by Greg Rucka
I laughed and he grinned even bigger, and then I got in the elevator and went up to eighteen. There was no one in the car and no one in the hall, and I rang the bell beside Graham’s door, and waited. There was no music coming from inside, which was strange, because normally when Graham was home, he was playing something, usually a new band, usually someone none of us had ever heard before.
Graham answered the door, looking like he’d had some rest and wasn’t planning on any company coming by. He was in purple Adidas workout pants and a white V-necked silk shirt, and he was barefoot.
“Mimserama!”
“Hey, can I come in?”
He threw a glance over his shoulder, into the main room, then reached a hand for my shoulder, to guide me inside. The gesture popped a sudden memory of the Parka Man’s gloves on my arms and face, and I stepped back without thinking. Graham looked confused, but before he could voice it I went past him.
“Guy downstairs said you had company,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, it’s not a problem. You’ve met them, I think.” Graham edged around me, leading down the hall and gesturing into the main room, where his lifestyle was plain for any and all to see. He had a wide-screen Philips monitor mounted on the wall, between two arched windows that looked out into downtown, and two huge Klipsch speakers at the far corners of the room. The stereo setup was NAD and multicomponent, each piece seated gently in a chrome cabinet. The space was open, with low furniture, all modular, all vaguely Danish.
Detective Marcus had been standing at one of the three CD racks, examining the titles. Hoffman was on the couch. Both now directed their attention to me.
Graham continued past, saying, “You guys know Mim, of course, talked to her already. They just dropped by for a few questions.”
He told the last to me, adding a little shrug, as if to say that it all seemed silly to him.
“Miss Bracca,” Marcus said. “Pleasant surprise.”
“You and me both.”
Hoffman didn’t say anything.
“I can come back,” I told Graham.
“No, we’re pretty much finished here,” Marcus said, before Graham could answer. “We’ll be going now. Thanks for your help, Mr. Havers.”
“Hey, anything to assist, you know how that is.”
“You’d be surprised what a minority you’re in.”
Graham made a comment about being grateful for the police in general, then headed back down the hall, to get the door. Marcus followed, wishing me a good day, and Hoffman came last, but she stopped as she was passing me.
“Rough night?” she asked.
It took me a second to realize she was talking about the cut on my head. I tried to fumble out my prepared lie, but I didn’t need it, because she’d already continued on her way. I watched her and Marcus shake Graham’s hand, and then they left, and he shut the door after them.
“No idea what the hell that was about,” he told me cheerfully when he came back. “Just dropped by, wanted to know if I had any idea about anything about your brother or those pictures. Wanted a list of possible enemies, shit like that. I told them every unsigned guitarist. Then they asked for disgruntled employees. I told them I’d try to get them something, but the way Van is, that list would be fifty pages long.”
“Just for the tour managers,” I said.
He nodded, grinning, then focused on me, concerned. “What happened to your head? You take a spill?”
“A bad one.”
“Were you loaded, Mimser?”
“No. I’m just a klutz.”
He laughed. “I love it, an Oregonian using Yiddish. Klutz. You’re not a klutz, kiddo. You want something, I’ve got stuff in the fridge, I’ve got some chai and some of those energy drinks that you and Van were chugging on the road. Bought a damn flat of the stuff, and I can’t stand it. Taurine, what kind of fucking flavor is taurine?”
“It’s kinda citrus,” I said. “I don’t need anything.”
“God, I do. I’ve got an ounce and a half of coke in the bathroom, I was gonna wet myself when that Hoffman one asked if she could use my facilities. Don’t think she noticed it, though.”
“You left it out on the counter?”
“Hell, no, it’s in my shaving kit.”
Graham left me laughing and went into the kitchen, then came right back, opening a can of soda. He flopped on the couch, and waved at me to take any seat I wanted.
“You hear the latest?” he asked me. “Nothing for Free is at seven, and Scandal just hit forty-nine. Our illustrious sponsor called me this morning, offering to tack on another twenty-five dates.”
“You going to take them?”
Graham chugged his soda like it was water, then lowered the can and began drumming one of his irregular beats on its side, staring at me. I wondered if he was actually on the coke he’d been talking about.
“Talked to Van about the albums, didn’t talk to her about the dates yet, there’s an issue, kind of, but maybe you should talk to her.”
“There’s an issue?”
“There’s a request, it’s not an issue, it’s a request that if they do add the dates, they add them with you back on the stage, not with Clay.”
“Oh.”
Graham swept on, ignoring the awkwardness. “I got a call, there’s a company down in L.A. called Muze Media, they put out videos, you know, the kind you see advertised on the cable outlets, late-night. Sexy Coeds in New Orleans Show You Their Hooters and shit like that, but they’re asking if we have any home video, maybe from the tour, anything like that. They’ll package and sell it, they’re offering a sweet deal on that.”
“We don’t have anything like that.”
“The Midwest stuff, this past summer, on the bus, Click had a camera, we were all passing it around, you remember, right? You and Van and Click all goofing around, making your home movie. You know who has that tape? Do you have it?”
“I’d think Click does.”
