by S. W. Lauden
Marco frowned. It was an expression Greg hadn’t seen him wear many times before.
“Seriously? I can’t ask my girlfriend to make good on that debt.”
“But you’ve got no problem sleeping with her?”
Marco ignored his comment, fury filling his eyes.
“He hired us to follow her around, bro. In case you forgot.”
“You don’t have to say any of that. Have her talk to that lawyer. Did you ever figure out his name?”
“What? I told you, it started with ‘T.’”
“Very helpful.”
“Whatever. Later.”
Chapter 17
Greg reached the end of the block before realizing he still hadn’t given JJ his tour money. He went right on the boulevard, eyeing the liquor store as he passed. There wasn’t much standing between him and a non-stop bender these days, except his own fears of where it might lead. He stopped at Eddie’s instead to see if his bassist was still on the clock. The parking lot was packed, but he squeezed the El Camino into a tight spot.
Greg felt like a tourist stepping inside. He didn’t recognize anybody behind the bar, and most of the crowd was younger than him by at least a decade. Music blared from the jukebox, pool balls cracked, and the hum of conversation filled every corner of the room. It was a familiar scene Greg had experienced a million times, but it felt like somebody else’s party now.
He wound through the crowd, looking for JJ back by the stage. He was surprised to find Gabriella there instead, sitting alone at a table in a darkened corner. A half-full martini glass sat in front of her, an empty one beside it. He walked over to make sure everything was all right.
“Happy hour?”
She looked up with an angry expression that quickly dissolved into a sticky smile. Her eyes danced up and down Greg’s body.
“It just got a little happier. Sit.”
She toasted him before taking a sloppy gulp. Greg watched her, unsure what to say. She’s either drinking to mourn her dead husband, or looking for somebody to take his place for the night.
Either scenario was a nightmare for Marco.
“Have you seen JJ?”
Greg made a show of looking around the bar for his bassist again. She giggled at his terrible performance.
“He’s around here somewhere. That dude’s always hanging around in the background when I’m at their place. He’s kind of a creeper.”
“Speaking of which, Marco’s back at home now. Why don’t you let me drop you off over there?”
Greg stood up to leave, but Gabriella didn’t move—except to finish her drink. She slid the empty glass across the table.
“One more and I’ll let you take me home.”
She tossed her hair back, licking her lips in the process.
“To Marco’s, you mean?”
“Whatever.”
Greg went to the bar, shouldering in between two burly men. The bartender worked her way down the line, doing a double take when she reached him.
“Holy shit, you’re—”
He held his hand up, palm first. That shut her up.
“I need one more of what the woman over there is having.”
He motioned back to the stage without looking. The bartender rose up on her tiptoes, straining to see who he meant.
“All I see is an empty table.”
Greg turned in time to watch Gabriella disappearing through the side door. He dropped a twenty on the counter—unsure if she’d paid for her previous drinks—before chasing after her. The sidewalk was already empty when he got outside. He followed the building around to the parking lot. Gabriella was perched on the hood of his car, a high heel up on the bumper to reveal plenty of leg. She was applying a fresh coat of lipstick when Greg trotted up.
“I thought you wanted me to buy you a drink.”
She shoved the compact into her bag.
“I was thinking of something a little closer to your place.”
Greg laughed it off, but images of her naked body at The Cliffs flooded his mind again. He took a step back, trying to keep his cool despite the sweat forming under his shirt. The last woman who’d hit on him this hard washed up on the beaches of South Bay the next day; the latest victim of Magnus Ursus. That memory replaced the one he tried desperately to ignore, giving him a little distance from the teetering temptation swaying right in front him.
“I think you’ve had enough. I’ll take you back to Marco’s. You two can continue the party over there.”
She rose up, running the tips of her fingers down his chest.
“Come dance with me, Greg.”
Greg opened the passenger door, letting her climb in. He took his time walking around the car, trying to catch his breath. It was only a couple blocks back to Marco’s, but he knew it would be a long ride.
Greg jumped in, keeping his left shoulder against the window. She sensed the distance between them, dropping a hand on his thigh.
“My place up on the cliffs is empty. Maybe we should drive up there and go skinny dipping.”
“It’s also a crime scene, in case you forgot.”
Sometimes nothing worked better than a cheap shot.
“That’s not what my lawyer says. He told me to move back in whenever I want.”
“Who’s this mysterious lawyer of yours, anyway?”
She leaned in, working her hand up his leg.
“Stop trying to change the subject. I know you want to rock this body. There’s no use pretending like you don’t.”
She had a point, but he’d never admit it—least of all to her. He only hoped Marco would survive this night. Whatever sent her into sexual overdrive, his partner was about to feel the full impact. Greg was more than a little envious.
It felt like an eternity before they pulled up outside of the building. Greg left the engine running while she swung her feet out to the pavement. Gabriella glanced at him over her shoulder, wild hair trailing down her back.
“You could always come upstairs and join the party.”
