Hang Time

by S. W. Lauden

  Marco backed out of the room, his eyes on the corpse. Greg crouched down to inspect the ground for a gun.

  “This wasn’t a suicide.”

  Marco bolted from the studio, sprinting to the main house. Greg barely had time to react before his friend was gone.

  “Don’t touch anything!”

  Marco barreled through the backdoor and into the living room, Greg right behind him. One of the two bodyguards that snatched him was lying at Marco’s feet. Red blossoms of blood spread out across his white dress shirt, soaking the lapels of his coat. He saw the second bodyguard slumped in one of the chairs near the bookshelves across the room. Greg made sure he wasn’t breathing before returning to his partner’s side. Marco looked up at the painting of Gabriella with tears in his eyes.

  “We have to find her.”

  “One way or another, we will.”

  Greg pulled a gun from the closest bodyguard’s shoulder holster, shoving it into Marco’s shaking hand. His wrist went limp under the weight. It looked like the weapon might fall to the floor.

  “Don’t drop it. It might go off.”

  Marco’s face went green before fading to a ghostly white.

  “No way, bro.”

  “You don’t have a choice. We have to search the rest of the house, but the killer might still be here.”

  Marco nodded in agreement, his tense body telegraphing a different response. Greg knew they had to get this over with fast. It was only a matter of time before the cops showed up or the killers popped up. He prayed it wasn’t Gabriella, but couldn’t rule out the possibility.

  They went door to door downstairs, searching every room. Neither of them had been upstairs before, so that took a little longer. In the end, they didn’t find anything or anybody else to tell them what happened. Gabriella might still be missing, but they needed to get out of there. Greg took the gun from Marco’s hand and wiped it down before putting it back in the dead bodyguard’s holster. He did the same with the knob on the back door while Marco watched him work.

  “We have to call the cops, bro.”

  “No shit, but they don’t have to know we searched the place. I’ll call it in from the car.”

  h

  They were back at Greg’s house before Marco finally spoke again. His question caught Greg off guard.

  “When did you start boozing again?”

  Greg had almost forgotten himself, given everything that happened since last night. They pulled up behind the garage and Greg killed the engine. The El Camino sputtered and shook before she went still.

  “I’m not ‘boozing again.’ I screwed up last night, but it’s not a permanent situation.”

  “It better not be, bro. I’m looking at you to keep my ass sober when we’re on tour. Not so sure I can pull it off on my own.”

  “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. But while we’re on the subject—when were you going to tell me about the interview you did with Tommy?”

  “Huh? Dude interviewed everybody in town. I’m guessing that’s one book you’ll want to skip, unless you like being pissed off all the time.”

  Greg couldn’t argue with his logic, and he was too wiped out to try. Marco was first through the back gate, immediately heading for the garage. Greg stopped him before he could open the door.

  “You don’t want to go in there. I still need to clean…after last night.”

  “Just like the good old days.”

  They ambled into the house together instead. Marco took a seat at the kitchen table while Greg went into the bedroom to find Kristen. He came back out holding an envelope and a folded piece of paper.

  Marco took one look at his face and knew something was wrong.

  “What’s up?”

  “She’s gone. Kristen took the baby and left. They’re staying with Junior.”

  “Looks like we’re heading back over to North Bay.”

  “Not right now.”

  “You sure, bro?”

  Marco’s skepticism only made Greg’s worse. In the end, he decided not to play the hero this time around. If Kristen wanted to talk, she knew where to find him.

  “I need to give her space. Sometimes you have to let people go when they’ve made up their mind. Besides, we still need to call those murders in.”

  “And clean the fucking office up. You have interviews to do.”

  October 1998—10:00 p.m.

  Tim slowly brought his head up from the desk. A thick string of saliva momentarily kept him anchored to the puddle he’d left behind. Prince Buster worked his way through “Al Capone” on the stereo in the background.

  It was hard to say how long he’d been nodding out, but somebody else was in the office with him now. He opened his eyes, the kaleidoscopic images dancing around each other for a moment before snapping into the solid form of Junior. She had a black leather jacket on over a torn Adolescents “I Hate Children” T-shirt and red bondage pants. Her head was shaved short except for a small fringe of blue bangs hanging over furious eyes.

  “Wake up, you fucking junkie.”

  Tim groaned and sat back, the chair creaking beneath him. His blood flowed again, giving a second life to his last hit. He could feel himself retreating back into the dark corners of his mind, blissfully aware he was hiding out in the open.

  Junior’s voice drew closer—more full of disgust—the next time he heard it.

  “I said, get up!”

  She slapped his face for emphasis. Tim jumped up, kicking the chair behind him.

  “What the fuck?!”

  His eyes adjusted to the room, as if seeing Junior for the first time.

  “Oh, hey. I like your hair.”

  “Gee, thanks. It hasn’t changed much in the last few minutes.”

  Tim rubbed his face, collecting his thoughts. His eyes darted to the clock on the wall. Junior read his panic correctly.

