Jericho Point (15 page)

‘‘I got something to show you.’’

I agreed to meet him at a café across from the courthouse. When he came in I was at a table, drinkinga cup of coffee. He looked like a husk. Gray stubble bristled on his cheeks. His tailored shirt was rank with BO.

‘‘I want you to see what he destroyed,’’ he said.

He opened a briefcase on the table. It was packed with mementos of Brittany. I felt as if a giant fist were squeezing me. He handed me a photo album.

‘‘This was her dream,’’ he said. ‘‘What she could have been.’’

The album was full of pictures of Brittany performing— singing in community theater productions, in college choirs, in garage bands. She looked shy, almost anxious, as though people might tease her about projecting a rock-’n’-roll persona. Gaines watched me, waiting for me to understand.

‘‘I don’t come from a flashy background,’’ he said. ‘‘I made my money in auto parts. But Brittany, she had this passion for singing. And when your kid has that passion, you back her two hundred percent.’’

I turned the page and found photos taken backstage at the taping of
Rock House
—Brittany with the host, with other contestants, and crossing her fingers before going onstage. There were a few with Shaun Kutner. In all of them Brittany was under his arm, looking up at him, seeming at the periphery of the photo.

‘‘You smeared her,’’ he said. ‘‘You told the cops she was a thief.’’

‘‘I didn’t need to tell the cops anything. Sir, I’m sorry, but she—’’

‘‘The credit cards. Yeah. Fuck ’em, pardon my French. Somebody planted those on her.’’

This was pointless. ‘‘Mr. Gaines—’’

‘‘My girl wasn’t no thief. Understand?’’

He took a CD from the briefcase. ‘‘This was my girl.’’

He pressed it on me. ‘‘Listen to it. You’ll see. What a heart she had.’’

I looked at the CD. ‘‘A demo?’’

‘‘And now it’s all there’s gonna be. No point in sending it to the record company after all.’’ His eyes were red. ‘‘Listen to it. You’ll see. This was my baby.’’

Driving home, I put the CD into the car stereo. When the slender voice reached me through the speakers, I had to pull over.

This was Brittany Gaines. Breathy, tentative, hopeful. The songs were dark but her voice sounded sunny. I felt that she was a breathing presence slipping around me in the car. I looked at the CD cover. The photo was professionally done. Expensive lighting, plus hair, makeup, and clothes. She’d paid to look good, and was going to be like a million other hopefuls: nowhere. I felt ineffably saddened.

I read the song titles. ‘‘Accelerant.’’ ‘‘Bone in the Box.’’ ‘‘Hobbled.’’

Why was I not surprised to see that they were all written and produced by Sinsemilla Jimson?

How much had Brittany paid Sinsa to come up with this? Or rather, how much had Ted Gaines paid, and I? I drew a little diagram in my head. Sinsa—Shaun— Brittany—P.J. The fab four. Taking my name, and other people’s money, to finance dreams of glory.

At home, I got the mail from the mailbox and sorted through it on the way along the walk. Bills, magazines, and—uh-oh, something from Card Services, with FINAL NOTICE in red letters. I ripped it open.

Well, goody. Evan Delaney had been on a fabulous getaway to San Francisco. Staying at the Fairmont Hotel, racking up purchases at Prada and Tiffany. This was fantasy tourism at its most grotesque: no trip, just the bill. And I knew this was only the start. I went inside, throwing my backpack on my desk. My sympathy for Brittany faded away. She might have been a vocal lightweight, a rock star wannabe, and Ted Gaines’s precious, passionate girl. But she’d also had hot credit cards, and he had given me not one iota of evidence that they had been planted on her.

I got my blood pressure back down with a box of Junior Mints. Followed by a hot dog. I opened the rest of my mail.

Knock me out with a hammer. I had a hand-delivered letter from Skip Hinkel, attorney-at-law. It notified me to cease and desist my legal representation of one Patrick John Blackburn, and demanded that I transfer all files and correspondence to Hinkel’s office immediately. A substitution-of-attorney form was included, directing me to consent.

I couldn’t consent, because I hadn’t been P.J.’s attorney to begin with. And if I sent anything to Skip, it would be hair I pulled out of the shower drain. And maybe the puppy, along with all the wet newspapers he left on my floor. No, I couldn’t do that to the dog.

But that wasn’t the real problem. The letter also stated that all communication between me and P.J. regarding Brittany Gaines fell under attorney-client privilege. It ordered me to refrain from revealing any information I had received from P.J. It mentioned obtaining a restraining order. Skip was trying to gag me. And if he succeeded, if I couldn’t use the things P.J. had told me to exculpate myself, I could end up in jail.

