The intercom fell silent—for so long that Clay began to relax, thinking the woman had tired of them and gone about her day. Now they could depart and do the same.
Then the sturdy gate jumped on its hinges and lurched inward. “Park in the courtyard,” the voice barked. “Knock at the first door you see.”
Clay did as instructed, pulling into a wide area filled with wax-bright sports cars and high-end SUVs. The property was such a contrast to Roethke’s dumpy trailer that it felt like they’d traveled to another planet. The house before them had rounded corners and “windows” made of opaque glass blocks; and its white stucco walls were spotless and unbearably bright in the sun. To Clay, it looked as if a talented, but troubled architect had designed the place, then misplaced the master plans and worked from random, medicated inspiration. From the courtyard’s perspective, the house didn’t appear to be more than a single story; built into the steep side of the hill, the walls ran to the very edge of the slope and disappeared over like a structural waterfall.
And there seemed to be doors everywhere, six in plain sight, none identified as the formal entrance, and Clay worried they would choose the wrong one and incur the surly female’s wrath.
He was drawn to one in particular—a heavy wooden door that might have guarded a Bavarian castle in another life. Savy yanked the pull-chain bell and a moment later the intercom voice materialized in the person of the blonde who’d been on Davis’s arm the night before. Kiss Kiss, Roethke had called her. In the daylight, the woman seemed less like a gothic Barbie doll, more akin to a plastic surgeon’s blunder. Cheekbones set too high; Botoxed lips; a nose thin and sharp enough to carve aluminum. Her corn-blond hair was piled into a makeshift beehive and her epic breasts stretched the screen print of her U2 shirt, fracturing Bono’s face right down the middle. She stood aside to reveal a white-marble foyer like Heaven’s waiting room. “You must’ve put on a helluva show,” Kiss Kiss told Clay. “I wouldn’t know. I was in the girl’s room, taking a dump for most of it.”
“Where’s the Activia when you need it?” Savy quipped.
Kiss Kiss ignored her, addressing Clay directly. “Davis and the band couldn’t stop talking about you on the bus home. They’re the most hetero boys I’ve ever met, but you made them sound like a a bunch of West Hollywood queens.”
Unaccustomed to praise, in any form, Clay was at a loss. “Well, uh, we’re still polishing a lot of our material.”
Kiss Kiss laughed out loud—though Clay didn’t know at what—and led them along a wide corridor full of gritty modern paintings in the tradition of Basquiat and Julian Schnabel. Originals, probably. They located one staircase, then another, descending the waterfall of the house; and the floors and rooms grew larger the lower they went. They drifted past various displayed oddities, items that—Kiss Kiss informed them—Karney had purchased on a whim from catalogs and estate sales: a knight’s armor, a cigar-store Indian, a lard-ass Bob’s Big Boy, an ancient bust of Roman emperor Caligula (likely genuine, given the missing nose and dominatrix alarm collar), and an eight-foot wax figure of a nude potbellied woman carrying a wax baby with Davis Karney’s face in her arms. “Davis is real excited to see you,” Kiss Kiss went on. Again she spoke directly to Clay at the expense of Savy, who trailed at a considerable distance. As unskilled as Clay was at deciphering the complexities of female interaction, even he couldn’t miss that, with Savy and Kiss Kiss, it was hate at first sight.
They hurried past rooms both artfully designed and unapologetically trashed—the kitchen sleek with stainless-steel and rife with fly-hovering leftovers; the living room full of sectional sofas, made impenetrable by mountains of laundry and shattered bottles. Kiss Kiss was moving quickly, but through one doorway Clay thought he spied a room with stained glass and a John Deere ride-on mower.
At last, they arrived on the bottom floor, where floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unbroken view to the south—Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and the skyscrapers of downtown L.A. in a brilliant panorama that was only a little choked with smog. Kiss Kiss brought them to a door adorned with a sign that said yes, we really do want you to fuck off!, and without knocking, she threw it open and told Clay, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m no good without my morning bath…”
Clay was tempted to point out that it was well after one in the afternoon, but held off. “You’re not like the usual goons Davis brings over,” Kiss Kiss allowed. She rubbed Clay’s hairless cheek, and her eyes shifted subtly to gauge Savy’s response.