“I’ll have to call him.” He drained his soda, then began working the can in one hand, making the aluminum pop and crinkle. He was staring out the window, or maybe at the window, and his expression went a little blank, as if he was totaling figures in the spreadsheet of his mind.
“Hey, Graham?” I said.
“What? Sorry, honey, just thinking, you know.”
“Yeah, listen. I need some money.”
“You have money. You have more than some money.”
“Yeah, but I need cash,” I said. “It’s hard to explain, but there’s a purchase I need to make, and I have to do it by the end of the week, and the bank, they can’t get me the cash in time. But I was thinking, you’ve got cash, and you always said it was our cash.”
“You mean the Mad Road Money? Yeah, that’s Tailhook’s, that’s not mine. I’ve got a couple grand here, if that’ll do it, but I’d think the bank could cover that. How much you need, baby?”
“Four hundred thousand,” I said.
Graham stopped working the can and stared at me. “Come again?”
“I know it’s a lot.”
He continued to stare at me, and all of his nervous energy was gone. “Why do you need four hundred thousand dollars in cash, Mim?”
“Like I said, I’m buying this thing and—”
“What thing?”
“Property, it’s in Lake Oswego, near the water. Secluded, but it’s one of those private communities, you know, and they’re nervous about me moving in, because of everything and all. But if I can pay this guy in ready cash, he’s willing to sell to me.”
“You’re dumping your place?”
“It’s just . . . the cameras and everything, Graham, it’s just been too much, you know?”
“But you put so much work into that place.”
“I know, I know, but I can’t . . . I can’t stay there. And Lake Oswego, you know, it’s quiet, it’s real secluded. If I pay this guy in cash, then maybe the press won’t find out about it. I could use a place
like that.”
He was wavering, I could see it.
“Be a good place for me to dry out.”
That was the push, and it took. “I can see that. But four hundred, Mimser, I’ve never carried a quarter that much. I can free up about a hundred, hundred fifty thousand.”
“I’ll write you a check.”
“Yeah, and you should talk to Van, too. She watches the money and she’ll want to know why I’m spraying cash like a stuck cow. Pig. Whatever it is that sprays when it’s stuck.”
“Normally a pig,” I said.
“You need it when?”
“By Friday. I have to meet this guy Friday noon, so if I can get it no later than Friday morning, that’d be great.”
“Yeah, I can do that,” Graham said, after a second. “We’re leaving tomorrow evening, but I should be able to get it to you before then.”
I got up and went and gave him a kiss on the lips, just a thanks. “You’re a saint.”
“You’re gonna have to talk to Van, you know. You should ask her at the party tonight.”
“I’m not going.”
“I know it’s soon after the funeral, but it could cheer you up.”
“I don’t think I’d be comfortable.”
“Mim, you’re part of the band, honey. Van loves you, she’s just being a hard-ass because she cares. That thing in Sydney, that’s not what this is about, that’s just the symptom, you know. Van’s got voice and she’s got presence, and even she knows that it’s worth shit if she doesn’t have you giving her a way to use them. We all want you back, we all want you healthy and happy, not . . . you know.”
“The way I am now?”
He crinkled the can again. “You should go, baby, at least stop by.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll be there. Click’ll be there. Be a chance to talk about these new dates, too. You tell Van what you told me, about this place, this Oswego lakeside-rehab-hideaway you’re buying, she might think that’s a big step, might lift her anti-Bracca embargo.”
“You think?”
“It’s what she says, it’s about the band. Getting you onstage, that’d be good for the band,” Graham said. “You should go.”
I told him I’d think about it, and let him hug me before I went out the door. Graham’s hugs are small things, as if he’s afraid that pushing his body against yours would be too sexual, would somehow corrupt the manager-talent relationship. But he gave me a good squeeze this time, as if to say that he knew I was fighting the good fight, that he was in my corner.
I headed out, back to the car, thinking that all I needed now was a quarter of a million dollars in cash, and that either Van or Click could easily provide it. Click was probably the safer bet. But Graham would talk to Van, tell her what I was doing, and if I didn’t then go to her, she could shut the whole thing down, at least for the time being. So Click wasn’t going to be an option.
The clock said it was almost four-thirty, and if I headed out to Lake Oswego now, I’d get swamped by traffic, and it’d take an hour, at the least. Which meant I’d arrive as Van was preparing for her party, something I didn’t want to do, because a party, to Van, was like a show. She wouldn’t want to be distracted before the curtain went up.
So I headed home, thinking that what was best for the band wasn’t always what was best for the performers, and wondering what I should wear.
CHAPTER 26
Van’s place was custom all the way, built in the hills of Lake Oswego, about twenty minutes southeast of Portland when the traffic was behaving. Lake Oswego once upon a very long time ago was big with loggers and cowboys and pioneers who wandered west on the Oregon Trail. Now it was big with money, fringed with upper middle class, an exceptionally white neighborhood in an already very white state, where urban professionals moved their families because the thought of raising those same families in the city made their bowels go loose. The Big Wealth surrounded the actual Oswego Lake, in houses shrouded in trees, with boat docks and views without neighbors.