Needless to say, P.J. had gone to ground. Not at his apartment, his parents’ house, the animal shelter, or the Jimsons’.’’ My stomach was aching. The hot dog and Junior Mints were laughing at me. I changed and went for a run.

Coming back, I found a tow truck cruising the street. The potatohead behind the wheel had a clipboard, and was looking at the license plates of cars parked at the curb. He stopped in front of the Vincents’ house and put down his window.

‘‘Hey. Looking for . . .’’ Eyes on the clipboard. ‘‘K. E. Delaney.’’

‘‘Did he call you about a breakdown?’’ I said.

‘‘Not exactly.’’

He was looking to repossess a car. Well, he wasn’t getting mine.

‘‘Sorry, can’t help you. What’s he driving?’’

‘‘Alfa Romeo.’’ The clipboard again. ‘‘Red.’’

Like I was seeing. And if I found P.J. driving it, red would be the color of his butt after I whipped it raw.

At ten Thursday night, I walked into Chaco’s to hear Ricky Jimson play. It was an impromptu gig: no publicity, just Ricky and his guitar player working the kinks out of new material. Brian and Marc were with me. Jesse was already there, sitting at a table against the wall. P.J., we bet, would be there with Ricky, and we were going to have it out with him. It was an ambush.

Chaco’s on a weeknight felt like a coffee bar. The lights were low. Onstage a trio was swinging through Latin funk. Jesse had one empty Carlsberg in front of him and a second in his hand, half gone. His crutches were leaning against the brick wall behind him.

‘‘No sign of Ricky yet,’’ he said.

I took drink requests. A few minutes later I was standing at the bar when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

‘‘I take it back.’’

Karen Jimson was chewing her gum. Her fawn eyes looked contrite. ‘‘I shouldn’t have dissed you.’’

Dis
seemed a gentle euphemism for claiming I’d stolen five grand. ‘‘Thanks. From me, and from my butt.’’

In the mirror behind the bar I saw Ricky walk past, chatting to his guitar player. ‘‘Gotta grow it down your back, dude. Otherwise you’re just wasting money renting the wind machine.’’

The economics of hair rock. The guitar player wore his like a Cherokee brave, and Ricky had done some back-combing tonight, adding a couple of inches to his height. Karen winked at me and strolled off with him, just as P.J. came in.

That confirmed my suspicion: Karen didn’t think P.J. had stolen her money either, or she would have fired him. Which suggested to me that Sinsa had to be the one, and her mother probably knew it.

P.J. was riding Ricky’s backwash, proud to be the entire entourage tonight, but when he saw me his strut slowed.

‘‘I know you’re bent out of shape. I know it’s my fault,’’ he said.

‘‘How’s the Alfa Romeo?’’

He went on by, turning and walking backward away from me. ‘‘What about the Alfa?’’

My anger flared gold. ‘‘We need to talk about Sinsa and her record production company.’’

A jagged light skipped across his gaze.

I paced him. ‘‘She’s been talking rich wannabes into paying her big bucks to produce their stuff, hasn’t she? Promising them the moon and delivering nothing. It’s a scam.’’

He looked Ricky’s way, anxious. ‘‘You can’t do this here. Her folks.’’

‘‘Bud, you’re out of choices.’’

‘‘Peej.’’ At the far end of the bar, Ricky beckoned.

P.J. turned and sped up, saying, ‘‘Gotta work,’’ but I followed him. Ricky was leaning back on a bar stool, and smiled when I approached. ‘‘Hey, thanks for coming.’’

‘‘I brought a cheering section. Mind if P.J. joins us? He hasn’t seen his brother in way too long.’’

P.J. gazed at Jesse, deflating. ‘‘No, that’s okay. I don’t want to slack off.’’

‘‘Nah, go on, Peej. Your brother’s a kick.’’ Ricky craned his neck to see our table. ‘‘I ever phone Sanchez Marks, we talk about karma.’’

‘‘Karma. Jesse,’’ I said.

‘‘You know, with him landing on wheels, does it mean he’s going up to a higher plane next time around.’’

‘‘Karma. Jesse. What does he tell you?’’

‘‘Maybe not. In his last life he was Jimi Hendrix, and now he can’t play guitar for shit.’’ He laughed. ‘‘He’s cool. Just wait till I start the set, okay?’’

P.J. looked bereft.

I got our drinks and carried them to the table. Marc stood and pulled out a chair for me. Jesse was talking to Brian.

‘‘Cave kayaking—I have to say Luke’s too young. You can boogie board, but this time of year you need to watch the current.’’

Marc said, ‘‘You know the coast pretty well?’’

‘‘Grew up here.’’

