by S. W. Lauden
“And you still haven’t introduced yourself. It’s the least you could do after having your bodyguards drag me out of my home.”
“Name’s Tony Flores. Now tell me. I know you wanted to, everybody else does. It kind of turns me on.”
Flores hissed those last few words. Greg instinctively took a step back, to keep himself from throwing a punch. Things were getting weird a little too fast.
“Sorry to disappoint you. Where is she now?”
“I hoped you might know.”
Flores raised an eyebrow before Greg could go on.
“She stayed in my guest house. I was in bed with my wife.”
Flores tightened his lips, bobbing his head in a spastic fit of laughter. Greg couldn’t figure out if he was coming unhinged or getting ready to pull a gun. Several uncomfortable seconds passed before Flores gathered himself enough to speak again.
“You’re a better man than I am. I had her bent over the mixing board in my studio on the first night of our recording session. Cost me a fortune in alimony with the ex, but I have to say it was worth every penny. Take a seat.”
Greg walked backward slowly, never taking his eyes off of Flores. He sat down on the sofa again, while Flores took the lounge chair opposite him.
“Is it true? Gabriella told me you and your partner saved her at the golf club.”
Greg nodded. It was the most he could manage while trying to figure out this twisted relationship. Flores was easily thirty years older than Gabriella, and a total scumbag to boot. A music industry dinosaur that probably made a mint exploiting young artists who mistook his fake praise and free coke as a sign they’d made it. And then, when he drew the unsuspecting newbies far enough into his web, he’d put a contract in front of them giving him all the rights to their music forever. A lot of them had signed, by the looks of the place. Every musician in Hollywood gets bent over a mixing board at some point.
Flores smiled as if confirming Greg’s assessment of him.
“I know what you’re thinking. ‘What’s an old geezer like this doing with a hot piece of ass like her?’ The answer’s obvious—I’ve got money and the keys to her future. But I really do love her, despite the nature of our relationship. Which is why I’m thankful to you and Mateo for saving her from those guys at the country club.”
Greg thought about correcting him, deciding it was better that he didn’t know Marco’s real name.
“You have a funny way of showing it. Weren’t you worried the paparazzi would see your goons drag me in?”
“They aren’t out there all the time; only when somebody big does a recording session here. Besides, my men brought you in through the delivery gate around back.”
“Convenient. Guess you’re not worried the hired help will rat you out.”
“Don’t be fooled by the big house. I don’t keep a full-time staff here. That’s an old-fashioned waste of money.”
Greg wanted to ask him why the ugly neon paintings didn’t fall into the same category, but bit his tongue instead.
“Well, you didn’t have to kidnap me if you only wanted to talk.”
The expression on Flores’ face changed in an instant, from open and friendly to blank. He was either high as a kite, or damaged from decades in the fast lane.
“You got off easy compared to what I have in mind for the douche bags who tried to hurt her.”
Greg could only imagine what those two frat boys would endure at the hands of Tony and his men. Then again, they’d probably get what they deserve if he believed Gabriella’s version of what happened. He was going over the events in the hotel room again when Tony interrupted his thoughts.
“I told you I love her, and love can make a man jealous. So I had to know if you banged her or I wouldn’t feel comfortable thanking you. But that’s not the only reason you’re here. I have a business proposition for you.”
“Thanks, but we’re actually leaving town for a couple of weeks. So, I’m not really looking for any extra work right now.”
Flores smiled, renewed light behind his eyes.
“Not many people realize it these days, but I got my start producing rock bands. I want to get back into it again, but haven’t come across the right opportunity. Until I heard that you were getting Bad Citizen Corporation back together.”
Greg was speechless. Flores didn’t seem to notice.
“Let me show you my studio.”
They wound their way out of the house and across the backyard, skirting the pool the whole way. Flores slid the pool house door open to reveal a state-of-the-art recording studio hidden inside. Gold and platinum records lined the soundproofed walls along with an endless collection of vintage guitars. The large recording room was completely set up for a session—amplifiers, drums, keyboards, and microphone stands—but the chairs in the adjacent mixing room were empty.
Flores took a seat behind the board, immediately tweaking knobs. Greg found it hard not to imagine Gabriella in there on that first night described to him in such vivid detail. He wanted to leave as soon as possible, but knew he’d have to suffer through some contemporary pop music first.
Rhythmic breathing was the first thing Greg heard when Flores brought the faders up. A heavy kick drumbeat came in next, accented with erratic flourishes of cymbals and snare. Thunderous, chugging bass notes brought the energy up a few notches, moments before a woman unleashed a string of rapid-fire words delivered almost too fast for Greg to understand. He didn’t recognize Gabriella’s voice until the song reached the chorus and the rapper started singing.
Flores saw the look on his guest’s face and quickly brought the volume down.
“Pretty incredible, right?”
“Stunning. Where’d you find her?”
“Saw her at a club downtown, doing a collaboration with another street rapper named Big J. They used to run with the same gang in high school or something. I tracked her down backstage after the show and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“You have a good ear. When’s this record coming out?”
