because he sees it as a gamble, like he said. And he expects to make a fuck-ton of money off us, besides. Until we start to see some returns, some traction, he said he’d forgo all royalties—let us keep 100% of the cash to start. Once the time comes when we’re bringing something in—more than just like a hundred bucks from the bar at a gig—it’ll switch to a 60/40 payment plan.”
“Sixty to whom?”
Dale smiled. “To us.”
“So, he’s going to be our manager?”
“He’s going to be our investor, Steve-o. You can still run the show.”
Steve ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know about this.”
“What do you have to think about?” Dale asked. “What’s our alternative here, man?”
Crickets.
Annabel said, “I think Mister Fats is right. We should take the deal.”
“We’ve penned it all out already—it’s in the conference room,” Dale said.
“And you’ve read it over? What kind of shady fine print is there?”
“Nothing, man. It’s all transparent.”
“I still want to run it by Henry.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Dale and Steve stared at each other, blank looks on their faces, neither of them blinking. Annabel stepped forward, but then thought better of getting between them.
Finally, after the stern staring contest dragged on for nearly fifteen seconds, Dale lifted his palm as a small smile crept onto his face.
Steve returned the smile and smacked Dale’s hand with his own, a loud thunderclap of a high-five.
“We’re in, baby!” Dale said, ecstatic, pumping his fists. Then his eyes accidentally met Annabel’s. His ecstasy crashed just as quickly and hard as if he’d been taking ecstasy. “Until we lose her . . .”
“I’m not going anywhere yet, Mister Fats.”
And they celebrated by playing darts.
AN HOUR LATER, AND with Aiden still nowhere to be seen, Dale threw a bullseye on the dartboard. He thrust his hands in the air in victory, laughing. When he went to go pull the darts out of the board, he said, “Oh, you know, Steve-o . . . I had an epiphany last night.”
“During your blackout, you mean?” Steve asked sarcastically.
Dale turned around with the darts in his hand, frowning. “No really, hear me out.” He went and sat on the couch, apparently finished with the darts. Then Steve realized he had put the darts down, so he could use his hands to talk.
Dale said, “Remember what you said Shannon Barton told you? About why she tried to run you over with her car?”
Steve nodded. “She said, ‘I did it for love.’”
“Right.” Dale put his hands up palms-forward. “Now, I was thinking . . . and I’ll admit I was a bit tipsy—”
“You were massacring ‘Pinball Wizard’ at the top of your lungs, Fats.”
Dale shook his hands around. “That’s neither here nor there. As I was saying . . . who is the one person you can think of that could make someone do something for love? Or the perceived notion of love?”
Steve scratched his head and furrowed his brow. Stumped, he shrugged.
“Come on, don’t be a moron. Think.”
Steve sighed. “Telling me to think isn’t going to change my answer, Fats.”
“The Cupid dude!” Dale yelled. Then he looked over his shoulders conspiratorially, in case Aiden had heard him—after all, they had first met the cherub, Michelangelo, together with Aiden, at The Shack Bar & Grill.
Steve’s mouth fell open. He was flabbergasted—not that he hadn’t thought of that, but that Dale had. “I’ll be damned, Fats . . . you might be onto something.”
Annabel said, “How would that work? You mean, he made someone fall in love with him, and then told that person to go and kill you?”
Dale said, “It’s a running theory, Bel. I still have to work out the kinks. But it’s more solid than nothing!”
Steve turned to her. “You gotta admit, Bel, it’s got legs.”
“But why would the cherub do that?” Annabel asked.
Dale was pulling his phone out of his pocket. With a grin he said, “I have no idea, but why don’t we go find out? Check this out.”
He touched a few buttons on the screen then handed the phone to Steve.
Steve scrolled down. He realized he was looking at a flyer. It was a flyer for an art show, happening . . . today.
Featured artist: Michelangelo, with his handsome fucking face front and center on the advertisement.
“The cherub is an artist?” Steve asked.
“Makes sense, huh?” Dale said. “Hopeless romantic and all that . . .”
Steve chuckled. “Literally.” He checked the time on the phone—11:00 a.m.—then the time on the flyer—Open House Starts at Noon. “It starts in an hour.”
Dale nodded. “It’s in La Jolla. Let’s go bust this guy’s parade.”
Steve said, “What are we gonna do, charge in and play a round of fisticuffs with the guy? We’ll get arrested.”
