"Great. The door's unlocked."
She stood back for me. I wondered if she could tell how angry I was at hearing his voice. Four years of rage, of betrayal. I wanted to rip the knob off and flatten the door on my way inside, where I'd grab him and begin beating him to death.
But he was quicker than I was. He stood in the open door, all black-clad rock star, smiling camera-big and camera-bright. He'd learned that smirking with your mouth made you enemies. Now he tucked his smirks into his dark eyes. He took a step forward and I thought he was actually going to give me a Hollywood man-hug, but he obviously sensed that that might not be such a good idea so he settled for waving me in. The small room held a large closet, a makeup table with the mirror encircled by small bright bulbs, and several vases stuffed with red congratulatory roses.
"Close the door, would you?” he said.
"You want it closed, you close it."
He walked over to the dressing table and hoisted a bottle of Jack Daniel's Black. “I'm sure you'd rather have this than all that sissy-boy wine they're serving. You get some Jack, I get the door closed. That's how the world works, Rafferty."
I kicked it shut with my heel.
"Nice to know you've grown up,” he said, not looking at me, pouring each of us healthy drinks.
"What the hell you want to see me about?"
The eye smirked as the hand offered me my drink. “We didn't leave on the best of terms. Maybe I feel guilty about things."
"Oh, man. Spare me this crap, all right? You dumped us because you knew we were going to get a contract and then you'd have to share the spotlight with us. You wanted it all your own."
The sharpness of his laugh surprised me. The contempt was bullet-true. “God, Rafferty, do you really believe that? Please tell me that's not what you really think."
But before I could say anything he went on.
"I stayed a year longer than I should have. I stayed because we went all the way back to grade school. I stayed because we were friends. But Pete's habit got worse and worse and you—” He paused.
"And me? What about me?"
I noticed that the smirk was gone. The gaze was uncomfortable. “You're not the greatest guitarist I've ever worked with."
"I was good enough to write songs with.” But the whine in my voice sickened me as much as it probably pleased him.
"You'll notice I've never recorded any of those songs. Never played them on stage. Never tried to sell them."
"So you called me in here to tell me what a genius you are and what losers Pete and I are?"
"I called you in here to have a drink and to say that I'm sorry for how things were left. It's natural for you to think of me as a bad guy. But I had the right to do what I did. A lot of people leave groups and go out on their own. I didn't commit any mortal sins."
"Maybe not. But you helped destroy Pete."
"Pete was already destroyed. It was just that neither of you would admit it then. I've kept track of him. In and out of rehab. Every time the stays get longer. Every time there's a little bit less of the Pete we grew up with."
The words came out. I didn't say them. In fact I was as shocked as John had to be. “Well, right now there's enough of him left to be off alone somewhere with your wife."
There was a flash of deep pain in the eyes. “I'm well aware of that, Michael. One of my people has been keeping an eye on her for me. Kelly and Pete are in a small office off the balcony. I'm trying not to think about what's going on."
Again he spoke before I could.
"I could stop them. But she needs to get it out of her system. She thinks she's still in love with him. Her one true love. I have everything I've always wanted now, but I'll never have her the way Pete had her. Maybe when she sees him tonight, sees that he's not who he once was—” He shrugged. “But that's kidding myself. She loves the idea of Pete. She knew he was a junkie and that's why she went off with me. But she can't get rid of this idea of him.” He tapped his forehead. “She won't see him as he really is. He'll be the old Pete to her."
I wanted to think that this was just a performance. That way I could enjoy it as simple bad acting. But I knew better. As much as I hated him I knew that he was telling the truth.
"That make you happy, Michael?"
"Yeah. It does. The one thing you can't have. That makes me very happy."
And then, snake-quick, the smirk was back in the eyes. “You like it at Guitar City, do you? I'm told that you're their best salesman."
"Screw yourself."
"You didn't answer my question, Michael. Are you happy at Guitar City?"