Van’s house was still experiencing growing pains; like me, Van had been dumping money into her home ever since the tour began. Unlike me, though, Van had started from scratch, buying the property, then leveling the structure that stood on it. She’d had all sorts of headaches from the local homeowners and the county—Lake Oswego is in Clackamas County, unlike Portland, which is in Multnomah—but in the end, being Van, she’d won out. Her lawyers shouted louder, perhaps. Or maybe she just crooned at them with the mike.
Whatever the case, when I pulled up, I could see that the majority of the work had been completed. The house was bilevel, built onto the slope, so that the entry floor was actually the second, with another below, closer to the water. The drive down from the road dipped sharply before winding through the trees, and it provided a nice curtain of anonymity. But when I hit the bottom of the drive I could see the lights on, and over the Jeep’s engine, I could hear the music. There were already two dozen cars parked all around and along the driveway, and I could see some late-arriving guests making last-minute adjustments in rearview mirrors.
I parked and got out, and the music was louder. Van was still on the Radiohead kick. The song was “You and Whose Army?”
Seemed a fair question, and I just stood by my Jeep for a couple minutes, smoking a cigarette and trying to screw up my courage as each new arrival pulled up. “Keeping it small” meant only about fifty to seventy-five people were expected. Van’s really big parties drew more than two hundred. Sometimes it seemed like the only thing you needed to get invited was to be able to find the place on a map.
I didn’t want to ask Van for money. I didn’t want to be at a party. I didn’t, especially, want to be at one of Van’s parties. The last one I’d attended had been the night before we’d left on the most recent leg of the tour, and I’d spent almost the entire night getting drunk out on the balcony, throwing things into the lake.
“Mim?”
It was Click, and he’d come up behind me, and the surprise had my heart checking the exits. If he’d bothered to dress up for the party, I couldn’t tell. Maybe he’d changed to his really good Winterhawks jersey. The Chuckies were still mismatched.
“Just me,” he said mildly.
“You.”
“I said your name twice, nothing.”
“Lost in thought.”
He came up beside me with a chuckle, looking at the house and pulling his rolling kit from his back pocket. “You’ve got a lot of those to be lost in at the best of times.”
“Goes with being The Brains.”
“I’m just the central nervous system, I wouldn’t know about that.” Click rolled himself a cigarette, and I lit it for him, and he thanked me and blew out a plume. “Surprised you came.”
“I need to talk to Van.”
“You’re not going to change her mind. I already tried.”
“It’s not about the band.”
“No? Then you better get to her early. She’s gonna be busy tonight.”
“Fleet week already?”
Click made a grunting noise, like I’d socked him. “Rose Festival’s not until summer, you know that. Might want to check your claws at the door.”
I dropped my butt and stomped it out. He was right; if I was already this defensive and Van wasn’t even present, things weren’t likely to go well once we got face to face. I was going to have to get that under control, and fast.
“Heard about the album?” Click asked.
“Graham says it’s at seven.”
“Must feel strange to you. Feels fucking strange to me.”
“It does,” I agreed.
He was still watching the house, smoking his hand-rolled. “Don’t change the fact that it’s a good album.”
“Guess not.”
“Might want to keep that in mind, that’s what I mean.” He flicked his cigarette down the driveway, toward the house, and it sizzled out in a puddle. Then he offered me his arm. “Let’s wo
w the little people, what do you say?”
“How can I refuse?”
“Oh, hey, so it turns out we’re sleeping together,” he told me when we were halfway down the walk.
“No shit?”
“Turns out that’s why you’re on hiatus. We had a messy breakup, you and me. Apparently I’m seeking solace with Van.”
“Brutal.”
“Tell me about it.”
A haze of smoke was leaking out of the house as we reached the door, a mix of cigarette and pot, and the music was louder, almost to the point of distortion. We stepped into a crowd of men and women, most of them in our age group, and I instantly realized the small-party estimate had been off, and that there must have been more cars parked outside than I had noticed.
There were hip-hopsters and punkers and retro grungers and people like me and Click, who’d decided that what we wore would be what we wore. I’d defaulted to my band outfit, just cargo pants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt, but only because it was too cold to wear the tank.
A couple of people shouted at us when we entered, waving hands or bottles, but their voices were swamped by the music, and Click and I just smiled and waved back. He dropped my arm and shouted in my ear.
“I’m gonna get a liquid. Catch you later?”
“I’ll be around,” I shouted back.
Click headed in the most likely direction of the kitchen. I worked my way past the entry crowds, down the stairs to the main room on the lower floor. Several people broke their conversations to watch me pass, and most even said hello. What they were actually thinking as I passed was anyone’s guess.
The living room space was a cavern, two stories high and long, and most of the party had moved there, doing nothing to defeat the size of the room. Another stereo was going down here, fighting with the music playing above, blasting dance remixes. A cluster near the far wall writhed, shimmied, and ground to the beat. On a big-screen television, one of the guests was playing a video game. The volume on that was cranked up, and the explosions on the screen seemed to keep fairly good time with the surrounding music.
Graham was with the dance contingent, grooving away, and he saw me come off the stairs and raised a hand, and I raised one back, then did a double take. My eyes were playing tricks. I looked hard, saw it again, and this time I was certain.