“Already did, last year. Biggest commercial flop of my career.”
h
Greg suffered through another hour before Flores finally let him go. They’d listened to some of his more successful singles, and even got into a few of the early rock acts he’d worked with—every one of them an eighties hair-metal band. Greg had to admit it was a pretty impressive body of work, but not exactly the sound he was looking for with the next BCC record. It didn’t keep him from making promises that would get him out of there.
The last thing Flores said still bounced around Greg’s mind as the bodyguards drove him home.
“You can’t just put a record out and pretend like you’re still twenty years old. That’ll look pathetic. I can help you make something now, something relevant.”
Despite the seeds of doubt planted by Flores, the ride home was a lot like the ride there—minus the bag and handcuffs. They rode in silence the whole way. The radio wasn’t even turned on, which left Greg to look out at the moonlight reflecting off the ocean. He was happy to be going home in one piece, but didn’t look forward to his unresolved fight with Kristen. Or letting Marco have it for sleeping with Gabriella and almost getting him killed. His feelings of rage were only amplified when he remembered the interview his drummer did for Among the Grizzlies.
It was late when they finally dropped him off in the alley behind his house. Greg jumped out, slamming the door without looking back. He stepped around the El Camino, pushed the gate open, and headed into the garage. Everything was right where he’d left it, including his thoughts. He slumped down into a chair and picked up Tommy’s book. He wanted to read Marco’s passage again, to see if he’d overreacted earlier.
It took moment to realize he’d flipped to the wrong chapter. This one had an unfortunately familiar title—“I Am Tim.” He scanned th
e page with angry eyes, quickly landing on a passage somewhere in the middle:
“Dude killed himself, simple as that. Seems like a million years ago, but the biggest bummer is that we’ll probably never know why. I think that’s what pisses Greg off the most,” Johnson said.
Greg flung the book across the room, watching with satisfaction as it shattered a picture frame on the opposite wall. He stood up, checking to make sure the keys were still in his pocket. The El Camino was waiting for him out back, like always. For the moment, it seemed like that car was the only thing in his life he could trust. He climbed in, punching the steering wheel before rumbling off.
Greg sped along Bay Cities Boulevard. Black Flag tore through “Police Van” on the stereo as he stepped on the gas to blow through a yellow light. He was heading to Marco’s to kick his ass for giving Tommy the interview, but he also wanted to know if Gabriella was there. If she was, that ass kicking might turn into murder.
Greg got within a few blocks of Marco’s condo, but pulled into the parking lot at Eddie’s instead. He wanted to see if JJ was working before he dropped in on Marco unannounced. Things would be a lot easier if his roommate wasn’t around to get involved, especially since he was also a member of the band. Not that it would stop Greg the way he felt at the moment.
Greg threw the car into park, climbed out, and walked over to the entrance of Eddie’s. He stuck his head inside, finding the place empty except for a couple of regulars drunkenly talking at the bar. Pennywise played in the background as the bartender, another new face he didn’t recognize, closed out a tab at the register. Greg’s eyes shifted to all the liquor bottles lit up on the mirrored shelf behind the bar. His mouth began to water.
He spun around in retreat, instinctively heading for Junior’s house on foot. He knew she’d be asleep, but he needed some fresh air and a little distance from the bar. It was as if a switch had been flipped. All of the anger and betrayal Greg felt funneled into an unquenchable thirst for oblivion. Each step on the cracked sidewalk became an internal battle. Right foot—Just one drink. Left foot—Don’t do it.
His decision was made before he even reached the next corner. The liquor store where he’d wasted so many afternoons playing video games with his brother as a kid was still open. The blinding lights were like a beacon, a wink and a nod from the universe.
Greg jogged across the boulevard. It had been years since he stepped inside, so he doubted they would recognize him. He went over to the cooler and grabbed a six-pack of beer before heading to the counter. The old man rang him up without any hesitation. Empowered, Greg decided to push his luck.
“And a fifth of Vodka, too.”
Chapter 7
The kid in the blue hat had his hands around Greg’s throat. He dug his fingernails into the skin, tearing at the rope burns already there. Greg tried to fight back, but had no control over his arms. They flopped limp at his sides as the flow of air got cut off from his lungs. His head felt like an expanding balloon already well past the breaking point. The kid’s eyes were dead, but his lips were moving, repeating the same six words again and again—“If you wanna die with me… If you wanna die with me… If you wanna die with me… If you wanna die with me…”
Greg sprang up in a panic. A record spun on the turntable, skipping over and over on the same scratch. It was “If You Wanna,” the last track on side one of Bad Citizen Corporation’s first album. He reached down from the couch, groping the floor for his phone to check the time. His hand came back with the bottle of vodka instead. He twisted the cap to take a big gulp, hurling it at the stereo once it was empty. The needle scratched across the vinyl with a loud shriek before the arm snapped off. The record spun to a stop as Greg stood up.
