Born to Rock (5 page)

“I wasn't joking! That guy is my father!”

“Oh, sure,” she said sarcastically. “Then who's the bald man with the white Taurus who sleeps at your house?”

“That's my dad. But he's not my biological dad. He met my mother when I was a baby. They
told
me!”

“They're lying,” she said, tight-lipped.

“Why would they lie about something like this? It doesn't exactly make my mother look good. The letter—the envelope I tried to give King. It had a copy of my birth certificate. And the name under father is Marion X. McMurphy!”

In answer, she got up and stomped away to sit in another car. I waited for Owen, her shadow, to scamper off after her. He just sat there grinning at me.

“Thanks for the support,” I told him.

He shrugged. “I believe you.”

This was the last thing I expected, and from the last person. “Yeah? How come?”

“Because you look just like him.”

I stared at him dumbly.

After a moment, he said, “Mel believes you too, you know.”

“She's got a nice way of showing it.”

“You know what?” he offered cheerfully. “I think she's going to come around.”

This from a person who thought Fleming Norwood of the Westport Norwoods had a gay side. I wasn't holding my breath.

Anyway, the real mess today had nothing to do with any self-styled goth-punk. It was about me, and how I'd tried to reach out to my biological father.

And failed.

The future of my friendship with KafkaDreams was irrelevant. I had no future, period.

It rang a bitterly ironic bell. According to “Poets of Rage,” “No Future” had been the original title of the Sex Pistols' classic “God Save the Queen.” Melinda called it the second most powerful punk refrain of all time, after “Bomb Mars Now.”

I felt its power then, that was for sure.

When I finally straggled up the driveway, physically and emotionally drained, Dad was waiting for me at the door.

“Listen, Leo, before you come in, there's something you should know. You made the six o'clock news.”

“Oh, God! Did Mom watch it?”

Behind him, I could already see the answer. From our living room carpet rose the upended stern of the sinking
Titanic.
It was the biggest puzzle my mother owned, a 3-D tour de force of 6,000 pieces, too large to fit on any table in the house.

“How bad was it?” I asked. “What did they show?”

“Not much,” he assured me. “Just a few seconds on how Purge still has what it takes to get people riled up. Then you came busting through the crowd and made a run at the band.”

My heart sank. “Could you hear what I was saying?”

“There was no audio. But your mom reads lips. Anyway, we didn't figure you were at that press conference for the fine music and genteel company. So? Did you meet him?”

I shook my head. “A bunch of roadies picked me up and threw me in the garbage. I guess they cut to the weather before that part.” I studied my sneakers. “Dad, I made a total idiot out of myself.”

He put a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “Let me buy you a drink.” We went into the kitchen, and he poured a couple of Cokes. “I understand why you went. In your place, I probably would have done the same thing. He's your father, after all.”

“
You're
my father,” I retorted. I hadn't planned on making a confession, but once it began, the floodgates opened, and the words came tumbling out. “I didn't go to New York looking for my roots. I went looking for forty thousand dollars.”

Dad stared in shock. “Leo!”

“He can afford it! Mom never asked him for any child support over the years. This is the
least
he can do!”

He had no further comment. But I had only to glance at him to put the finishing touches on this perfect day. It was plain to see by his sorrowful expression that I had disappointed the only father who mattered.

“Don't look at me like that,” I mumbled.

“I won't stop you,” he told me sadly, “because there's no way I can lay my hands on that kind of money. I talked to a mortgage broker, and he said the most we could squeeze out of the house was another twenty. We can come up with the rest, but not in time for September. Maybe not even by
next
September.” He took a deep breath. “It doesn't exactly feel great for me, either. To know that I can't provide for my son, so he has to go chasing after a total stranger—”

“Dad!” I was horrified. “Nobody blames you! How many people could pull forty grand out of a hat?”

He made no reply, but the answer, though unspoken, hovered in the air between us: Wall Street guys could. This Harvard thing had Dad questioning his decision to quit his high-stress job and buy the hardware store. And rock stars—they had piles of money.