“Maybe next time.”
h
“Chief, it’s Greg.”
Complete silence on the other end. Greg tried waiting him out, but couldn’t pull it off.
“Come on. You wouldn’t have answered if you didn’t want to talk.”
This was met with the sound of rustling paper. Greg took that as progress.
“I’m calling to apologize. For the last time I called. I didn’t have any right to talk to you like that. I’m sorry.”
The Police Chief in Virgil Heights cleared his throat. Greg went silent, sure the old man was about to speak. Painful seconds ticked by before Greg gave it one more shot.
“Listen. I understand why you’re pissed off at me. I let you down…again. I thought you’d be used it by now, but—”
“Knock it off with the charming school boy act. You let yourself down, not me. You’re a grown man, Greg. Act like it for a change.”
“So, you are there. I meant what I said. I know I’ve been a prick.”
“A selfish prick’s more like it.”
“Fair enough, but I’ve been under a lot of pressure. I mean, the tour got canceled because some psycho’s following us around, and things aren’t going great with Kristen.”
“So you decided to start drinking again instead of asking for help. ‘Poor me, poor me, pour me another drink.’”
Greg winced. He never liked when people quoted twelve-step literature to him, especially not when he needed to hear it the most.
“I called to tell you I ran into the kid with the blue hat.”
That got the Police Chief’s attention.
“What? Where?”
“Downtown. We were on a case and accidentally stumbled into the place where he works.”
“He looks di
fferent, doesn’t he?”
“I guess. He definitely seems to be throwing himself into that program. Think it’ll stick?”
“I hope so. Beats ending up like his brother.”
Greg choked up at this. In all the time he’d spent worrying about the kid in the blue hat—the sleepless nights when he haunted Greg’s dreams—it never crossed his mind they had so much in common; both growing up under the influence of older brothers who led them down dangerous paths. Greg might never have spent time behind bars, but he’d been living in the shadow of Tim’s decisions his whole life.
In that moment, he truly hoped the kid wouldn’t be doomed to the same fate as Manny or Tim.
“You still there, Greg?”
“Thinking things over.”
“Is that all you were calling about? I meant what I said, you know. I don’t want to be part of your life unless you get your shit together.”
“That might be a while.”
“Well, hurry up. I’m not getting any younger. And if we don’t talk again, I hope you find a way to take care of yourself.”
“Chief, hang on. I—”
The line went dead.
h
Detective Bowers was leaning on the hood of a police cruiser when Greg pulled up to the back of his house. He rolled the El Camino to a stop right in front of him, the bumper only inches from his kneecaps. Headlights shined in his emotionless face, but he didn’t flinch or seem to care.
Greg shoved the paper bag under the passenger seat. Detective Bowers launched in before he even got out of the car.
“Were your ears burning?”
“They ring a little, but that’s about it.”
“Funny guy. I had an interesting call with a few detectives in Santa Barbara, San Francisco, and Portland. Your name came up several times. Lots of differing opinions about you floating around out there these days.”
“Thanks for the update.”
Greg went to open the gate. Detective Bowers blocked his path. A new fire burned in his piggy little eyes.
“We’re combining resources to investigate the homicides.”
“You mean you’re finally going to do your job?”
“Careful what you wish for. The FBI’s been sniffing around. You might be in deeper shit than you realize.”
“I’d be more worried if I thought you actually had something on me, which you don’t because I didn’t do anything.”
“Don’t get cocky, asshole. We went over all of the available evidence from the four crime scenes. Took almost two hours on the phone, but we finally came to a solid conclusion. All roads lead back to you and the band.”
Greg wanted to bring up the security camera footage from Santa Barbara, but thought it might be a trap. If it was, he wouldn’t let himself be tripped up so easily. And he wouldn’t risk Officer Romero’s badge just to win a back alley pissing match. Whatever point Detective Bowers was making, Greg would have to be patient.
“It makes perfect sense. The five of you were the only ones at every show. That’s a pretty colorful cast of characters you put together, by the way.”
“We had a tour manager, too. You might want to look into her.”
“Ms. Pierce is on the list of potential suspects, but she’s nowhere near the top. There’s actually somebody else who’s gotten our attention.”
Greg got the feeling Detective Bowers was finally ready to drop whatever bomb he had hidden. If the BCPD was being as lazy as usual, he guessed they’d be going after Marco soon. He only hoped his partner wouldn’t have to spend all night in jail before they finally came to their senses and cleared him.
“Are you aware of your guitarist’s police record?”
This caught Greg off guard. How can you question a corpse?
“I honestly never got to know Jerry very well.”
Smugness brought a little life to Detective Bowers’ face. It looked like he’d finally gotten one up on Greg.
“Not Jerry, you idiot—Chris. We already sent a car over to his house. They’re bringing him in for questioning.”
“He’s a kid, for Christ’s sake.”
“If it wasn’t him, it was somebody else in your band. Maybe it was you.”