Sadly Savy wasn’t offended in the least. Or was she only playing it cool? When they entered the studio and were alone again, she whispered, “See? Plow a couple of those Amazons and you’ll know you’ve arrived.”
By then they had caught sight of the equipment in Karney’s studio—the first-rate Mesa/Boogie amps and Steinway piano, the glassed-in vocals booth and state-of-the-art recording booth—and Clay’s butterflies churned. Another of Roethke’s custom drum kits was parked in one corner. And a long row of no less than ten high-end guitars stood at attention, some covered in dust. In the palace of a rock star, Clay thought, and we’re here to accuse him of murder.
They wandered the studio like patrons at a museum, staring at everything, touching nothing. “Hello?” Savy finally called.
And after a long beat, someone unseen called back: “I agree. Hell is very low.”
It reminded Clay of the first time he’d heard Boyle, a specter’s voice reaching across an unknown distance. The voice of the dead. It seemed to originate behind a door at the back of the studio. The room beyond appeared to be dark, except for the shifting glow of television light around the door frame. Clay looked to Savy who, wielding her usual self-confidence, advanced down the short hall to give the door a shove.
Davis Karney was there, crashed out in a recliner, watching TV in a pair of striped, domestic-looking pajamas. His piercings and top hat were gone and his shoulder-length hair was tied back, so that in the TV glow he could have passed for an unfortunate-looking accountant.
The room itself was some kind of lounge, a place where musicians could hang between recording sessions, play cards, smoke up, and burn—
Incense.
Incense hung heavy on the air in here, as pervasive as anything in the mystic shops of Venice. A flowery stench covering something else. Something chemical. Clay couldn’t put his finger on it. But the incense and under-scent, coupled together, burned his nose and eyes.
Karney didn’t acknowledge them as they entered, transfixed as he was on the images flashing on his giant screen. He was alone, no bodyguards, no Nelson the Pencil, and he had one hand on the remote and the other in a death grip around a bottle of Jack. So much for the AA meetings, Clay thought. He and Roethke were going to have quite a tour ahead of them.
Snorting at the incense, Savy made an attempt to thank Karney for seeing them, but he only shook the bottle to hush her, liquid sloshing under the tide of his fist. “Haven’t watched this in years,” he croaked tunelessly. “I thought you might like to see it before it gets destroyed.”
There was something not right about his tone. Still, when Karney motioned them in, Clay and Savy obeyed, angling for a glimpse of the screen.
The image playing there was a grainy one—a home-movie shot from a stationary camcorder across a dark room. Long tallow candles burned in the dark, and in their peripheral light two figures—a man and a woman—seemed to be fighting, struggling against each other. “What is this?” Savy asked.
“Watch,” Karney croaked.
Clay did, feeling anxious for some reason. A moment later the fog in his mind lifted—as he recognized the room onscreen, the arrangement of the furniture… and the infamous chandelier, the candlelight reflected in its crystal adornments.
This video had been recorded on his own property.
It had been shot inside the Generator.
As the figures moved closer to the camera lens, it didn’t look like they were fighting anymore; they were naked and their mouths were
joined, their flesh flickering in the intimate candle hue—and suddenly Clay’s heart leapt skyward, seeing the female’s face.
“Oh, God,” he gasped.
Onscreen Rocco Boyle and Deidre McGee were alive.
And finally Karney glanced up to acknowledge Savy and Clay. “Those two couldn’t get enough of each other. After they were dead, Boyle’s people found a whole library of homemade porn. So the story goes.”
Overwhelmed by the flowery incense, Clay’s mind was stuck in an ever-hardening glue of confusion. At his side, Savy was mute, stunned at the sight of Rocco and Deidre in the flesh.
Onscreen, Deidre bent herself over the couch and Boyle positioned himself lustfully behind her. Feeling perverted and embarrassed, Clay wanted to look away. Or storm out of the room. He did neither as Karney unmuted the audio, so they could hear the dirty pillow talk.
“You were there that night,” Savy managed, “weren’t you, Davis?”
“Shhhh,” the rock star hissed. His Adam’s apple bobbed rapidly, sucking from the bottle. “The killer’s about to make his entrance.”
