Born to Rock (15 page)

I won't go into specifics. I don't want to give the impression that it was bigger than it was. It wasn't ripped from the imagination of some sadistic Roman emperor. It was even over pretty fast. But I left that room a changed man. I was so upset, flustered, and discombobulated by the whole experience that I was actually relieved when Ogrodnick didn't pull at least a couple of earrings out of there.

The whole story came out after far too many hours and far too many anal probes. Neb Nezzer had nothing to do with our misfortune. It seemed that Ariadne wasn't a real dietician. She was a private investigator working for Penelope Plank. She'd been hired to smoke out where Max was hiding his money from her divorce lawyers. In the snare drum, as it turned out.

As Concussed moved from town to town, the drummer had been visiting pawnshops and jewelry stores, turning his life savings into gold and precious stones. In September, when the tour began its European leg, the loot would be shipped out of the country in Max's drum set, converted back into cash in Switzerland, and stashed in a numbered Swiss account.

When the Planks' assets were split in half in the settlement, most of Max's earnings from the '80s would be out of his estranged wife's reach.

Max confessed all this at about five
A.M
. in order to avoid his own cavity search. He even had the receipts back at the hotel to prove he was telling the truth.

The fact that he chose to spill his guts then, and not five hours earlier, thereby sparing the rest of us, was the reason Purge broke up that night.

Concussed would have to carry on without its headliner.

It happened right there in the police station. It was remarkably civilized, considering Purge's reputation. There was no yelling, no fisticuffs. King just turned to the others and said, “I don't want to do this anymore.”

Bernie put up a fuss, citing loyalties, long friendships, and contractual obligations. But King
was
Purge. All the discussion back and forth was so much hot air.

“I'm just done,” King insisted.

And the comeback was over.

It would have been sadder if the others had disagreed with him more. But Neb was already gone, Zach was a middle-aged fat guy, and Max's heart was in divorce court, trying to put a good spin on this attempt to take the money and run.

The angriest band in America had lost interest in itself.

King and I shared a cab back to the hotel to pick up our stuff, and headed straight to the airport after that. He bought himself a ticket to L.A. and me one to New York.

He seemed to relax once our escape had been mapped out, and I'd called my parents to meet me at LaGuardia.

He leaned back on the couch in the VIP lounge. “Of all the cavity searches I've been through, I have to say this one ranks about sixth.”

Back in Exam 3 with Detective Sergeant Ogrodnick, I had thought I'd never laugh again. I was relieved to be proven wrong so quickly.

He turned serious. “I'm sorry you had to go through that. Leave it to Max to put everybody in a meat grinder and pull back just in time to save his own carcass. I guess the summer didn't work out like we planned, huh?”

“I enjoyed it,” I told him. “Not this last part, but—” Suddenly, I couldn't come up with anything to list. So I told the truth. “Getting to know you is something I'll always remember.”

He nodded gravely. “Same here. Listen, Leo, I know you've already got a family. But never forget I'm your father. If you ever need anything—anything—I'm just a phone call away.”

I gawked at him. This was it—Harvard on a silver platter. I didn't even have to bring up the subject. He'd handed me the opening. All I needed to do was say the words, and I was home free.

My mouth was made of stone, sealing the sentence inside my head. I sat facing him, unable to speak as the PA system announced the boarding of my flight. In a few minutes, I'd be on that plane, and the chance would be gone forever. The time to speak was
now.

I couldn't do it. Maybe I didn't have the guts to tell him about the DNA test, but I wasn't going to take his money based on a lie. The thought that I'd even considered it made my face burn in shame.

I leaped to my feet. It was the only way I could manage to hold it together. Warts and all, Marion X. McMurphy was the most genuine person who had ever touched my life. And what had I contributed to our relationship? Conniving. Deception. Greed.

“I don't deserve a father like you!” I blurted, and ran for the gate.

[23]

PURGE'S BREAKUP AND DEPARTURE FROM
Concussed made front-page news all across the country. An estimated 3.5 million dollars in gold and gemstones featured prominently in the story. If Max had been hoping to keep the incident from reaching his divorce court judge, he was out of luck.

The role of Detective Sergeant Ogrodnick in the incident was not considered newsworthy—except in my lingering nightmares.

Punk fans were devastated, especially those in the East and in Europe, who had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of King Maggot and Purge.

The Concussed festival's organizers, however, had managed to take these lemons and make lemonade. They had quickly signed the surviving members of the Sex Pistols as replacement headliners. So the tour was still on track and selling tickets.

For this reason, Melinda and Owen had decided to stay on and catch shows in Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Buffalo, and Boston before heading home to get ready for college.

When I spoke to Melinda on the phone, she was excited about seeing Britain's punk pioneers, but also worried about me, my lack of prospects, and my general depression.

“You've got to talk to Borman,” she urged. “It's too late for him to hurt Owen. So get down on your knees and beg him to clean up your record.”

“What for?” I grumbled. “I'll never get my scholarship back. I'm sure they awarded it to somebody else.”

“Maybe so,” she argued. “But there's always next year, and the year after that. A black mark like cheating could hold you back for the rest of your life.”

