by S. W. Lauden
“Come over here. Bring those discs with you.”
The kid shuffled over with the albums in his hand, setting them down on the counter. Tim made a show of studying the track listings on the backs of each case. He addressed the kid again without looking up.
“You like the Sex Pistols?”
His voice cracked a little as he answered.
“I guess so, yeah.”
“Yes or no. There’s no in between.”
“Yes.”
Tim ventured out into the racks. The kid spun in place, watching him work. Tim came back over to the counter, setting a short stack of CDs next to the others. It felt like his blood was turning to ice in his veins.
“How much money do you have?”
“Twenty dollars.”
“That’ll get you one of the albums you chose. They’re both good, don’t get me wrong, but I think you need to do a little homework first. It’s a big leap from the Sex Pistols to either of those two bands.”
The kid swallowed hard, keeping his mouth shut.
“See these five used discs I picked out. They were hand-selected for you, by me.” Tim fanned them out. “We’ve got Los Angeles by X—which is playing on the stereo right now; this is Double Nickels on the Dime by the Minutemen; Wild in the Streets by the Circle Jerks; (GI) by the Germs; and Damaged by Black Flag. You have any of these?”
The kid shook his head.
“Good. I’m going to give you a choice. Give me your twenty.”
He stuck his hand out and waited. The kid ponied up.
“For this twenty dollars you can either have this new record you chose, this other new record you chose, or these five used records I chose for you. You’ve got one minute to decide.”
The kid ran his fingers over each of the discs, studying the album titles and cover art. Tim’s entire body shook, and an unbearable itch welled up under every inch of his skin. The seconds crawled until they heard a loud crash back in the office. More clattering and a string of raunchy expletives followed the commotion.
“Stay here.”
Tim reached under the counter, running down the back hallway with a wooden baseball bat clutched in his fist. He rounded the corner, swinging wildly at the air all around him. There was nobody in the office that he could see, but several boxes full of empty jewel cases had been knocked over. He went to check behind the desk, finding Marco crouched there. It looked like his ribcage might burst through his shirtless, heaving torso.
“What the fuck are you doing in my office?”
“I came by to say hi, but you were busy playing punk rock Willy Wonka. So I decided to hang out back here.”
“Crap! Stay here. Don’t touch anything.”
Tim threw the bat to the floor, letting it bounce end to end in a spastic dance on the tiled floor. The kid was gone when he got back into the store, and so were all seven CDs that had been on the counter. He flipped the top of the cash box open, relieved to see his day hadn’t been a total waste. Plus, I got his twenty bucks.
He went to the front door, turned the lock, and flipped the “Closed” sign before killing the lights. Marco sat behind the desk when he returned to the office, cooking up a fresh shot in Tim’s spoon.
“You can’t just come in here to fix.”
Marco carefully set the spoon down, drawing the brown liquid through a cigarette filter and into the syringe he always kept in his sock. With the spoon free, Tim took his turn. They were soon nodding out next to each other, their conversation filled with stretched words and long pauses.
“You ever think about playing in a band again?”
“Not with what a nightmare the last one turned out to be.”
Marco coughed, his mouth filling with bile. He reached for a Styrofoam cup to expel the foul liquid. Tim didn’t bother looking up.
“It wasn’t all bad, bro. We had some good times.”
“Maybe in the early days. You talked to my brother lately?”
“Once in a while. He’s recording an album with some new dudes. They’re using the name BCC. He stole that from you.”
Tim gave a half-hearted snort, lazily scratching at scabs on his arm.
“Whatever. I’m not using it, so it’s all his.”
Tim pushed himself up, slowly making his way to the stereo. He ejected Los Angeles, replacing it with the Beach Blvd compilation. The Simpletones were kicking into “Kristi Q” when Marco came up behind him.
“Gotta bail. Thanks for letting me hang around.”
“No problem.”
Marco lingered, waiting to ask a tough question Tim already expected.
“You think I could borrow twenty bucks? I’ll pay you back…”
Funny how that sentence always seemed to trail off. Tim reached into his pocket, producing the twenty the kid had given him. He handed it Marco without looking back.
“Don’t spend it all in one place.”
“Thanks, bro. Maybe I’ll see you around?”
“Maybe.”
Chapter 15
Greg couldn’t believe what Officer Romero told him.
“We got hold of the security camera footage from outside of the club.”
“Seriously? Why didn’t the promoter mention it that night?”
“The promoter rents the place. The owner’s the one who had the cameras installed, but he rarely shows his face at the venue.”
Greg steeled himself, trying not to get his hopes up. Nothing had gone his way since he got home from Portland yesterday. He and Marco made the drive in sixteen hours straight while everybody else flew home. Neither of them said much during the grueling trip, each caught up in their own dark thoughts about how much had gone wrong during just three shows.