He found the phone in the pocket of his jeans. It was close to seven, the latest he’d slept in weeks. Greg noticed three missed calls from Marco, two from last night and one from this morning. He hit the “Call Back” button and waited for an answer, his fury amplified by a staggering hangover.
“Dude, where the hell have you been?”
“Stayed up late reading a book. It’s called Among—””
Greg became aware of his own tattered voice, but Marco didn’t seem to notice.
“Whatever. You have to get up to Gabriella’s place. Like, right now.”
Greg cleared his throat to no avail.
“What’s going on? Please tell me you didn’t do anything stupid. Again.”
“Matter of opinion, bro. Get over here as soon as you can. And bring your gun.”
Marco hung up. Greg stared at his phone for a second, deciding what to do. He guessed Kristen would freak out that he never came to bed, but there weren’t any missed calls from her. And there was no way he could face her in his current condition. He needed time to get his head—and his story—straight. The pursuit of marital bliss would have to wait.
He stumbled to the bathroom for a quick shower.
h
Greg was relieved he kept clean clothes and a toothbrush in the office. He still looked bloated and pale, but at least he didn’t smell like the storeroom at Eddie’s any longer. If anybody could tell he’d fallen off the wagon, it was Marco. He knew his partner wouldn’t tell Kristen or anybody else, but it might set a bad precedent for the BCC tour. Greg falling off the wagon paled in comparison to what a Marco relapse would look like. All bets were off if they both started drinking again at the same time.
Forty-five minutes passed before Greg pulled the El Camino along the curb behind Marco’s ride. They were a couple hundred yards down the block from the front gates of the Flores Estate. Marco spotted Greg right away in the rearview mirror, waving him over to the passenger seat of his car.
Greg popped a mint and slid across to his passenger door. He climbed out, staying low as he crept to Marco’s car. The door swung open to greet him.
“Hurry up. Get in.”
Greg did as he was told, softly shutting the door behind him.
“What the hell is going on, Marco? Please tell me you haven’t been up here all night.”
Greg already knew the answer, judging by the mingled smells of body odor and stale coffee. Marco didn’t seem to notice or care that he reeked. His eyes spun like pinwheels as he spoke.
“Some shit went down last night.”
“For your information, we aren’t on this case anymore.”
“She came to my place, okay?”
Greg slapped the dashboard in response.
“Jesus, dude. Calm down. I drove her home around three in the morning.”
“After you slept with her again?”
“So what if it did?”
“I met her husband last night. His name’s Tony Flores and he’s a bit of head case. Two of his men dragged me up here while you were getting your rocks off.”
Marco shook his head.
“Didn’t go down like that, bro. She cried on my shoulder for a couple of hours about how scared she was. Then I drove her home. End of story.”
“Then what the hell are we doing up here?”
“I told her to flash the lights in one of the upstairs windows when she got in bed. It never happened, so I waited.”
“Are you in high school or something? She probably forgot and fell asleep. Or maybe she decided to screw her husband. These people are seriously weird.”
“Maybe so, but I stuck around just in case. Then, right before I called you the last time, I thought I heard something. Loud popping sounds.”
Greg craned to look out the back window of the car.
“I don’t see any cops. Neighborhood like this, somebody would definitely call nine-one-one if they heard gunshots.”
“They came from deep inside the house. The nearest neighbor is half a mile away, at least.”
Greg shook his head in disgust.
“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.
Tell me why I’m here.”
“We need to make sure she’s safe.”
“Call her.”
Marco rolled his eyes.
“Give me a fucking break. She hasn’t picked up or responded to my texts since she went inside.”
Greg groaned, disappointed to see his partner so blinded by love.
“Because she’s asleep.”
“Or on the ground bleeding.”
“You’ve got a good imagination.”
“That’s what you said when we saved Gabriella at the The Cliffs.”
It was a low blow, but Greg had it coming. Marco swung his door open to get out. Greg took a deep breath and followed right behind his partner, gun in hand. Soon they were standing in front of the locked front gates.
Marco wove his hands together to lift Greg over the fence. He waited until his partner touched down on the other side before scaling the bars himself. That seemed to be where his plan ended.
“What now, bro?”
“Let’s go around back. We can try the door by the pool.”
They followed a stone path winding through an impressive garden. Greg stopped to check the ground floor windows every few yards, but didn’t see any movement inside. They soon reached the back patio, finding the pool and cabanas empty like the day before. Greg motioned Marco over to the back door.
“We can get into the house right there, but let’s check the studio first. I think that’s where Flores spends most of his time.”
They edged around the pool, checking to make sure the coast was clear with every step. Greg listened carefully for any music coming from inside of the pool house, but heard nothing. He slid the door open with the tip of his shoe, motioning for Marco to stand behind him.
Greg stepped inside with his gun out in front of him to clear the room. Everything looked exactly the same as the last time he’d been there. He led Marco over to the mixing room. They saw the body as soon as they walked through the door. Tony Flores was slumped over the board, the right side of his head spread out across the dials and knobs. Fresh drops of blood fell from the edge, splashing to the wooden floor like gruesome little waterfalls.