“Is your name Mick?” the cop asked. His voice was calm, but his wedge of a jawbone jutted out toward me like an accusing finger. The badge on his cap seemed to shine directly into my eyes.
I blinked. “No.”
“Is he here?”
“Um—” Momentarily confused, I blurted out, “Yeah. But he’s still in bed.” My mind, foggy with sleep moments before, cleared. Was any grass out in the open? Any pipes, roaches? I had slipped in after the others had gone to bed. Who knew what they had left lying around.
The cop craned his neck in an attempt to look above and around me, but I kept my face and frizzed-out hair between him and the interior of the room. He gave up. “Look, sir, we’re with the Puente Harbor Police Department. We need to talk to this Mick person.”
All of a sudden sounds of scurrying feet came from behind me, and I heard Mick hiss out, “Oh, bloody hell.”
Hearing the commotion, the smaller policeman pushed forward. “You need to open up,” he demanded.
“Look,” I said, hoping to stall them while Mick and Sam hid anything that needed hiding, “none of us are dressed. We just woke up. Can’t you hold on a second?”
The smaller cop’s hand moved to his holstered revolver. “Now, sir.”
I turned sideways and swung open the door. The two cops pushed into the room, forcing me back against the door. Mick, naked except for his red bikini underwear, froze near the bathroom door. On the other side of the room, Sam shoved something under the queen bed and straightened up. My eyes flew around, seeing scattered beer cans and a package of rolling papers beside an ashtray on the windowsill. The policemen also scanned the room, but Sam wisely shifted to a spot between them and the ashtray.
“Which one of you is Mick?” the big-jawed cop asked.
Mick and Sam looked at each other for a moment before Sam said, “He is,” pointing across the room.
The cop trained his steely-eyed gaze on Mick. “Is that right?”
Mick faded back against the wall. In his near nakedness, he seemed smaller than usual. “Why do you want me?” His accent was gone.
The big cop stayed put but kept his eyes on Mick. “We need to ask you a few questions. You’ll need to come down to the police station with us.”
“What for?” I shifted off the wall. “What’s he done?”
The two cops exchanged glances. The larger one licked at his mustache and, looking from me to Mick, said, “Someone has lodged a complaint against him. We need to check it out.”
“A complaint?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What kind of a complaint?”
The big cop paused, looked at his partner again, and then said, “Contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”
“Shee-it,” Sam said under his breath.
“And possibly statutory rape,” his partner added, the corner of his lips curling up.
A hiss, like air escaping a balloon, came from Mick’s direction. He slid halfway down the wall, his hands dropping to cover the front of his bikini briefs. I looked from Mick back to the cops just as the big one said, “We need you to get dressed and come down with us.”
“But she—”
I cut Mick off with a wave of my hand. “Can it, Mick. Get dressed and go with them.” I knew anything Mick said would make it harder for him later. And, now noticing a baggie of pot sticking out of one of Sam’s shoes, I wanted to get these cops out of the room as quickly as possible.
“Am I ... am I under arrest?” Mick reached for the glasses lying on the floor beside the bed.
“No, sir,” the big cop answered. “But we’d like to ask you some questions, and your cooperation would be appreciated.”
“Don’t you have to read him his rights?” Sam asked.
Both cops turned toward him. I held my breath, wondering if they’d notice the baggie sticking out of the shoe. “He’ll be advised of his rights,” the big cop said, “before we take his statement.”
“Mick,” I said, “you’d better go with them.”
“And,” the cop said, “please bring some identification with you.”
Mick looked at me and then at Sam before grabbing a pair of jeans and a shirt from the floor and starting to dress. We all stood and watched him go through the fumbling motions of buttoning his fly, pulling on his socks, tying his tennis shoes. Finally finished, he looked at us, his face colorless and devoid of the squinty arrogance that always passed for his charm. “I guess I’m ready.”