* * * *
The girls don't come as easy as I thought they would. You see all these reality shows where girls will do anything to sleep with rockers. But I do all right. A lot better than I was doing before John added me to his band. The money's pretty good, too. I own a ‘57 ‘Vette and when I take it back to the old neighborhoods you'd think the Irish were having St. Patrick's Day.
The touring was cool for the first year, but now it gets to be a drag sometimes. John's letting me play on the next CD. He says that'll keep us in L.A. for at least six months. Cool by me.
Kelly has pretty much willed me out of existence. Even when I'm forced to stand close to her she won't acknowledge me in any way. Everybody in the band notices, obviously. I think they feel sorry for me.
She only came after me once. This was after a gig in Seattle. She'd had a few drinks and right in front of John she slapped me and said, “I know where he got the coke, Michael. You gave it to him. More than enough to kill him. And I know who put you up to it.” She was staring right at John when she said it.
The word is she's staying with him because of the kid. And that may be true. But maybe she's like the rest of us. You know, the whole rock-and-roll thing. She's the belle of the ball, “The Nicole Kidman of Rock,” as People called her recently. And maybe that's how he keeps her. She wouldn't be as hot if she divorced him. More number-one double-platinum CDs. Not even her beauty can match that.
The last time I went back to Chicago I stopped by the halfway house where Pete had last stayed. The woman Natalie? I gave her a check for $2,500 to help with the bills for the house. I thought she'd be real happy about it but she handed it back and walked away.
Late at night I feel bad about it sometimes. But as John always says, maybe we did him a favor. I mean, it wasn't like he was ever going to have a comeback or anything.
©2009 by Ed Gorman
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Fiction: THE MADWOMAN OF USK by Edward Marston
The author of four historical series under his pseudonym Edward Marston, Welsh-born Keith Miles also writes many books and stories using his real name. This new story, set in the Middle Ages, features Gerald of Wales, a sleuth with an uncanny ability to sense the presence of evil. The latest Marston novel out in paperback, Soldier of Fortune, follows 17th-century soldier Daniel Rawson. And don't miss Marston's new hardcover, Murder on the Brighton Express.
* * * *
1188
Of all the gifts with which I've been blessed by the Almighty, none is perhaps as striking as my ability to sense the presence of evil. It's uncanny. I can detect venom behind a benign smile, lust in the loins of a virgin, and blackness in the heart of the outwardly virtuous. The first time I was acquainted with this strange power was when I was still a youth, studying in Paris. One of the many churches I visited harboured such a wondrous collection of holy relics that it had become a place of pilgrimage. Local people and visitors to the city flocked to view the sacred bones, leaving coins beside them as a mark of respect. One old woman, to whom my attention was drawn, came to the church every day to pay homage.
"She's an example to us all,” I was told in a respectful whisper. “Though she's seen seventy summers or more, she never misses her daily visit to the shrine. Behold her, Gerald."
I did as I was bidden and watched her with care. After trudging down the aisle with the help of a stick,
she lowered herself painfully to her ancient knees, dropped a coin onto the pile before her, then bent her head in prayer. There she stayed until the discomfort grew too great. Hauling herself to her feet, she genuflected before the altar, then struggled back down the aisle. It was a touching sight and I was duly moved—until, that is, she passed within a foot of me.
"Isn't she remarkable?” said my companion.
"In some ways, she is,” I conceded.
"Such dedication is inspiring. Truly, she is a species of saint."
I was blunt. “I don't feel that she's ready for canonisation yet."
My comment was felt to be unkind, but I held my ground with characteristic tenacity. I knew something was amiss. Witnessed from a distance, the old woman's commitment was stimulating. She herself had become an object of veneration. When she brushed past me, however, I caught a scent that was less than saintly. Keeping my thoughts to myself, I returned to my studies and lost myself in the beauty of the Scriptures.