“Who's the Young Republican now?” I teased her.

“Do it, Leo. Don't screw around. It's important.”

The one bright spot in all this was that Melinda and I had agreed to try a long-distance relationship this new school year, despite our religious differences—goth and Republican.

I couldn't resist visiting Graffiti-Wall.usa for the occasional glimpse into my new girlfriend's virtual soul. This was what KafkaDreams had to say about me: nothing. Not one word.

Which didn't necessarily mean I had no effect at all on Melinda's online world.

DarthLightning03:

what happened to u, kd? the edge is gone, the attitude, the ability to spot the bs and blast it out of the water—if I want sunshine and roses, i'll log onto barney, u don't even suck anymore…

CzechBouncer was even more to the point:

Americans always desert you in the end. I'm going to download free music and it's on your head….

Of course the change in Melinda might not have been me at all. It might have had something to do with the absence of makeup, hair dye, and several pounds of flowing gothica.

“It's all going straight back on the minute I've got regular access to a decent bathroom,” she had assured me. “Accept me the way I am or not at all.”

And I caved. Of course I caved! I'd never really had the guts to stand up to Melinda. Why should now be any different?

Yet looking at the postings on Graffiti-Wall, I wasn't so sure she'd be going all-goth again. Partway, yes. She had her style—that was one of the great things about her. But I sensed a subtle softening of the granite exterior of the immortal KafkaDreams. I like to think I had something to do with that.

Melinda was
happy.

If only I could say the same for myself.

Mr. Borman scheduled office hours starting two weeks before the opening of school. Somehow, the prospect of sitting opposite this man did little to improve my mood. I secured an appointment for the first available afternoon.

Home was like a split-level Crock-Pot where a guy could stew in his own misery. After the initial shock of seeing me walk off the plane not dead, Mom was pretending I'd never been gone, and certainly not with King Maggot. Obviously, denial is a river in Egypt for this woman.

Or maybe not. There was something she said, hunting for a puzzle piece—one puzzle, not an entire houseful of them. “Comes a time,” she mumbled, “that you just have to stop apologizing.”

I put my hand on hers, covering part of a Stonehenge monolith. “You're right, Mom.” McMurphy—the worst McMurphy—would be a part of me forever. But at a certain point, that had to be
my
problem. Mom's penance was over. She had done her time.

There was no way I would ever tell her that the watershed trauma in her life had not been King, but his sex-maniac cousin. The poor woman had spent nearly twenty years coming to terms with her brief liaison with a rock star. If she had to scale that back to a sleazy womanizing manager, I couldn't predict how she'd take it.

Dad's opinion: “I'm just happy I can walk in my own home without stepping on the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.” But his next comment, five minutes home from the airport, was the forty-thousand-dollar question. “So? Are we going to Harvard?”

“No.”

“He turned you down?”

“I didn't ask. You were right. It was a lousy thing to do.”

He looked unhappy. “Your dorm assignment came in the mail. I hope it's not too late to get our deposit back. We can put it in the account I've set up for next year.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, and meant it. But the truth was, next year may as well have been fifteen centuries in the future. The here and now looked like a hardware store job, weekend trips to see Melinda, and a whole lot of woulda, shoulda, coulda.

East Brickfield Township High School. A couple of months ago, I'd been a student here. Now the place was as alien and remote as a moonscape. Worse than that, because of the circumstances of my graduation, it felt hostile.

The walls began to close in on me as I approached the assistant principal's office. This was enemy territory. In a campground outside Boston, I knew Melinda and Owen were sending me psychic energy. I wished I could have taken Owen out of that equation. He was a great guy, but he had an unpleasant knack for turning everything he touched into doo-doo. On the other hand, he couldn't hurt me much now. How much lower can you go than rock bottom? Unless Borman had hired Detective Sergeant Ogrodnick to help at the meeting….

They were cutting the grass outside the office. So every few minutes we had to shut up and wait for a guy on a John Deere riding mower to roar past the picture window. It made an awkward conversation even more so.

“How was your summer, Leo?”

Looking at Borman, I realized that I didn't want to beg; I wanted to hit him. It was McMurphy, I knew. But this time my hitchhiker wasn't some stranger.
I
was McMurphy, and McMurphy was me.

“Not bad,” I replied. “I guess you've heard that I won't be going to Harvard.”

To his credit, he didn't grin. “I was sorry about that. Still, it was your decision.”

McMurphy wanted to say,
No, it was your decision, you sick fascist. But that wasn't exactly in keeping with the goals of this appointment. I had to suck it up and be polite.

“Mr. Borman, what I came to talk about is this: it's too late for this year. But I need you to take that black mark off my record. I'm never going to get into a decent school if people think I'm a cheater. And you know I'm not.”

It would have been easy for him. All he would have had to say was okay.

He didn't. “Part of being an educator, Leo, is to teach students that actions have consequences.”

“What actions?” I countered, my voice rising in volume as the mower approached again. “Refusing to help you crucify a kid because you don't like his lifestyle? You know I didn't cheat.”

He waited for the grass cutter to pass. At last, in a quiet, stubborn voice, he said, “You broke the rules.”