He was right. As Boyle and Deidre lost themselves in their lovemaking, another figure appeared on the outer edges of the candle glow. He was wearing all black, his face paper-white. In the soft light, he looked younger than the man lounging in the recliner, much younger, but the comparison was unmistakable. Davis Karney had transported himself back in time to stand in the Generator and watch Boyle and Deidre with eyes that were neither repulsed nor aroused.
“Rooster,” Clay said. “That’s what they called you.”
And Karney cock-a-doodled and immediately broke up in a spasm of wet coughs. “Huk-huk! Rooster—huk!—that’s a name I thought I’d buried. Isn’t it a-huk-mazing how the past, huk-huk-huk, creeps back on you?” He flopped back in his recliner and that was when Clay spotted what was stashed on the far side of the room. The fire-red canisters. Six of them in all. The under-smell was easy to identify after that.
Shit! Holy shit! “Sav,” Clay whispered. “Savy, we have to split. Right now.”
She followed his gaze, understood.
“Kerosene,” Karney confirmed. “Growing up in Kentucky, I was a little pyro. Huk-huk! Burnt down my family’s barn and killed three horses. Did you read my autobiography?”
Clay and Savy were silent.
“Of course not. But you’ve read every line of every one of Boyle’s books, haven’t you?” Karney shook his head and didn’t bother waiting for an answer. “That’s fucking life for you. Always living in a shadow. Well, if you’d bothered reading the first chapter of For Unlawful Karney Knowledge, you’d know how killing those horses broke my heart. I learned my lesson about playing with fire. Except—guess what? That was a lot of bullshit my ghostwriter added. Because my heart soared when my daddy found their carcasses. Huk-huk! Goddamn things had no love for anyone unless there was food in your hand. And fire’s always been good to me. Ever been to one of my shows? Of course you have—’cause I don’t have to compete with Rocco Boyle for ticket sales. The masses have to see someone for their rock fix, don’t they? So you’ll recall there’s always a pyrotechnics display. And don’t forget the ‘McGorgeous’ video where everyone’s running on fire. I’ve a guy on my payroll who literally gets paid to play with matches. He’s turned me on to all kinds of flammable liquids and jellies. But it’s lowbrow kerosene I love most—’cause it reminds me of Daddy dragging those burnt Morgans out of the barn. I’ve stockpiled gallons. Just waiting. Huk-huk-huk! For a visit like yours.”
With mounting dread, Clay glanced back toward the exit and saw his wet footsteps on the floor. “The room’s lined with the stuff,” Karney said. “It’s on the walls, in the ducts. One spark and we’ll all qualify for the Freddy Krueger lookalike contest.”
“Listen, man, there must be some mistake,” Savy stammered. “We only came to get your autograph.” She squeezed Clay’s arm and started towing him toward the exit.
And for a moment, Clay thought her nonchalance would work.
“Don’t fucking think about it.” Karney dropped the TV remote and lifted a gun. It was silver and compact, and it shined in the same devilish hue as the candles on TV. Karney bared his teeth and pointed it right at Savy’s face.
“No, no, no.” Clay stepped forward, standing in the way. “Be cool. Please. We’re not whoever you think we are.”
“I know exactly who you are!” Karney screamed back. “And WHO sent you! Now you’re both going to—huk-huk—stand here and watch the rest of this—and you’re going to know exactly what happened to them before you do a thing to me.”
The fear sat in Clay’s gut like a meal gone wrong. His eyes shifted helplessly to Savy, who was studying the weapon in Karney’s hand. Slowly her expression shifted from fear to a bold hardness. “I’ve seen a few pieces in my time,” she said. “Enough to spot a fake—”
Karney pulled the trigger. Clay flinched. A three-inch flame emerged, rising straight out of the barrel. A cigarette lighter. “Good eye, bitch. But you haven’t been listening. I don’t want to shoot you, I want to burn you. All I need is to drop this in my lap and the house and those platinum records upstairs and Kiss Kiss in her bath and me and the two of you are totally, irrevocably fucked.”
It was true—Davis Karney had saved the last canister to douse himself and the cushions of his recliner. And yet, despite his righteous tone, his body was trembling, his terror palpable. As if he was the victim here.
“No one sent us, Davis,” Clay insisted. “We’re not going to hurt you. So please don’t—”
A woman screamed and they all jumped, thinking Kiss Kiss had entered the room to witness the death trap. Except the scream had come from the television. From Deidre. She and Boyle had switched sexual positions, and she’d spotted the man in the shadows.