I realized that the shadow of Marion X. McMurphy hung over Dad's life just as much as my own. Maybe even more so, considering the circumstances. To have me suddenly pursuing my biological father
now
, sixteen years after Purge had left the spotlight, had to hurt. I'd just poured salt in that wound.

“Well, you've got nothing to worry about.” It was all the comfort I could offer. “They wouldn't even let me talk to him.”

But that wasn't the point, and we both knew it.

[9]

THE DEFINITION OF “GET A LIFE”:
Fleming Norwood phoning me six days before the end of school to officially blackball me from the Young Republicans.

“Hasn't a Yale man got more important things to worry about?” I asked irritably.

Gates had already given me a heads-up that this was coming, so I wasn't exactly shocked. He'd even volunteered to quit in sympathy with me, but what for?

Fleming didn't answer my question. “It's this cheating thing. You said you'd straighten it out, and—well, you never did.”

“You've got me there, pal,” I said with false cheeriness. “I guess I'll have to suffer through these last few days as an enlisted man.”

“And you can't put the club on your resume,” he told me. “Or use it in later life.”

I had to laugh. “There is no high school in later life, Fleming. Once we step out that door on Friday, the whole four years never happened.”

I acted like I didn't care, but the truth was it bothered me. Not that Fleming had ever been my role model. But next year he'd be an Ivy League freshman with a beautiful girlfriend and infinite prospects, and I'd be—

God, what
would
I be? Depressed, maybe. Humiliated, probably.

A total loser, definitely.

Mercifully, the call-waiting beeped in. “Sorry, Flem—gotta take this.” I hit
flash.
“Hello?”

“Leo Caraway, please,” came a voice. English accent. All business.

“My name is Nigel Ratcliff. I'm an attorney.” He paused. “I represent King Maggot.”

King
did
get my letter!

“You must understand—my client is flabber-gasted. It's an outrageous claim.”

“Outrageous but true,” I said.

“That remains to be seen,” he informed me. “But let us assume for the sake of argument that you are my client's progeny. What are your intentions?”

“Intentions?”

“What, precisely, do you want from Mr. Maggot?”

Mr. Maggot. I stifled a laugh. Then it occurred to me what the lawyer was getting at: was I a gold digger?

The answer was—well, yes. I absolutely intended to hit King Maggot up for money. Not the way Ratcliff had in mind—I wasn't going to sue for millions or demand to be put in King's will. I just wanted the tuition for next year. Hell, it could even be a
loan
; between Dad and me, we'd pay it back somehow. I just didn't want to give up my spot at Harvard.

But if I mentioned money, Ratcliff would assume the worst. Then the opportunity would be gone forever.

“I just want to meet him,” I lied. “I'm not a blackmailer or a stalker. I'm a kid who's looking for a chance to get to know his father.”

There was pause. Then, “Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”

“Uh—I guess. But—”

“The St. Moritz Hotel. Room 1101. Shall we say two o'clock?”

We must have said two o'clock, because on that note, he hung up on me.

I put down the handset, mind whirling. What I'd been meaning to tell Ratcliff was I had school tomorrow. On the other hand, what could they do to me for ditching—put a black mark on my record? Kick me out of the Young Republicans?

School would get along without me.

I had a meeting with King Maggot's lawyer.

The St. Moritz Hotel, New York City.

The elevator stopped and I exited to the plush hall. A brass plaque declared Room 1101 to be the Presidential Suite. I stepped through the open door and found not a hotel room but a business office. A miniature mansion of connected luxury parlors had been converted into Concussed festival headquarters. At least a dozen publicists chattered excitedly into cell phones. Band members were being interviewed all around the suite. The breathtaking view of Central Park was obstructed by a hanging map of the United States, with festival venues marked with pushpins. A manicurist applied black polish to the fingernails of one of the members of Citizen Rot, while a stylist dabbed at his Mohawk with blue dye.

A roadie was stringing an electric bass with barbed wire, next to a woman who had passed out in the middle of the floor. People stepped over and around her. Others used her as a bulletin board. Her bare back and leather mini were covered in multicolored Post-it notes.

I stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed, when a roadie appeared, bellowed, “Fan mail!” and upended a large canvas sack. An assortment of letters fluttered down, followed by a dead octopus that hit the floor with a splat. A note attached to one of the tentacles bore greetings from the staff at Lockjaw Records. Apparently, this was the punk equivalent of a bouquet of flowers and a good-luck card.

After ten minutes of being ignored, I approached a publicist. “I'm looking for Nigel Ratcliff.”

“Anybody seen Nigel?” she barked.

“He left,” supplied a middle-aged man standing in the hall.

I was devastated. “But I'm supposed to meet him here. At two o'clock.”

“Sorry, kid.” The publicist hurried away, but the man's wary eyes were still on me.

“Mr. Ratcliff wanted to talk about my letter,” I forged on. “You know, the
letter
—” I wasn't sure how much I should say out loud.

He pushed his way over. “So you're
that
kid.” He put an arm around my shoulders and led me into the suite. “I didn't recognize you without a half-ton of gristle clamped on.”

“You were at the press conference?” I asked, a little sheepishly.

He nodded. “I'm Purge's manager. Bernie McMurphy.”

I snapped to attention. “McMurphy—”

“King and I are cousins,” he supplied, ushering me from the main parlor into a narrow hallway with rooms on either side. “So my interest is personal
and
professional.”

I regarded him. There was no resemblance to King that I could see. Then again, King was clinging to his '80s punk look, and Bernie could have been the one-hour-photo guy at a small-town Wal-Mart. Except for the eyes. You don't know bloodshot until you've seen those eyes. Like he was in the middle of a lost weekend that had been going on for several months.

He nodded me into the next doorway. Inside, two people occupied a large leather couch. One was a young reporter, jotting shorthand notes on a ring-bound pad. The other was King Maggot.

Feeling like an intruder, I took a step backward, and inadvertently crunched Bernie's toe.

Spying me, King stood up. “Got enough?” he asked the reporter. It was a statement of fact rather than a question.

The young man took the hint and followed Bernie out. That left me alone with the biological father who was a complete mystery to me. Talk about confronting your demons. I was face-to-face with McMurphy.

He examined me so intently that it raised the hair on the back of my neck. This wasn't the usual homicidal stare of his stage persona. This was scrutiny. I was being scanned.

I have no idea where I got the nerve—probably from him—but I stared right back. If somebody didn't say something very soon, I was either going to laugh or cry. I wasn't sure which.

At last, he broke the silence. “Tell me about your mother.”

Not “Hello”; “Good to meet you”; “So you're Leo.” I mean, I wasn't expecting him to rhapsodize over what a fine young man someone had raised to be his son, but I'd hoped for a few syllables of pleasantry before we got straight to business. His speaking voice was low and surprisingly mellow.

“Her name is Donna—Donna Davis, back then. It was at a show in New Haven where you guys—met.”

From my pocket I pulled a laminated photo of Mom bringing me home from the hospital and held it out to him. He studied it, but made no move to take it.

At long last, the verdict came down: “I don't remember her.”

I could feel my face turning red. “That's it?”

He shrugged. “Nothing personal.”

“It's personal to
me
!” I practically yelled at him. “It's the reason I'm alive! But you don't remember, so too bad, kid, take a hike.”

He was surprised. “I'm not sending you away. I'm just telling the truth. I don't remember. I wish I did.”

I wasn't sure exactly how to take that. After all, we were talking about my
mother
! Technically, I shouldn't want this old letch to remember
anything
about his brief encounter with her. On the other hand, it was plain that the act that began my life was completely meaningless and forgettable to this rock star. It really burned me up.

So he was a celebrity. So what? He wasn't even famous for the
right
reasons. It wasn't like he'd developed a vaccine or negotiated world peace. He was a cultural bad boy, worthy of attention only because of his outrageous behavior and his unflagging capacity to offend. Except for hearing-impaired counterculture nut-jobs like Melinda, everybody agreed there was zero value to his so-called music.

At that moment, I didn't care about Harvard or my future or even the fact that I was on his turf, and I would probably end up in the garbage again. I was going to introduce my bio-dad to a little piece of himself. It was time for McMurphy to crash this party.