“I did. I talked during a test. Isn't this kind of a steep price to pay for that?”

I looked longingly outside at blue sky and scudding white clouds. It was a beautiful day. What was I doing in here, beating my head against a stone wall, looking for mercy from someone who had none to give? “This has nothing to do with consequences,” I went on resentfully. “You won't clear my record because that would be admitting you were in the wrong from the start. To you, this is all about saving face.”

He was angry now. “Exactly who do you think you're talking to—?”

The engine noise swelled again, drowning him out. He stood up to wave the grass cutter away to another part of the lawn, and then cried out in shock. His leap across the office would have won an Olympic medal in several different categories.

All at once, I saw what he saw. For a nanosecond, a dark shadow eclipsed the light from outside. The next thing I knew, the window exploded, and a half-ton of screaming metal machinery was hurtling into Borman's office in a blizzard of broken glass.

The gleaming Harley-Davidson hit the office floor, skidded in a half-circle, and stalled out. So help me, I thought the rider was dead. But he rose from the wreckage and shook himself like a wet dog, spraying glass everywhere.

The one and only Marion X. McMurphy.

King Maggot turned punk rock's most storied rage on the assistant principal of East Brickfield Township High.

“You call yourself a teacher! Is it a teacher's job to keep great kids out of Ivy League schools? I'd puke on you, but that would be a waste of good puke!”

Borman recovered enough to rasp, “You're in big trouble, mister!”

King seemed impatient. “Just remember that if it happens to me, it goes on page one—right beside the story of the piece-of-crap principal who tried to ruin a student's life!”

“You're insane!” Borman hissed.

“Damn right,” King agreed. He took a single threatening step toward the assistant principal.

Borman scrambled to his feet and out the door. We could hear his running footsteps tearing down the hall. I have to say that almost made the whole thing worth it—the sight of my archenemy hightailing it out of his own office in fear for his life.

But there were more urgent issues at hand.

“King, what are you doing here? How did you find me? How did you know I'd be meeting Borman right now?”

“Your friend Owen told me.”

“Owen is in Boston with Concussed!” I persisted. “How could he find you in California?”

“Cam knows my number. He signed on with Pete and the Stem Cells after we dropped off the tour.”

“Cam?” Was I missing something here? What did my ex-roommate and tormentor have to do with Owen Stevenson?

“Didn't you know? Owen and Cam are together now.”

“Together?” When Owen told us he'd met someone, he was talking about
Cam
?

I was floored. I thought back to the heaps of abuse Cam had laid on me for holding him back from picking up girls. To hear him talk, you'd have thought he was Bernie in training. And all this time he was
gay
?

It was crazy—yet the more I thought about it, the more it made perfect sense.

How pleasant could it have been for Cam to hide his true identity in the sexually charged macho world of rock and roll? No wonder the guy was in a bad mood all the time. I should have suspected something when Owen came up with a backstage pass in Cleveland, and it hadn't come from me.

Owen and Cam together? Good for them!

King glared at me. “Where do you get off not telling me you lost your scholarship because of this jerk?”

“It wasn't your problem.”

“Don't you get it?” he snapped at me. “Your problem
is
my problem. Why do you think I flew three thousand miles to crash this meeting? My samurai sword got confiscated by airport security. And you think you can rent a Harley just anywhere? I was all over Connecticut looking for this thing—which I'll have to pay to fix!” He flipped up his shades and skewered me with those piercing eyes. “That's a stiff tab when you add in tuition for Harvard.”

I stared at him—this rock star standing in the wreckage of Borman's office, glittering with glass splinters, bleeding from a thousand tiny cuts. I realized that my first impression of him had been one-hundred-percent correct. He was a maniac. And yet he had just offered to do the finest thing anyone had ever done for me.

“King—I can't let you pay for me. The truth is, you're not my father. Bernie is.”

It was painfully hard to say, but once it was out, I knew it was right.

I thought he'd be shocked, but he shrugged it off with an impatient gesture. “Oh, I figured that.”

I gawked at him.

“Listen, Leo, I was no saint during the eighties, but I remember me, and I remember Bernie. I always knew there was a chance it might be him you were looking for.”

“I wish it wasn't true,” I said fervently.

“It's a technicality,” he insisted. “We're still family. I knew the night we kidnapped the wrong mutt that I didn't give a damn if the DNA test didn't go our way. I want to be a part of your life.”

“King—” I stumbled forward to embrace him, but he warded me off with a stiff-arm.

“No offense, Leo, but I'm in a lot of pain right now.”

I was worried. “I'll take you to the hospital.”

“The cops'll be here soon,” he commented blithely. “They'll look after me.”

As if on cue, we heard sirens approaching.

He was three thousand miles from home, battered and bleeding, about to be arrested. Yet I'd never seen him so serene. I recalled a comment he'd made about the first Harley incident:
If something came along that was really worth caring about, I could get just as worked up as I used to in the eighties.

King Maggot cared that much about
me.

I turned to him. “What can I do for you? How can I help?”

“You can get out of here,” he replied. “Go home and start packing. Freshman orientation starts in a week.”

We could see the cops now through what was left of the window—two squad cars turning up the drive.