On the following day, I made sure that I was in the same church at exactly the same time. The woman was punctual. Through the door she came as the bell of the nearby abbey was signalling tierce. I let her shuffle past me and make her way to the side chapel where the relics were housed. She was so preoccupied with the effort of lowering herself to her knees that she didn't see me sink down a yard away from her. Like me, she deposited a small coin on the altar rail, then lowered her head in prayer. The difference between us was that I kept my eyes open so that I could watch her.
What I saw outraged me. Down went her head and up it came again in a movement so slight as to be invisible to anyone not right beside her. As it went down once more, her lips fastened upon a coin and lifted it up before dropping it into a fold in her gown. Instead of praying to her Maker, she was instead plundering the church. In place of the one coin she had deposited, I counted over a dozen that she took. She was nothing but a common thief. I reported what I'd seen and, though nobody believed me, it was agreed that the old woman would be kept under surveillance the next day. Almost twenty coins were filched by her greedy lips on that occasion. Arrest and retribution soon followed.
I was thanked and congratulated. “How on earth did you spy her out?” I was asked.
"It's a gift from God,” I replied.
"What's your name, young man?"
"Gerald de Barri—though some call me Gerald of Wales."
* * * *
By the time I accompanied Archbishop Baldwin on his journey around my native country to find recruits for the Third Crusade, I was in my early forties and held, among other positions, that of archdeacon of Brecon in the diocese of St. David's. Instances of my remarkable skill in unmasking wrongdoers wherever I went are far too numerous to recount, so I'll merely offer one case that's emblematic of them all. It occurred near Usk and tested my powers to the limit.
Thanks to a sermon by Archbishop Baldwin, an address by that good man William, Bishop of Llandaff, and some stirring words in both Latin and French from myself—my contribution was much admired—a large group of men was signed for the Cross. To the astonishment of all but me, many of those converted were notorious robbers, highwaymen, and horse thieves from the area, evil men who sought to cleanse themselves by taking part in a holy crusade. Their strong arms could now be put to a useful purpose. Before we could make our way to Caerleon, we were diverted by a commotion in Usk itself. I was sent to investigate.
Murder was afoot. Idwal the Harpist, a man renowned for his glorious voice and nimble musicianship, had been a guest at the home of Owain ap Meurig, where he'd entertained the family for three nights. The harpist was due to visit Monmouth Castle, but he never arrived and nobody who lived along the road that would have taken him there had seen him pass by. Idwal had vanished into thin air. Foul play was suspected. It fell to Roger de Brionne to accuse Owain of the crime to his face. Tempers flared up into a veritable inferno.
Nobody is better placed than I to understand the deep hatred and mutual fear that exists between the Welsh and the Norman aristocracy. Born at Manorbier Castle in Dyfed, I'm a man of mixed blood, having kinsfolk from both nations. I share in the privileges of conquest while sympathising, to a lesser extent, with the conquered. When it came to mediating in a dispute between two sworn enemies, Owain and Roger, who could doubt my credentials or match my wide experience? I felt obliged to offer my services.
After prising accused and accuser apart, I first talked to Owain ap Meurig at his house. A local chieftain whose family had held estates in the region for generations, he was a proud, fierce, white-haired man in his sixties with the build and attitudes of a warrior. It took me some time to calm him down and to assure him that—unlike Roger de Brionne—I had no prejudice against the Welsh. He was impressed by the fact that I'd heard Idwal the Harpist and was able to talk knowledgeably about him. The Welsh consider the playing of the harp to be the greatest of all accomplishments. Idwal was without peer.
"I hear that he stayed with you for three nights,” I said.
"That's true,” answered Owain. “He bewitched us all with the magic of his art. My late wife and my niece learned to master the instrument but they could not compare with Idwal."
"Did you see him off at your door?"
"I waved until he was out of sight. He'd delighted us so much that I rewarded him handsomely and pressed him to come again."
"Who else saw him leave?” I asked.
Owain bristled. “Is my word not good enough for you?"
"Of course, my friend—but corroboration is always useful."