  “Don’t worry, I locked up for you.” She slammed the cash box down onto the desk. It sounded precisely as pathetic and empty as it was. “You’re lucky I came in here tonight. One of your other customers might have gone on a shopping spree. They could’ve wiped you out.”

  “Uh, thanks. Have you seen my cigarettes?”

  Tim stumbled into the desk. He made a show of groping the papers scattered there, searching frantically for a balloon and syringe. Junior grabbed his wrist, yanking him back into a standing position.

  “I know what you’re looking for and I know where it is.”

  Tim managed a disarming smile. He’d use those teeth to bite her throat if she didn’t give his dope back.

  “Where is it?”

  “I need some answers first. Have you seen Marco tonight?”

  “What? Yeah, he was in here earlier. Hitting me up for money, like usual.”

  “Big surprise. Did you give him anything?”

  “Twenty, I think. He wants me to get BCC back together. Why do you care?”

  “I think the little fucker broke into my car. He took my purse and wallet.”

  “Come on, Junior. Marco wouldn’t do that to you.”

  They both knew it was bullshit, but Junior had less of a problem admitting it.

  “Ha! You losers would hock my organs for dope. Where’d he go?”

  “Said he had to meet somebody at that motel by the freeway.”

  “Damn it! I just came from there. He’s already gone.”

  Tim dragged his chair over, slumping down into it. Junior took the seat across from him, slamming his stash down on the desk. She was impressed he managed to wait a beat before lunging.

  “Don’t shoot that shit in front of me.”

  Tim made a beeline for the bathroom. She heard him going through his ritual in there—biting at the balloon full of heroin, cooking it in the black-bottomed spoon, drawing it up with the syringe’s p
lunger.

  The man who emerged a few minutes later looked slightly more human than the desperate junkie who’d left. Junior knew it was only a temporary improvement.

  She stood up to leave.

  “Take care of yourself, Tim.”

  “Whoa. Where are you going?”

  “As fun as it sounds to sit around and watch you nod off, I think I’ll go cancel my credit cards instead. I’m glad you’re feeling better, though.”

  “I only did a little for maintenance. Hang out for a few. I’ve got wine here somewhere.”

  Tim went to the filing cabinet, pulling out a half-full bottle and a red plastic cup. He twisted the lid and poured her a drink. She gave it a quick sniff before taking a sip.

  “Would you ever consider it?”

  Tim scratched his head, wondering how he’d managed to miss a whole conversation again.

  “Huh?”

  “Getting BCC back together.”

  “Oh…”

  “No big deal. I was being selfish. I mean you guys are my favorite band.”

  “Thanks, but it’s not really up to me. Your boyfriend’s calling the shots now.”

  “Who, Greg? We broke up like a month ago.” She forced a laugh pregnant with self-doubt. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Tim nodded to the syringe on the desk, raising an eyebrow.

  “Time flies when you’re fucked up all the time.”

  She finished her wine, reaching over to pour a refill. Tim watched her, wondering if his brother’s biggest mistake was breaking up the band or breaking up with Junior.

  She caught him looking, but didn’t let on.

  “Why are you trying to kill yourself? I mean, I get it, you’re like a punk rock god around The Bay Cities, but you don’t have to die to prove how cool you are.”

  “‘Punk rock god’ is a little strong.”

  “We all looked up to you, that’s all.”

  “Seems like Greg’s the one that everybody worships these days. Do you think I held him back? You know, by making him play the music I like instead of what he’s into.”

  “It’s not one or the other. You guys are great together. That’s why it sucks so much to watch you imploding, or whatever you think you’re doing. But if you’re asking me if Greg should keep playing music, even if you don’t want to—the answer’s yes.”

  She downed the rest of her refill and stood. Tim watched her from his chair, trying to imagine a universe where they might have ended up together. He wondered if there really were alternate realities waiting for him out there; other places where he might have the chance to be a better person.

  She walked around the desk, bending over to give him a peck on the cheek.

  “I mean it, Tim. Take care of yourself.”

  He grabbed her by the shirt, pulling her in for a real kiss. Their lips met and for a brief moment he could taste a different reality. Tim believed he might have finally found a reason to wake up tomorrow morning. It was over fast.

  She reared back, punching him hard on the cheek. The physical pain didn’t hold a candle to watching his happy fantasy crumble to the floor.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?! I told you that could never happen again.”

  “I just…you said that you and Greg aren’t—”

  She stood up, her chest heaving with rage.

  “Jesus, Tim. He’s still your brother. Is this how you’re planning to get back at him for breaking up the band? By screwing his ex-girlfriend again?”

  Tim shook his head, shame filling the entire room.

  “He’s not breaking up the band. He wants to keep playing without me. Without any of us.”

  Chapter 8

  The set-up was simple enough. Greg had a conference line he dialed into every thirty minutes for the next six hours. The press blitz was all in support of the BCC tour that started tomorrow. It included conversations with writers from a variety of music publications. Marco had already promised to keep the coffee flowing all day, and even offered to buy lunch. Lindsay, one of the two Dead March PR reps Greg met at Eddie’s, would also be on the line listening in “just in case.” Greg couldn’t decide if she was there for his protection or the journalists’, but knew they’d find out soon enough.