Since then the label called to tell Greg that BCC’s recording budget was frozen until the murders were solved. They said nobody could make a good record under so much stress, but he knew it was really about the bad PR. And who could blame them? They were running a business, after all. Greg understood how tough it could be, especially since Salem & Associates still hadn’t been paid by Tony Flores’ lawyer for the work they did. They needed the money more than ever with the tour cut short, but Greg didn’t expect a check to come in the mail anytime soon. He thought about having Marco put pressure on Gabriella, until he remembered she had been the target of their surveillance.
“The threat of a subpoena was enough to make him hand the digital files over. At least for two of the cameras. He claims the third one is broken.”
“Anything interesting?”
“It looks like our suspects are two big guys. Like weightlifter big.”
Greg knew that the suicide theory had just been shattered for good. He got a mental image of Tony Flores’ bodyguards. Then he remembered what they looked like with bullets wounds. The memory sent shivers down his spine. How many dead bodies can one person see before he starts to lose his mind?
“Okay. Did you get a look at their faces?”
“No. The camera angles weren’t very good. They were wearing ski masks anyway.”
“And nobody else was with them?”
“If you’re asking about your guitar player, there was no sign of him or anybody else in the footage we got. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved. These guys are probably just the muscle.”
The Portland PD told Greg there were signs Jerry had been beaten prior to his death. No determination had been made about if it was a suicide, but that didn’t rule out Jerry’s participation in the events leading up to his hanging. Did his two goons turn on him for some reason? Maybe he refused to pay them, or didn’t live up to his end of some other kind of bargain?
But Greg couldn’t figure out why Jerry would have done it. He was a prickly bastard, and maybe a little weird, but that didn’t necessarily make him a killer. Something didn’t add up. He couldn’t help thi
nking Tina had the answers.
“I appreciate you filling me in.”
“Least I could do for my favorite singer, but let’s keep this between us. Once word gets out that this might be a serial killer the Feds will be all over us. The media, too.”
Greg couldn’t decide which would be worse.
“Thanks, Romero.”
“No problem. I got a name for our victim, by the way.”
“Keep it to yourself.”
Greg slammed the phone down in frustration. He’d done everything in his power to keep from playing the hero, and here he was again; stepping in to solve the cases for local police departments up and down the entire West Coast. And he wasn’t even getting paid for it.
He considered going for a run to burn off the burst of angry energy, but went into the nursery instead. Timmy was fast asleep in his crib, his head to one side and both fists up in a triumphant posture. He looked so innocent laying there in his fleece pajamas with a teddy bear sewn on the front. Greg wondered how old his son would be before the world kicked him in the teeth, and whether Greg would even be there to protect him.
Kristen tiptoed in behind him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“What’re you doing?”
“Watching him sleep.”
She brought her head up to look at Greg, lips spreading into a shy smile.
“Do you ever think about having more kids?”
Greg wanted to tell her the truth, but knew it would break her heart. He wrapped his arms around her instead, pulling her close. She laid a cheek on his chest and listened to his heart racing.
“Are you okay, sweetie?”
“I’m fine.”
h
Greg finally got out of the house after lunch. Things were going much better with Kristen on the surface, but he felt the foundation crumbling beneath their feet. Whatever desperate attraction had driven them together at Grizzly Flats was getting more elusive as the months passed. Without all of the external forces trying to rip them apart, Greg found it hard to stay interested. Deep down inside he knew if it weren’t for their son, he probably would have left already.
He decided to take his mind off of his personal problems by doing some digging on his tour manger. It took a lot of coaxing and a little flirting, but he finally got some info out of the receptionist at Dead March. She told him Tina lived at a Downtown LA arts complex, spitting distance from Grand Central Market. Greg looked it up on a map and thought it might be worth going down there to ask around about her. He decided to bring Marco along for the ride in case he needed backup.
Greg sped along the boulevard, flipping from his favorite AM news station when the reporter started talking about the body count from “the ill-fated Bad Citizen Corporation tour.” He parked in the lot at Eddie’s and walked a block to Marco and JJ’s condo. Their names were on the registry at the security gate, but Greg had the code memorized. He buzzed himself in, taking the elevator to the third floor.
JJ walked out as Greg arrived.
“How was the drive back from Portland?”
“Long. Your flight go okay?”
“Couple hours. Thanks for footing the bill.”
“No need for the whole band to suffer any more than it has.”
The look on JJ’s face was utter confusion.
“You really think Jerry had something to do with all of this?”
“You tell me. You two seemed to get along. What am I missing?”
“I mean, we got stoned a few times. He was a total smartass, but I never got the impression he was violent. Anyway, I’m heading to work. Marco’s in his bedroom with you know who.”
Greg stepped inside, pushing the door closed with his foot. He hoped the slamming sound would bring Marco out into the living room, but it didn’t work. That meant he’d have to knock and possibly walk in on an awkward situation. He went for the bedroom door when it opened to greet him. Gabriella stood there fully clothed, looking anxious to leave.
“Didn’t you two get sick of each other on your little road trip?”