Dale smiled and cracked his knuckles. “I may not be a violent man, Steve-o, but I can be quite imposing without resorting to violence.”
THEY DROVE UP TO THE La Jolla Museum of Contemporary Art at 11:45 a.m., just as the sun decided to show its face. It peeked out of the gray clouds and showered the modern white building in a bright yellow glow.
Besides being just down the street from Shannon Barton’s house, the museum was one of the more significant landmarks in the artsy world of San Diego. It sat on the edge of a cliff that overlooked one of the prettiest La Jolla beaches: the Children’s Pool, which was currently closed for seal pupping season. It was a long, sleek, modern-contemporary art house that looked more like an artist’s sculpture than a pragmatic museum.
Sure enough, a flyer on the front door for this Friday’s exhibition showed Michelangelo—no last name—and his mug. Apparently, the cherub was a sculpturist. His work was being presented in the Edward’s Sculpture Garden, for two weeks, and today was Opening Day. The artist himself would be there.
That’s what Steve, Dale, and Annabel were counting on.
They blasted through the front door of the museum, pushing by bourgeois art collectors and their children, heading for the door that led to the outdoor sculpture garden.
A well-dressed clerk at the front saw them cruising by in a hurry and moved in front of them to stop their march. With his hands behind his back and a smug smile, he said, “Excuse me, my friends, but general admission is $10. And if you’re heading for Michelangelo’s exhibit, that’s an additional $10 per person.”
He might as well have said, “Pay your honorary gatekeeper or begone, plebs!”
Steve growled, not making a very good case for being anything but a dog and a plebian, but Annabel quickly quieted him with a hand on his shoulder. “That’s fine, sir.” She eyed Steve expectantly.
Steve rolled his eyes and reached in his pocket, fishing out a crisp $100 bill—courtesy of Aiden’s gold coins. He handed it to the glorified bouncer, who probably couldn’t bounce a grain of rice off the property, and the guy gave him $40 back.
With a condescending smile, the magniloquent doorman said, “Thank you, and enjoy.”
The trio stormed past the gatekeeper and made it outside onto the green grass. Different unique sculptures were dotted around the place—some plaster, some colorful, all in very odd shapes and sizes.
Steve spotted Michelangelo from across the way, nearly fifty feet away. How could he not? Michelangelo was literally dressed like an angel on Earth: pristine white jacket, white pants, a white hat, and white loafers.
Michelangelo was in the middle of a conversation with two or three este
emed, elderly women when Steve, Dale, and Annabel came barging up to him.
“Hello, Mike, remember us?” Dale spat. He had transformed from an oafish, mellow teddy bear to a hardened, threatening grizzly bear. The old women, who held glasses of bubbly champagne and wore fancy, floppy hats, put their hands over their mouths at the rudeness of Dale’s interjection in their conversation.
Michelangelo was a tall, lean man—or Mythic—but Dale was a thick, round one. When he looked at you the way he was looking at Michelangelo, he could be quite striking. Especially when his fists were clenched at his sides, like they were now.
Michelangelo took a step back, startled at the abrupt appearance of Dale, and tried to play it cool. “Ah, yes, hello, sir, how are you doing this fine afternoon? Excited for the show?”
“Yeah, real excited . . .” Dale began saying, cracking the knuckles of his hands with audible pops while they still rested at his sides.
The cherub put a hand forward, almost touching Dale’s arm, but when Dale recoiled he did too. He smiled at the older, enthralled women, saying, “Excuse me, ladies, may I have a moment, please?”
They nodded offhandedly and wandered off.
Steve noticed that behind Michelangelo was a life-sized, carved statue of a man weeping. The man had feathery wings and was completely naked—like “David”—and was very impressive up close.
“You make this?” Steve asked, pointing to the sculpture.
Michelangelo nodded. “It’s a rendition of my brother. He’s a Seraphim—”
“Shut up, Steve,” Dale snapped, not wanting to lose his rhythm. He thrust his finger in Michelangelo’s chest and said, “And you shut up, too.”
The cherub put his hands up in surrender. “Look, I don’t know what the problem is—if Aiden ripped you off or something, you’re coming to the wrong guy. I hardly hang out with—”
“This isn’t about Aiden,” Dale said.
Steve frowned. The cherub’s words didn’t exactly instill confidence toward their newfound partner and investor.
“What is it?” Michelangelo asked.