Just as I opened my mouth to let him have it, Bernie, the manager, poked his head back into the room. “So?” he questioned. “Are we related?”

“Definitely,” said King without hesitation.

If he'd hit me with a brick, I couldn't have been more astounded.
Definitely?
What did he see in me that made him so positive? Was it my almost display of temper that would have knocked out the back wall of the hotel? As the real McMurphy, was he so attuned to rage that he could recognize it even in its potential?

“He has the ear,” King told his cousin.

“The
what
?”

He took my hand and raised it to my right ear. “Feel that little notch in the lobe? It runs in the family.”

He turned his head to the side so I could see the anomaly on him. Bernie picked up a small makeup mirror and held it out to me. I found the right angle and took in the sight of King Maggot's earlobe hanging off my head.

I looked at both of Bernie's ears. No notches.

He shrugged. “Not all of us have it. It skips the occasional kid. But if you do, you're a McMurphy.”

So it was definite. Not that I'd ever doubted it, because why would Mom make up such a horrendous thing? But to be here, standing right beside the guy, seeing what a jumped-up, uncaring jerk he was, and
that's
when it gets confirmed—it was the living end. I felt like jumping out the window, but unless I was holding on to King at the time, what would be the point?

“We'll do DNA testing too,” he told me. “To sew it up nice and neat for the lawyers.”

I nodded. Of course he didn't trust me, or a romantic partner he didn't remember, or even the evidence of his own family trait. Only indisputable scientific evidence was enough for the great King Maggot. Every minute I spent with him, I liked him a little less. And he hadn't been very high in my estimation at the start.

“The final results take four to six weeks,” he went on. “I think we should use that time to get to know each other.”

My cheeks burned from the sheer hypocrisy of that statement. Purge was about to embark on a coast-to-coast tour. Concussed was scheduled to go to Europe in the fall. Get to know each other? How were we supposed to do that—by carrier pigeon?

Calm down, I told myself. Meeting King had been a lousy experience—offensive, dehumanizing, and generally unpleasant. Yet the most important part of all this had gone exactly right: the front man of Purge had pretty much admitted that I was his son.

I may have been out of the Young Republicans, but that didn't mean I couldn't be pragmatic and businesslike. There was a purpose to this whole exercise, and it wasn't for me to share a warm and fuzzy moment with the composer of “Bomb Mars Now.”

In four to six weeks, the DNA people would confirm that I was one-hundred-percent Prince Maggot. Then and only then would I hit King up for my Harvard tuition money. Coming from his scientifically certified flesh and blood, how could he say no?

Getting to know this person—it was a small price to pay.

“I'd like that,” I said carefully. “Maybe when the tour is over, we could—uh—have dinner or something.”

He shook his head. “It's already been seventeen years. We can't waste any more time.”

“Yeah, but you'll be on the road with the band. You're not going to be in—” I frowned at him. “I don't even know where you live.”

“I live in Malibu,” he told me, “but I'm not talking about the occasional dinner. Why don't you spend the summer traveling with me?”

I was floored. “You mean—”

“With Purge,” he finished. “On the Concussed tour.”

It was straight out of left field, something I hadn't expected in a million years. This total stranger, who didn't even seem to like me, and must have sensed how I felt about him, was prepared to bring me along on his comeback tour—a thirty-city traveling punk rock festival that would make front-page news in every city it touched.

How could I say no? Forget that it wasn't my kind of music—and shouldn't have been
anybody's
kind of music. I wanted a future in the business world;
this
was big business, the blockbuster entertainment event of the summer. And I'd be a part of it, and see it from the inside.

King must have interpreted my silence as reluctance, because he sweetened the deal. “Don't worry about money. I'll take care of your expenses. And you'll have a job.” He turned to Bernie. “Have we got something for Leo to do?”

He knows my name, I thought. It was the first time he'd spoken it aloud.

“I can always use another pair of hands,” said Bernie. “Junior roadie. You'll like the guys.”

“I've already met them,” I replied, rubbing my bruised hip.