Dr. M looked up at Tusk and said, “Nobody’s breaking up until I say so.”
Somebody cut the music right before that moment, and so the entire room heard him.
Tusk said, “We can talk about this in the morning.”
“What, with your lawyers? Are you going to go through with this fucking lawsuit?”
“Maury, please.”
“You think you can do anything without me? You can’t even get Bobby down from the fucking ceiling!” He dug into the pockets of his sweat pants. “You want to get him down? Here.” His hand came up with a CD. “No, not that. This.” From his other pocket he pulled out a large Baggie of white powder. “Here, kitty kitty! Daddy’s got a treat!”
“Finally!” Bobby said. He dropped onto the pool table. Dropped one of the bottles of vodka onto the table and reached for the Baggie.
Dr. M backed up, jiggling. “All the way down, Bobby, there ya go.”
Bobby hopped to the floor and snatched the Baggie from his hand. “Woo-hoo!”
Then, suddenly, the Baggie vanished. Kat had grabbed it from him. “Hey!” Bobby shouted.
Kat was a small woman, barely over five feet tall, but no one crossed her, especially not the boyz. She shoved the Baggie at Dr. M. “Keep that shit to yourself.”
Bobby loved that Kat’s accent got especially strong when she was angry.
“Watch yourself, bitch,” Dr. M said.
“What did you say to me?” Kat said.
“I trusted you! You fucking two-faced—”
Tim yelled, “Take that back!”
Dr. M started bellowing at Tim; Kat shouted back. Tusk pleaded for calmness. Bobby edged toward Dr. M, eyeing the Baggie in his hand.
Then: a shriek. It only lasted for a second or two, but everyone covered their ears.
The crowd turned. Matt’s wings were spread under his poncho. “Party’s over!” Matt announced. “Thanks for attending, please pick up your gift bags on the way out.”
“Fuck you, Matt!” Dr. M shouted. “This party’s not over till I say so.” He strode toward the wall with the sound system. Fursuited zoomies scattered out of his way. He punched a button, and a five-disc CD tray slid out. He dropped in the CD he’d been holding.
“Listen to this, motherfuckers.”
The speakers popped and the room filled with the synthesizer cords and a nasal voice: “Saaaaailing takes me away to where I’ve always—”
“Fuck, wrong CD.” Dr. M punched the button and the song cut off.
“Aw, I was almost asleep,” Matt said.
The speakers came alive again: a solo voice, singing wordlessly. The voice was high-pitched, pure. Then, another voice joined in, and another, and another. At first it was a moving, three-note chord, but suddenly it split into six notes, and the harmony shifted.
“That’s enough,” Tusk said.
“I own this,” Dr. M said. “And I own all of you.”
Kat reached toward the sound system and Dr. M grabbed her arm. “Back off, Kat. I own you, too.”
Tim screamed something and threw himself into Dr. M. The big man fell backwards, shouting, “Get him off me!” and then everyone was shouting. One of the fans—a zebra whose name was Sweater or Swetta or something—wailed in alarm. Nobody liked to see their parents fight.
The music cut off mid-note. Kat pulled Tim off the Doc, and Matt stepped between the Doc and Kat, keeping them apart with his impressive wingspan.
Kat said something into Tim’s ear, then turned him and pointed him toward the door. Bobby heard her say, “You want to build your fort now, buddy? Let’s go build you a fort.”
Matt helped Dr. M to his feet. He was gasping and clutching his chest.
A female voice said, “What the fuck are you doing, Maury?”
It was Mrs. M. She was wrapped in a towel, and her very wet red hair was piled atop her head. Beside her stood Devin, just as wet, but with decidedly no towel. His fur was sleek and his penis seemed happy to be invited to the party.
“People, people,” Devin said. “Why is everyone so angry?”
“Get the fuck out of my room,” Dr. M said. He pointed at Devin. “And get your stinking paws off her, you damn dirty—”
“Dude!” Devin said. “Dude.”
Dr. M stumbled toward the back bedroom. Bobby thought, Cocaine? Hello, cocaine?
Tusk put a hand on him. “Come on, Bobby. We’re going.”