She said it in passing, clearly not in need of an answer. Greg watched her traipse into the kitchen before poking his head inside the bedroom to find Marco. He reclined on the bed, nothing but board shorts on.
“You ready to go?”
“Just need to throw a shirt on and find my flip flops.”
“We’re going downtown, not to some volleyball tournament.”
“Fine.”
Marco jumped up, groping at a pile of questionable laundry on the ground. He put jeans on over his board shorts, pulling a sweatshirt over his bare torso. His checkered Vans slip-ons were a loose fit without socks.
“Let’s do this.”
He went straight for the front door without looking back. Greg stopped him.
“Don’t you want to say goodbye to your girlfriend? You’ve been gone for four days.”
“Oh, right. Give me a sec.”
Marco strode into the kitchen to give her a high five. She fluttered her eyelashes, smiling at him as he turned to leave. Greg couldn’t believe they never exchanged a word.
“You two are perfect for each other.”
“You know it, bro.”
Traffic crawled heading north, but lightened up when they merged east. The sky was clear and blue, sunlight flickering through the tall palm trees lining the freeway. It wasn’t long before a cluster of high rises popped up on the horizon like a glowing blue jewel on the flat LA landscape. Greg studied the dark mountains looming in the background, wondering if he would ever visit his cabin again. He doubted Marco would come along if he did.
Greg reached over to pop the glove compartment open. His Glock was in there as usual, along with a couple of envelopes. He took one out, dropping it in Marco’s lap.
“It’s not as much as it should have been, but that’s your cut from the tour.”
Marco scooped it up, flipping his thumb across the bills.
“Looks like Marco gets to live indoors for another month.”
“Don’t talk about yourself in the third person. The other envelope’s for JJ. I meant to bring them upstairs earlier, but spaced out.”
“No worries. I can give it to him.”
“Thanks, but I learned not to trust you with cash a long time ago.”
“Very funny, bro. People change.”
They crawled along the 110 interchange, keeping right for the downtown exits. It was the middle of the week, so the grid of streets teemed with a unique mixture of business people in tailored suits, shop owners, and tourists. Each of them played a role in the rebranding of these decimated neighborhoods that had risen from the ashes of a crack epidemic. The scars were still there, but Greg had to look a little harder every time he came to visit.
It took a few minutes to locate the address in the maze of one-way streets, and twice as long to find parking. Greg fed the meter and the two of them made their way up the block.
“The receptionist at Dead March thinks she might have gotten another tour already. We probably don’t have to worry about running into her.”
“So, are we breaking into her apartment then?”
“Not sure it’ll come to that. Let’s poke around a little, ask her neighbors some questions. Maybe one of them will recognize Jerry.”
Marco gave his front pockets a slap.
“Holy shit! I must have dropped it somewhere.”
“Come on, Marco. We haven’t even been here five minutes.”
“Ha! Gotcha, bro.”
They walked up to the front door of The Art Colony Lofts. Every extension on the registry was for a studio or gallery, but none of the tenant’s names were listed. Greg tried the door. It didn’t budge. He stepped back to study the face of the building, scoping the network of rusted fire escapes zigzagging to the roof. Marco had vanishe
d when he looked back again.
Greg’s head swung side-to-side, catching a glimpse of his partner as he disappeared in a cafe down the block. He tried screaming for him to stop, disturbing the pigeons poking around at the ground near his feet. I swear to God, it’s like babysitting somebody else’s toddler.
The chalkboard sign outside of the coffee shop read “Re/Hab Cafe.” Greg stepped inside and found Marco at the counter, showing Jerry’s picture to a female barista with a hard stare.
Greg wandered over to see if she had anything interesting to say.
“We see lots of white boys looking like that around here.”
Marco pushed the picture closer to her.
“What about his eyes? You probably don’t see that every day.”
She pursed her lips, pulling her head back dramatically.
“Are those contacts? Lydia, come check this shit out.”
Another young woman emerged through the swinging kitchen door. She had an apron on over khaki pants and a white polo shirt. Greg noticed both of them had elaborate gang tattoos poking out from under their shirts and spreading down their arms. He was too impatient to wait for their answer.
“Has he been in here or not?”
The two women looked up in unison, as if Greg had three heads. Marco nudged him back a few inches with an elbow to the ribs.
“That’s my buddy, Greg. He probably shouldn’t have any more coffee. Makes him edgy. This guy in the picture is a friend of ours, but he disappeared.”
“I recognize him.”
Greg’s chin snapped up at the sound of the familiar voice. A young man had come out of the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about. He wore a baker’s toque and a stained chef’s coat, but he would always be the kid in the blue hat to Greg. Their eyes locked, each of them deciding what to do. It was the kid who eventually nodded to an empty table by the front door, indicating for Greg to follow.
They sat across from each other, still reeling from the shock of the chance encounter. Greg did his best to keep the conversation casual and his voice low.