The two policemen stepped to either side of the door, and Mick started forward. “Wait,” I said to Mick, “you forgot your jacket.” I grabbed it from the floor, and with my back to the cops, handed it to him, whispering, “Don’t admit anything.” He nodded and straggled out the door with the cops.
I shut the door and listened until the sound of their footsteps disappeared down the stairwell. “Rita,” I said to Sam.
He nodded. “Lovely Rita.”
BY NOON—an hour later—Mick hadn’t returned. And now we had lost Yogi.
Sam, Rob, and I sat at a table in the Mai Tai’s empty restaurant, drinking weak coffee and waiting for our breakfast to arrive, all eyes on the open door leading to the lobby.
“So Yogi was just gone when you got up?” I asked Rob.
“MIA, man. Nothing, except for a Snickers wrapper on the bathroom counter.”
“Knowing Yogi, he’s probably over at Pam’s having lunch.”
“Screw Yogi,” Sam said. “What about Mick? Shouldn’t we get him a lawyer or something?”
“Where are we gonna get the money to hire a lawyer?” I asked.
“We could call his folks. Maybe they could wire some.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. “Like his father’s gonna send us money to get him outta jail on a rape charge. Calling him’s a last resort. And, anyhow, we don’t know if they’ve even charged him.” But all the implications of what was happening went through my mind again. Not only could Mick be charged with rape, which was too stunning to even consider, but if they held him in jail, we’d be out a lead singer for tonight’s show and, maybe, for all future shows. We’d be screwed. I’d be screwed.
“By the way,” Rob said, “your friend Kitten came by the room last night looking for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. And this might be a moot point now, but she said we need to be at the fairgrounds by five to set up and sound-check. She said she’d meet us over there.”
“Five. Right.”
“That’s five hours from now. So when’re you telling her that we’re not making it?”
“I dunno. Let’s see what happens with Mick.” At that moment, I couldn’t even contemplate the remote chance that we’d be ready. My mind drifted to Nita. She’d probably left town by now....
Rob tapped out a rhythm on the table. “So what’s the deal with Kitten, man?”
“What do you mean?”
He snorted, and the irritating tapping continued. “What do I mean? Well, we were a little fried to hear that Kitten’s involved with this gig.”
Now recalling that I had never explained our arrangement, I avoided his eyes. “Yeah, I was going to tell you.”
The tapping stopped. “Kitten already did. And what’s this shit about her coming on as—well, as you guys’ manager.”
“Oh. She mentioned that, huh?”
“It’s true?” Sam said. “We thought she was fulla shit.”
My face reddened. “She’s got connections to the promoter. It was the only way we could get the gig. I was gonna tell you after the show tonight. But nothing’s in writing.”
Rob shook his head in disgust. “You’re a real dick, Daniel. Anything for a gig, huh?”
I pulled out a cigarette and tapped it down on the table. “O.K., I’m a dick, but I got the show, didn’t I?”
“Look, I’m out after tonight, so it doesn’t matter to me, but the other guys were a little surprised to hear about your secret little arrangement with her.”
Sa
m leaned forward. “Why didn’t you just tell us, Daniel?”
“I said I was going to after the show tonight.”
Rob laughed. “What show? If Mick’s not back by five, you guys are cooked—we’re cooked. You’re not planning on carrying it yourself, are you?”
“I dunno. I hadn’t gotten that far in my thinking.”
Rob shot Sam a look, and something seemed to pass between them. “Well, here’s the deal, man. Sam and I talked about it while you were in the shower, and we’re outta here tonight if Mick doesn’t show. We got lucky last night, but we’re not going on tonight without him. We don’t have anything close to enough songs.”
I looked at Sam. “Is that right? You’re gonna blow off this gig? And you’re just gonna leave Mick sitting in a jail cell? Well, I’m not.”
Sam lowered his eyes to his coffee cup. “It’s not fucking worth it. I knew Mick would pull this kinda shit eventually. And now this thing with Kitten.” He shook his head. “I’ve had it. Sorry, Daniel, but we’re taking off if he doesn’t show.”