“What? We can’t leave now, the party’s just getting interesting!” He lifted his hands and realized there was still a bottle of Smirnoff in one of them. He took a swig. “Yow! We have not yet begun to rock!”
Tusk drew him into a hug.
“Aw, I love you, too,” Bobby said.
Tusk tightened his arms and carried Bobby toward the door.
Track 4: “Lock Up My Heart (and Throw Away the Key)”
Featuring Detective Delgado
“After that,” said the genetically engineered ocelot-human hybrid, “it all gets a bit fuzzy.”
Bobby O blinked his big eyes. His whiskers twitched hopefully. The small hairs of his pointy ears caught the light from the window.
Jesus Christ, Luce thought, even painted with blood, he was adorable. No wonder her daughter loved him best.
Luce looked at Banks to see how he was doing with all this. It was his first high-profile homicide and she was worried he’d be distracted, but his pencil was moving at speed.
Banks said, “What time do you think it was when Tusk carried you out of the party?”
“No idea,” Bobby said. “Two? Three?”
Luce asked, “Did Tusk take you directly back to your room?”
“Yeah. And then I kept trying to come out, but he was blocking the door. For, like, forever.”
“He stayed outside your door?” Banks asked.
“He wouldn’t leave! He said something about me having had enough, which, like, fair. But then I remembered the minibar. Do you know they stock that thing every night? Anyway, after the tiny bottles were gone, I was pretty out of it, but I kept thinking about Dr. M.”
“You mean, Dr. M’s drugs,” Luce said.
“Yeah, that.”
“So how did you get back into his room?”
Bobby let them in on his current theory.
“You . . . jumped,” Luce said. “From balcony to balcony.” She glanced at Banks. His mouth was hanging open.
“I’m a pretty good jumper,” Bobby said.
“While you were drunk.”
“I wouldn’t try that shit while I was straight! Did you know we’re fifty-seven stories up?”
Luce took a breath. “So. You somehow got onto one of the balconies. Do you remember which one?”
“Which what?”
“There are two balconies,” Luce said in a patient voice. “One for the master bedroom, one for the living room. Do you remember which room you stepped into?”
“Ummm, no. That’s a blank.”
“Do you remember hitting anything?” Luce said. “Running into, say, a wall or door?”
“I just remember being in Dr. M’s room and looking down at this tray of powder. That’s, like, really clear. Have you ever wanted something really badly, and then you just get it? Like, you’re really hungry for pizza, and then a guy comes to your door and you open the box and it’s full of cocaine? It was like that.”
“Then you snorted a bunch of this cocaine—”
“Oh yeah.”
“—and just . . . passed out?”
Bobby searched his memory. “Seems like.” He caught Luce and Banks glancing at each other. “What?”
“That’s not the usual side effect,” Banks said.
“Huh,” Bobby said. He shrugged. “It was a long night.”
Luce let Banks ask the next questions. Did Bobby have a beef with Dr. M? Did maybe they fight when Bobby broke into the hotel room? Had he ever lost control and clawed somebody?
“No, no, and once,” Bobby answered. “Okay, maybe twice, but it was
an accident both times. But I didn’t touch Dr. M! Did Tusk tell you about the zoomie?”
“The what now?” Luce asked.
“The zoomie! The fan? There was a girl in Dr. M’s room, after the party. Or maybe a boy. They were in costume.”
“Did you see this person?” Luce said.
“I want to say yes.”
“But . . .”
Bobby sighed. “I can’t remember.”
The door opened and one of the uniformed cops came in, followed by a man in a suit. Luce blew out her lips. It was Caleb Mills of Mills, Milsap, and Newton, the local one-stop shop for high rollers who found themselves in deep shit.
“Afternoon, Detective,” Mills said. “Could you stop talking to my client now?”
“Are you my lawyer?” Bobby asked.
“I am indeed. Did you ask for a lawyer and they kept talking to you?”
“He asked if we were his lawyers,” Luce said.
“That’s true,” Bobby said.
Mills sighed. “Okay, let’s go, Bobby.”
“Not so fast.” Luce stood up. “Bobby O, you are under arrest for the murder of Dr.—is he really a doctor?”