"You sound as if you don't believe me."
"I accept your word without question, Owain."
That seemed to reassure him. “Well, then,” he said. “There was someone else who bade him farewell—my niece, Gwenllian. She had cause to be grateful to Idwal. He found time to listen to her playing the harp and favoured her with advice. Gwenllian was thrilled."
"May I speak with her?"
"Is that necessary?"
"I would like to hear what she thought of Idwal's playing."
A defensive look had come into his eye. It was clear that he didn't want me to talk to his niece, yet, at the same time, he calculated that his refusal might count against him, leading to the suspicion that he was trying to hide something. Owain eventually capitulated. He despatched a servant to fetch his niece. Gwenllian soon appeared.
Entering the room out of obedience to her uncle rather than enthusiasm to meet me, she was both wary and slightly fearful, as if fearing a rebuke. She glanced at Owain, at me, then back again at him. When she spoke, her voice was sweet and melodic.
"You wanted me, Uncle?” she enquired politely.
While he explained who I was and why I was there, I took the opportunity to subject the girl to scrutiny. Gwenllian was beautiful. Natural modesty and my vow of celibacy prevents me from going into anatomical detail about a member of the fairer sex. Suffice it to say that I had seen few fairer and none so graceful. Gwenllian could have been no more than seventeen, combining the bloom of youth with a rare maturity. After telling her that she'd nothing to fear, Owain eased her gently towards me.
"I understand that you're a harpist,” I began.
Her laugh was deprecating. “After hearing Idwal play,” she said, “I realise that I'm a mere beginner on the harp. He makes it produce the most enchanting music."
"Which of his songs did you enjoy most?"
It was a clever question, allowing her to lose some of her anxiety as she talked about Idwal's visit. The longer she went on, the more she relaxed and—I duly noted—the more relaxed Owain became. I wasn't there to subject the girl to a rigorous interrogation and he was relieved by that. What I was simply trying to do was to assess her character and disposition. The information I sought was volunteered before I even asked for it.
"Uncle and I waved him off until our arms ached,” she said, smiling at the memory. “Our loss is Monmouth's gain."
I had the feeling that she was rep
eating a phrase that Owain had first used but I didn't hold it against her. Gwenllian had been honest and unguarded. There'd been no dissemblance. I turned back to her uncle with my searching gaze.
"Is there any truth in Roger de Brionne's accusation?” I said.
"None at all!” was the defiant reply.
I believed him and thanked them both for their help. As I took my leave of them, I warned them that I'd probably call on them again before the matter was cleared up. Spreading his arms wide, Owain told me that I was always welcome. As he led me to the front door, I passed close to Gwenllian and had a curious sensation. It was similar to the unease I'd felt in that Parisian church all those years ago. Though I concealed my feelings, I was quite upset. Could this innocent girl have been involved in an evil act?
* * * *
Roger de Brionne owned extensive land to the south of Owain's estates and they'd been arguing about the border between them for years. Each claimed to have had territory stolen by the other. Each swore that his neighbour had rustled livestock from him. It was not my business to sit in judgement on their respective claims. All that concerned me was to decide whether or not a murder had been committed and, if it had, to solve the crime.
Roger was confident he already knew the name of the culprit.
"Owain is a killer!” he yelled at me. “Place him under arrest."
"I've neither the right nor the inclination to do so,” I replied stoutly. “All I've heard so far is wild accusation. I need evidence."
'Then you must search for it."
"Where?"
"Where else but on Owain's land?” he said. “That's where the harpist is buried and where his instrument remains."
"You seem very certain of that."
"I can even tell you where the harp has been hidden."
"Oh?"
"It is somewhere in the stables."
"How do you know that, my Lord?"
"I was told by an informant."
"And did this informant give any motive for the murder?” I wondered. “Because I'm at a loss to find one. I've questioned both Owain and his niece. The two of them worshipped Idwal. Why should Owain want to kill a man who gave him so much pleasure?"
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