I slumped down and let the unlit cigarette drop onto the table. Christ, maybe they were right. I didn’t have enough songs to fill out a thirty-minute set—not even close—and playing the Heart gig without Mick wouldn’t do our future any good. I looked around the table and realized the ridiculousness of the situation. What future?
“Look,” Rob said, “I’m sorry about Mick. We don’t want to leave him hanging, but he brought this on himself. And it’s not gonna do any good for me and Sam to hang around here while this thing gets sorted out.”
“I agree,” Sam added. “And we thought it might be better if we were back in Creedly anyhow. That way you could give us a call if Mick doesn’t get out tomorrow, and maybe we could go over and talk to his parents. It might save you an ugly call, and it might be better if they heard about it in person.”
“O.K.,” I said, too weary to argue, even though I doubted the sincerity of their offer to deal with Mick’s parents, “if that’s the way it is....” I looked at my watch. I had less than five hours to pull all the pieces of the band back together again or I might as well leave town with them. “You guys can have my breakfast. I’m going over to the police station to see what’s going on with Mick. When you’re done here, get started breaking down the stuff and get it loaded, O.K.? Beanie and Cecil said they’d help. Give them these.”
I handed Rob two of the three remaining comp tickets. A tight little smile appeared on Rob’s face. Maybe he was thinking about seeing Candi sooner rather than later. Or maybe he was pleased to have jammed me. I couldn’t tell; I had lost touch with him. And, for whatever reason, he had changed. Confrontation didn’t seem to bother him anymore.
“We’ll load up,” Rob told me, “but like I said, if Mick’s not back by five, we’re outta here. We’ll drive the station wagon back. You and Yogi can take the Bomb.”
“What about Mick?”
“Like I said before, I feel bad for him, but he’s your problem now.”
Our lead singer seemed to be shrinking. From across the table in a tiny room off the jail corridor, he sat slumped in a cracked vinyl chair with his head tilted sideways, arms wrapped around him, his legs crossed tight. “What took you so long, mate?” The British accent was back, but his voice sounded fragile.
“I’m lucky I got in. Told them I was your brother. Fortunately they didn’t check my ID.” I kept my voice low even though we were alone, locked into the room.
“They believed you with all that hair?” Mick tried to smile, but his lips pulled back into a twisted grimace.
I leaned forward. “Look, we only have five minutes. Have they charged you?”
“They’re holding me on suspicion, right? My arraignment’s tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Shit.” I gazed up and saw a square grill in the center of the ceiling. Was the room bugged? I dropped my voice even lower. “What’d you tell them?”
“Nothing. But, look, mate, I’m screwed. They know everything. Rita’s old man told them she was with me all night.”
“I knew she was bad news the minute I saw her.”
Mick twisted in his chair. “It wasn’t her fault. They said a friend blabbed to her old man about it, and she’s gonna testify. It must be that chubby bird. What was her name?”
I lowered my head and closed my eyes. “Tanya. It was Tanya.”
Mick unraveled and started squirming. “Bloody right! That Tanya bitch! Look, Daniel, you’ve gotta get me outta here, right? There’s a grotty bloke back there in the cell who’s taken a fancy to me.” He winced. “And what about the gig tonight?” An expression of excitement momentarily crossed his face before he caught himself and smacked his forehead. “What the hell am I talking about? They’re not gonna let me outta here.”
“Maybe we can bail you out. You want me to call your folks?”
“Hell no! They’d go through the bleedin’ roof.” His face suddenly went blank. “God. Rape. Maybe you should call them.... No, shit, look, talk to Rita. Maybe she’ll change her story, right? If she doesn’t go along with it, they don’t have a bloody case, do they?
“Not unless one of us talks.”
He rolled his eyes. “Just get me the hell outta here, will you? Talk to Rita.”