“Kinda like Dr. Dre is a doctor?” Bobby said.
“Maurice Bendix,” Luce finished. “Banks, cuff him and read him his rights.”
Bobby felt woozy. All the words Detective Banks said were familiar. The boyz had watched a lot of American TV on the barge.
“Don’t say anything without me there, okay, Bobby?” the lawyer said.
“Okay.” Bobby looked at Luce. “Do you want me to sign something?”
“For God’s sake, no!” the lawyer said.
“Usually I just do a picture or a T-shirt,” Bobby said to her.
Luce was confused.
“Just tell me your daughter’s name,” Bobby said patiently.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time for autographs later.”
* * *
Delgado and Banks escorted Bobby out of the room. Tusk filled the doorway across the hall. His gigantic gray head, made larger by those fanlike ears, sat atop an imposing body. He would have been terrifying if it weren’t for the fact that he was wearing a well-tailored suit.
“Don’t worry, Bobby,” Tusk said. “You didn’t do anything. You’ll be okay.”
Another door opened. A narrow black face topped in a golden fuzz—Matt M. Bat. “Hang in there,” he said.
Luce heard a pounding behind her. A figure charged forward on all fours, screeching. One of the uniformed cops shouted, “Stop!” It was Devin, black fur wet and gleaming. He was naked from the waist up. Luce stepped in front of him before he reached Bobby.
The ape abruptly stopped his charge, just inches from her. He looked up at her, shook his long, David Cassidy hair, and regarded her with those famously soulful brown eyes. He’d evidently just stepped out of the shower, and he smelled amazing—a mix of citrus, cedar, and ex-boyfriend who just worked out.
“I want to say good-bye,” he said.
“Say good-bye from there,” Luce answered.
The bonobo leaned around her. “Bobby. Think calming thoughts. My spirit is with yours.”
“Thanks, man!”
Luce managed to get Bobby to the elevator without further incident. She told the two cops who’d been guarding him in his room to take him downtown for booking, but not to let anyone talk to him.
Luce turned to address the hallway: “Everyone, please stay in your rooms. We’ll come talk to you individually.” She looked at Devin. “Please be fully dressed.”
Track 5: “Heavy Petting”
Featuring Devin
Devin intended to go back to his room—until Mrs. M pushed past him, marched into Tusk’s suite, and started shouting. Devin glanced at Matt. He was draped in one of his ridiculous Argentinian ponchos. He looked like Clint Eastwood, if Clint Eastwood were a giant bat. Matt said, “We can’t miss this.”
Tusk had settled into the huge leather chair Kat had ordered up special for him, and let Mrs. M’s anger wash over him. She accused Tusk of murdering Dr. M, of trying to steal his money and hers, and of various other crimes. Devin tried to soothe her, but then she turned her rage on him. This was unfair; just this morning he’d given her a beautiful orgasm.
Devin slumped onto the couch and tried to label the emotions churning within him, as his therapist and acting teacher had taught him to do (in L.A. he’d found a terrific woman who was both a licensed psychologist and SAG member). His mind kept circling back to Tusk’s special chair, and the size of this multi-room suite. Yes, Tusk was as big as a Volvo, but why did he always score the biggest room outside of Dr. M’s? Did Kat love him more?
Devin took a cleansing breath. Jealousy was the soul-killer. He needed to get in touch with his purer, nobler self and then give the gift of his own serenity to the room.
A voice said, “God damn it! What did I say?”
Devin opened his eyes. The detectives had returned. The female one—Delgado, an intriguing name, he was pretty sure it meant “the cat”—was surveying the room, and when she looked at him he felt a charge pass between them. She frowned, and he thought, That’s right. Cover it up. Be a professional.
“Fine, since you’re all here,” she said. “Wait, where’s Tim?”
“Probably hiding,” Devin said.
“He’s having a little bit of a breakdown,” Matt explained. He was looming behind the couch in his Matt way.
“Do I need to send someone?” Delgado asked.
“It’s kind of a daily thing,” Matt said.
“Kat’s with him,” Tusk said.
Banks looked up from his notepad. “Kat’s the roadie?”