Brian said, ‘‘Jesse was a lifeguard. He knows it like the back of his hand.’’

‘‘Yeah?’’ Marc said.

‘‘In college,’’ Jesse said. ‘‘All winter, the riptides run right off the beach. Even strong swimmers can get in trouble.’’

Marc smiled. ‘‘
Baywatch
, huh?’’

Jesse gave him a detached look. ‘‘Yeah, thong swim-suit, silicone implants, all of it.’’

Brian shook his head. ‘‘To be certified in open-water rescue you have to know CPR, first aid, have the swimming background, scuba training. It’s no picnic.’’

I gawked at Brian. What was he doing?

‘‘Did you perform a lot of rescues?’’ Brian said.

Jeeminy. I’d told him Jesse was depressed, and this was how he tried to buck him up—by singing from the Up with People songbook.

‘‘My share,’’ Jesse said.

Marc was smiling. ‘‘It’s not just surfboards and guitars around the bonfire?’’

‘‘Afraid not.’’

A woman walked past us toward the door. She gave a frilly wave. Jesse glanced over idly, and she smiled at him. Me, she gave a challenging gaze.

‘‘Hi, Jesse,’’ she said, opening the door. ‘‘Bye, Jesse.’’

He watched her go. ‘‘Who was that?’’

‘‘If you don’t know, I certainly don’t,’’ I said.

She passed by the window outside. On the street, pinpoint white lights twinkled in the trees. She leaned up to the window, cupped her breasts against the glass, and ran off laughing. Jesse’s mouth was half-open.

Marc set down his bottle. ‘‘No, lifeguarding’s all serious. No fun at all. Is she somebody you resuscitated? In an extra-special way?’’

‘‘That was truly weird.’’

Brian was still waving the pom-poms. ‘‘Hey, CPR’s no joke.’’

Marc nodded. ‘‘Sure. Sorry. You ever perform no-joke CPR?’’

Jesse’s color drained, and his eyes went blank. ‘‘Successfully? No.’’

The music subsided. The trio onstage had finished their set. The crowd applauded, but Jesse seemed to be staring through the table. Damn.

The door opened and Sinsa Jimson came in. Shaun Kutner was with her. Even with his arm over her shoulder, he managed to slouch.

‘‘This could be trouble,’’ I said.

Jesse put the beer bottle to his lips, tilted his head back, and emptied it. Shaun and Sinsa headed to a table across the club, in the back. Shaun’s sea green eyes shone in the low light. He was wearing fabulous accessories: enough hair gel to turn his tangles completely ratty, and a blue knee brace. His limp was pronounced but sporadic. If he had actually torn a ligament, he was the world’s fastest healer. Sinsa was cold again. Her shirt had writing across the bust, and her right nipple was dotting the i in
diva
.

Brian watched her. ‘‘Whoa. Keep my pants on.’’

I set my beer down. ‘‘Shaun wouldn’t start something with P.J. tonight. Not in public, at Ricky’s show.’’

Jesse finally glanced across the room. His voice was flat. ‘‘Why not? He thinks Ricky cost him a shot at
Rock House
.’’

Shaun’s hands began reading Sinsa like a Braille book. She seemed beyond noticing it.

Applause rose from the crowd. Ricky was taking the stage. The guitarist thumbed a chord and adjusted a tuning peg. Ricky leaned into his mike and said, ‘‘Me and Tiger got some tunes for you.’’

He counted off the beat. Tiger hit a ringing minor chord, and Ricky launched. ‘‘Baby, you’re the thorn in my crown . . .’’ He grabbed the mike stand. ‘‘The thorn in my side . . .’’

His voice sounded rich, that famous bell-like tenor with the burnt edges. Brian and Marc listened. Jesse peeled the label off his empty beer bottle. Shaun gave Sinsa a long, sloppy kiss.

P.J. stood at the bar, watching them.

Ricky sang. ‘‘You’re the thumb in my eye . . .’’ Sinsa stood up. Shaun grabbed her by the belt loops, pulled her backward, and bit her on the rump. She slapped his hand.

Karen, sitting on a bar stool, scowled. Ricky stroked the mike, mouth close to it. ‘‘You’re the light when I die.’’

Sinsa sat back down, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Shaun nuzzled her neck but she pushed him away. He mouthed a word that I could lip-read. One syllable, rhymed with
kitsch
. He stood up. And headed for P.J.

‘‘Here we go,’’ I said.

Shaun sidled up to the bar and elbowed next to P.J. P.J. was hunched over, silent, staring at his beer bottle. Shaun talked. And then he took the beer bottle and stuck it upside down inside the neck of P.J.’s shirt.