“That’s crazy.” I half shook my head. “What would I say to her?”
“I dunno. She’s a bird, right?” He shook his shoulders Jagger-style. “Just play her up.”
“Play her up?”
“You know, flatter her.” Mick leaned across the table, forced a grin, and tapped the side of his head. “Just think like the Mickster, mate. It’ll come to you.”
I sighed. Maybe he was right. Maybe we didn’t have any other options. “Where does she live?”
His face lit up. “Remember? On the way to Evangeline’s? That big blue house on the corner. Bright blue, ugly, right? You can’t miss it, mate.”
I pushed away from the table and stood. “I’ll see what I can do, but don’t get your hopes up.”
It took a minute, but Mick slumped back into his chair, and the shrinking process started again, arms clutching his narrow shoulders, one skinny leg crossing over the other, head lolling forward. He looked so small and unhappy that I actually felt sorry for him. And to my surprise, I realized that I liked him better the other way, cocky and brash. Even so, I couldn’t resist taking a shot.
“Hey, Mick.”
He looked up at me.
“If I were you, I’d keep my back to the wall. Know what I mean?”
“You’re a regular sod, Daniel.” His face dimmed even more. “Just get me the fuck outta here.”
25
I KNEW I COULDN’T just walk up to Rita’s house and ring the doorbell. Wasn’t there a law against witness tampering or something like that? And even if there wasn’t, I wasn’t stupid enough to think I could just waltz into her house. And so, parked across the main boulevard alongside the cinder-block wall of an old neighborhood grocery store, I waited, slunk down in the driver’s seat of the station wagon. Tommy Bolin’s Teaser played on the eight-track, and I squinted out through the dirty windshield, the clock ticking toward a time when I’d have to risk ringing the doorbell. Forty-five minutes had already passed and no one had come or gone from the bright-blue house on the corner.
At least it wasn’t raining. But that was about the only thing going right today. I checked my watch again. Almost three o’clock. We’d never make the gig on time, if at all. And when we didn’t show up, Kitten would go ballistic, Astley would hear about it, and that would be that. No agent, no Kitten, for better or worse, no nothing. I’d be back in Creedly with the remains of a failed band, moving back into Mom’s house because I was broke. And Nita.... I shook my head. She was already history.
I looked over at a phone booth near the entrance to the grocery store. What the hell. Slipping out of the station wagon, I made my way over and tried to look up the number. No phone book. I searched my pockets and found the wadded-up piece
of paper—the page I’d ripped out of the phone book the night before—jammed down along with my cross-tops vial, spare guitar picks, and coins. Keeping one eye on the house across the street, I flattened the page against the glass side of the phone booth and dialed the number.
“Puente Harbor Travel Lodge.” It was the same flat, genderless voice from the night before.
“Extension one-fifty.”
“One moment, please.”
The line went dead, then rang again. After seven or eight rings, each telling me what I already knew, I started to hang up. Then the ringing stopped.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice. I flinched, dropped the receiver in the cradle, then thought for a second and redialed the Travel Lodge number.
“It’s me again,” I said. “I’m calling for Nita Annstrom. You just put me through to her room, but someone else answered. Could you please tell me if she’s checked out?”
A pause, and then, grudgingly, “Hold on.”
My stomach churned. I braced myself against the corner of the phone booth. The house across the street looked miles away.
The operator came back on. “She left this morning.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look, are you the one who called in the middle of the night last night?”
“I—” Through the dirty glass of the phone booth, I saw someone emerge from the front door of Rita’s house and walk across the lawn.
“Sir—”
I hung up. The small figure reached the sidewalk and turned toward the corner. It was Rita. She had on the same black-leather bomber jacket she’d worn at the club, but this time she was wearing jeans instead of the miniskirt. I kept behind the door of the phone booth and watched her. She reached the corner at the main boulevard, looked both ways, and began walking diagonally across, coming straight at me.
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