  It was shaping up to be a pretty busy day. Greg was pleased when he managed to stay sober the previous night. Talking about himself all day was miserable enough, but doing it with a hangover would be unbearable. It had been a lot easier with Marco refusing to leave his side, although he would never admit it. In addition to the back-to-back interviews, Greg and Marco also had to stop by the BCPD to give their official statements about what they’d seen at the Flores Estate. From there they were supposed to meet the rest of the band at the rehearsal space to do a last-minute run-through of the set, then pack the van. They would also be meeting the tour manager for the first time.

  With everything else going on, Greg worried he might not see his wife or son before taking off for two weeks. He swore to himself that he’d make time to say goodbye before he picked up the phone to dial in for his first interview.

  “This is Greg.”

  “Hey, Greg. This is Lindsay. You ready for the big day?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “You’ll do great. Stay relaxed, and have fun. It’ll be all softball questions today, but I’ll jump in if I hear anything that’s out of line. Otherwise, be yourself and don’t be afraid to be a little shocking.”

  Greg didn’t get the chance to ask what she meant. Then another voice joined the conversation. It was a young woman with a British accent.

  “Hi! This is Sandra Lowney with Music News International.

  Is that Greg?”

  “It is. How’s it going?”

  “Good. I know we only have fifteen minutes, so I’ll jump right in. Tell me how you met Gabriella Flores.”

  “Gabriella? I’m sorry, I thought we were talking about—”

  “Is it true that you two are an item?”

  Greg wanted to stop the interview by describing the bodies he and Marco found the night before, but didn’t think it would go over well. And since Lindsay hadn’t jumped in, he decided it was best to play along.

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

  “I was actually referring to the pictures. But since you don’t seem interested in answering—”

  “We’re definitely not an item.”

  “Well, that makes more sense. I mean, given the age difference.”

  Greg wanted to point out that Gabriella’s current—late—husband was even older, but guessed it would come back to bite him in the ass once word got out about the murders. Especially if people found out Marco actually slept with her. He tried to change the topic instead.

  “You sound pretty young yourself. Why the interest in an old hardcore band like Bad Citizen Corporation?”

  “I, um, actually had this story assigned. But I did listen to some of your music. It’s very loud.”

  A clicking sound interrupted them and, just like that, Lindsay was back on the line.

  “All right. That’s all the time we had scheduled for you two. If you need any more info, don’t hesitate to reach out to me directly. I’ll be happy to get you whatever you need.”

  The reporter thanked them both before hanging up. Greg wanted to do the same, but Lindsay stopped him.

  “Sorry about that. I had no idea she was only interested in the gossipy stuff. You handled yourself pretty well. The next one’s scheduled in fifteen—sorry, thirteen minutes. Talk soon.”

  Marco waited for Greg at the kitchen table with a fresh mug of coffee. He had a laptop open, doing research of some kind.

  “How’d it go out there?”

  “Terrible. She asked a lot about Gabriella. Have you heard from her, by the way?”
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  “Not yet. I’ve called and texted a few times, but got nothing.”

  Greg could see the concern etched into his friend’s face. He did his best to calm him down, even though he didn’t like lying.

  “I’m sure she’s fine, Marco. She’s really tough. She’ll turn up.”

  “Thanks, bro. I’m hoping she left a message for me at my pad.”

  “Why don’t you go home and check. I can handle things here. Have you called JJ?”

  “A couple of times. He’s been out all morning getting ready for the tour, but he said he hasn’t heard anything either.”

  “Go home and get packed. I’ll meet you back here later on.”

  Marco slammed the laptop shut, leaving through the front door. Greg went back out to the garage for his second phone interview.

  “This is Greg.”

  “Hey, man. It’s Patrick from CoreNoMore magazine, a hardcore zine out of Vancouver. We did an interview a few years ago.”

  Greg’s shoulder’s instantly relaxed. At least he would have one normal conversation today, talking about the only thing that really mattered—the music.

  “I remember, and I have to tell you, I’m thrilled to hear your voice.”

  “Thanks, man. Stoked you guys are going back out on the road. How long do we have to wait before you get up to Canada?”

  “Not too long, I hope. What did you want to know today?”

  “Actually, if you don’t mind, I really want to talk about your brother, Tim.”

  “Okay…”

  “I just finished that book, Among the Grizzlies. All the parts about his suicide blew me away. Have you read it?”

  “Not all of it. No.”

  “That author really makes him out to be some kind of punk rock hero. Like he died so that Bad Citizen Corporation could become legendary. You have any thoughts about that?”

  “Only that it sounds ridiculous. Tim wasn’t some martyr with a grand plan. He was a junkie with the weight of the world on his shoulders. A weight that he put there himself.”

  “I’m glad you brought that up. Last time we spoke, you said your brother’s death wasn’t a suicide, but now it seems like maybe you’ve changed your mind.”