“Road Manager,” Matt said. “The Queen of the Roadies.”
“All right, fine,” Delgado said. “I’ll talk to them separately.”
Devin stood up, and Detective Banks put a hand on his holster. Devin held up his hands. “Dude. Please.” Devin understood that he could look intimidating—people had read way too many stories about chimps ripping people’s arms off—which was why he took pains to exude calm.
“I’d like to say a few words,” Devin said.
“Please sit down,” Banks said.
“This is a dark day,” Devin said. “Tragedy has struck our little family. I think we should have a moment of silence to honor a departed soul, a man who—”
Matt snorted. “Soul.”
“Everybody has a soul, Matt!” Devin said. “Why do you have to ruin everything?”
“Sit down,” Delgado said. “Please. This is not the time.”
Devin took a breath. “I was just trying to help.” He sat on the couch—beside Mrs. M. She didn’t look at him.
“Where did you take Maury’s body?” she asked Delgado. “I saw you wheel him out of here.”
“I hope the fans didn’t see him,” Devin said.
“If I see pictures in the press, I’ll sue,” Mrs. M said.
“The body was fully covered,” Delgado answered. “If you want one of our people to drive you over to the hospital, we can do that. I know this has been a shock, for all of you. We all want to find out what happened to Maurice, and with your cooperation we can do that, I hope quickly.”
“You already arrested Bobby,” Mrs. M said.
“Bobby didn’t do it,” Devin said. “He’s a gentle soul under all that . . . excitability. He could never do that to Dr. M.”
“I second that,” Tusk said.
“He’s an annoying little bastard,” Matt said. “But he wouldn’t murder someone.”
“Not even coked up to his gills?” Banks asked.
“Who told you about his gills?” Matt asked.
“Does he really—?”
“He’s a catfish,” Matt said.
“To be clear,” Tusk said, addressing the detectives. “Bobby does not have gills.”
“Ooh, Tusk, tell them about the zoomie!” Devin said. “Tusk saw a fan leave Dr. M’s room
last night after the—yow!” The tip of a wing had flicked Devin’s ear. Matt rolled his eyes toward Mrs. M. Oh, right, Devin thought. Widow.
“Fan?” Banks asked.
“Who was Maury fucking last night?” Mrs. M demanded.
“I’d prefer to talk to the detectives about that in private,” Tusk said. “But it does bring up the point that there must be other suspects, besides us.”
“What?” Devin exclaimed. “Us?” Nothing in this meeting was going like he expected.
“Everyone! Please,” Delgado said. Everyone immediately shut up, and Devin felt a thrill run through him. Nothing was more attractive than charisma.
“Please stop talking among yourselves,” Delgado said. “We’ll be interviewing all of you individually. Yes, we did arrest Bobby, but we still need to get a full understanding of what happened, and when, and of course we are open to all possibilities. None of you are suspects, but you are all, as of now, material witnesses. You’re not allowed to leave the city, and I’d prefer you to stay in this hotel.”
“You can’t keep us here,” Mrs. M said. “That’s illegal!”
“No,” Tusk said. “It’s not.”
“Mr. . . . Tusk is right,” Banks said. “We can arrest you if you don’t comply.”
“But I’m sure it won’t come to that,” Delgado said. “All we’re asking for right now is that you stay in your rooms until we can take your statements.”
“I want my things,” Mrs. M said. “My luggage is in the suite.”
“I’ll have our people get that to you.”
“I also want that police escort to the hospital—and after I get back, I want my own room. On another floor.”
“Why?” Devin said. Then quickly added, “Of course! Everyone should have their own room. Why would we share rooms?”
Tusk rubbed a hand over his big gray forehead. Devin knew that look: Hit your notes, Devin. Hit your marks, Devin. Don’t hit on the fans, Devin. But just because Tusk was the oldest of the boyz, that didn’t make him the boss.
Devin had his own dreams, and they had nothing to do with five-part harmony and synchronized dance moves and shared residuals. Was it his fault that he was more human looking than the rest of them and had more career options? No! Would he allow guilt and brotherly devotion to divert him from his journey of self-actualization? Hell no!
The Album of Dr. Moreau Page 3