The intercourse was over quickly after that. Boyle withdrew from his lover and swung around to confront what had scared her. Their backs and buttocks faced the camera, bare and vulnerable-looking, while their visitor waded into the candle glow. “Rooster?” Boyle said.
The younger Karney’s face wore no expression. “All those backstage whores weren’t lying, were they? You’re hung like a damn stallion.” Boyle stood his ground, while Deidre faded behind his torso. “We had a good thing going,” Karney said. “You serviced those sweet little bitches in your way, then I serviced them in mine.”
“That’s over now,” Boyle replied in the smoky baritone that Clay knew well. “I’ve quit the scene. Deidre too.”
“You said so before. And you came back.”
“I know, believe me. But it’s real this time. I’m clean forever.”
Karney gave the bitterest of grins. “Which leaves me where? Before you, I was risking my life to sell to the dregs of the earth. With you, I’m respectable. I have a condo in Santa Monica. My girlfriend’s a Russian model. You can’t go back to meth skanks after you’ve had classy snatch like that. So how about me? You didn’t even think about me, did you?”
“The clients I’ve gotten you through the years—you couldn’t hang on to any?”
“You know the biz. I lose my star and the whole solar system pushes away.”
“Rooster, wait outside,” Boyle told him, and though he was calm, his body language suggested the hospitality was over. “Let my girl get dressed, then we’ll discuss this.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes. You are.” Boyle took an angry step toward the smaller man, meaning to grab his shirt or neck or hair and drag him out the rude way. And that was when Karney lifted his gun—the very same one, Clay noticed, that was being held on him right now.
Deidre gasped and pulled Boyle back. “I’ll shoot you if I have to, Roc,” Rooster said.
“Listen, baby, he’s right.” Deidre gripped Boyle by the shoulders, speaking in that high, fierce voice that Clay still heard in his nightmares. “He deserves something. Some, you know, severance pay.”
“Right,” Rocco said, pic
king the idea up. “My safe’s in the library, second floor, behind my Mysteries of the Unknown books. Take all the cash you find. While we’re at it, I’ve still got that ’68 Firebird you dig. Why don’t I sign her over? You can go anywhere you want.”
“Where would I go?” Karney wondered. “I’m from motherfucking Bardstown. I came here to live my dreams. The drug slinging was supposed to be temporary, till I got a band going. I want to be a star. I want to be you. But you can’t give that to me.”
“No,” Deidre told him. “Only a lot of talent and luck can do that.”
Karney cocked his head at Boyle. “Really? That how you made it big, Roc? You said your prayers, took your vitamins, and won the rock-n-roll lottery? Or did you never tell this little squeaky-voiced cunt how you got your start?”
Gun or not, Boyle had heard enough. You didn’t need to see his face to know; it was there in the flex of his back muscles, lifting like an angry dog’s hide. “Call her that again, and I’ll make you uglier than you are.”
“You really are so square now,” Karney laughed.
“If you don’t want money, what are you after? The names and numbers of every record exec in town?”
“Oh, it’s not about what I want, Rocco. That will come later.”
From his black hoodie, Karney produced a small leather bag—what looked like a basic shaving kit, but what Mo Marquez, or any junkie past or present, would have recognized in a heartbeat. Deidre’s own buttocks went taut at the sight of it. “Forget it!” she shouted.
“You can tell the world you’ve changed,” Karney went on, “maybe you even believe it yourself. But we’re always the same person inside, no matter how hard we fight.”
He tossed the bag at Boyle.
“I spent the first twenty-six years of my life believing that was true,” Boyle said. “It’s bullshit though. People can change. They do change. None of us are doomed to a fate.”
Karney turned his contemptuous gaze on Deidre. “He’s acting this way for you, you know?” His stare wandered her body. “You’re easy on the eyes, no argument. But this is Rocco-fucking-Boyle. I’ve watched gorgeous women fall to their knees to kiss his feet. He could be with any of them, or all of them. The only reason he’s true to you is because he’s felt everything in life but L-O-V-E.” Karney swung the gun from Boyle’s stomach to Deidre’s head. “But if he doesn’t open my spike-bag, I’m going to change him a lot faster than you ever could.”
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