Greg laughed. It might be better than throwing a punch, but not nearly as satisfying. Detective Bowers stepped forward, sensing Greg’s frustration.
“You want to hit me? Go ahead. It’s the last thing you’ll ever do.”
“I’ll pass, for now.”
“Smart choice, pussy. There’s no place for beach trash like you around here anymore.”
Greg’s head swam. He tried calling Junior the minute Detective Bowers drove away, getting her voicemail instead. There was no point in leaving a message, so he called Eddie. More of the same. He paced around the alley—trying to make sense of every crazy theory he’d just heard—when he remembered the bag tucked away in his car. He raced over to unlock the door, diving across the bench seat to retrieve it. The cap on the bottle gave a satisfying crack when he wrenched it open. He was still laying down when the first drop of vodka touched his lips. It hit his tongue in a bitter rush before scorching a trail through his chest.
His empty stomach tightened when the alcohol hit it. He rolled over onto his back, feet sticking out of the open door. The soothing poison hit his blood stream, a warm flush travelling up his neck and spreading across his cheeks.
Greg thought about Chris at the BCPD station, getting worked over by Detective Bowers. He wanted to drive down there and save him from the worst night of his life, but knew he was powerless. His days of easy access to the local police were over, especially with Officer Bob out of the picture. All he could do was wait. He knew Junior and Eddie would be parked in the lobby at the station all night. Greg planned to stay right where he was, away from the people who might try to get between him and his booze.
He sat up, bringing the bottle to his lips again. The brown paper crinkled in his fist when he took another pull. His cheeks felt numb as he swished the clear liquid around, savoring the sickly burn. He stood up to push through the back gate, stumbling into the garage. It felt like coming home. He locked the door, drew the blinds, and left the lights off. The darkness engulfing him paled in comparison to the darkness he craved.
Chapter 18
Greg rolled over, knocking the empty bottle to the floor. It bounced and skidded, spinning to a stop. The high-pitched, hollow sound drew unwanted attention to his skull-crushing headache. He groped blindly for a glass of water, finding a second bottle of vodka instead. The sound of the cap cracking was twice as sweet the second time around.
He struggled to sit up, bringing relief to meet his lips. The thick coating on his tongue lessened the sting, but it still tasted like failure flowing down his throat. The first drink soothed his throbbing temples. The second cleared his mind. The third would have to wait until after the nausea passed.
Greg’s phone started ringing across the room, but he ignored it. The early morning sun poked through a crack in the blinds as his head dropped back down to the pillow. He rolled to his side, grabbing Tommy’s book. It’d sat on his lap the previous night, begging to be opened. He resisted the temptation then, but felt compelled to read more now—in the golden moment between being hungover and staying drunk.
He opened to the dog-eared page in the “I Am Tim” chapter, his eyes landing on a random paragraph.
The final BCC tour ended sixth months after their second album was released. In that time, they traveled across the United States and Canada seven times, zigzagging all over the map to play more than one hundred and fifty shows. Suffice to say everybody in the band was exhausted, but nobody more so than straight-edged Greg; by the time they got back to Southern California, the other members of the band had all developed serious heroin addictions. Of the three, Tim was reportedly the worst. “Dude had some kind of bu
ilt in radar for dope. We’d be playing a random basement show in the middle of nowhere and he’d disappear for an hour or two. But he always came back with the goods. Of course, that didn’t mean he was willing to share,” said Marco Johnson.
To say the relationship between Greg and the rest of the band was strained would be a gross understatement. They stopped communicating completely, right at the moment they were supposed to be getting ready to make a third record. So Greg took matters into his own hands, working with new manager Mikey Fitzgerald to carry on without Tim, Marco, and JJ. Fitzgerald was a high school friend who got a business degree before deciding to try his hand at management. He would go on to marry Greg’s high school sweetheart, Edie “Junior” Williams. They had one child together, a son named Chris.
Although Fitzgerald managed BCC prior to Greg deciding to go solo, his influence was not really felt until after the last tour. “Mikey never liked Tim. He was a fast talker, always hustling for a quick buck. Christ, I still can’t believe I fell for it,” Williams said. “Mikey really wanted to make a name for himself. He thought people like Tim were obstacles. I don’t think he ever really cared about Greg’s career, it was just an easy way to make his mark.”
Greg soon stopped talking to the rest of BCC at Fitzgerald’s urging, all while hiring a new line-up of musicians. This perceived betrayal hit Tim right between the eyes. “These days everybody talks about Tim like he was some junkie messiah, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. He was a screwed-up kid with a serious drug problem, trying to hold his life together like most of the rest of us,” Williams said. “What happened to him—whatever you want to believe about how he died—it happened because of the life he led, the decisions he made. Any one of us could have ended up like him and that’s who you’d be asking these questions about now. I remind myself of that all the time; one wrong decision, a little bad luck, and I am Tim.”
Greg let the book fall to the floor and took a pull from the bottle. He was sitting up when the garage door swung open. Kristen loomed there, Timmy on her hip.