Live Wire (11 page)

The only real approach to Wire’s compound was a dirt road with about five thousand Keep Out signs and a guard booth with a drop arm. Myron ignored the signs because he was a crazy rulebreaker like that. Upon arrival via private boat, he had borrowed the car, a totally rad Wiesmann Roadster MF5 with retail price over a quarter of a million dollars, from Baxter Lockwood, Win’s cousin, who had a place on Adiona Island. Myron debated driving straight through the drop arm, but ol’ Bax might not appreciate the scratches.

The guard looked up from his paperback. He sported a severe crew cut and aviator sunglasses and had a hard military bearing. Myron gave him a five-finger toodle-oo wave and Smile Seventeen—charmingly shy via early Matt Damon. Pretty dazzling.

The guard said, “Turn around and leave.”

Mistake. Smile Seventeen only worked on da ladies. “If you were a lady, you’d be dazzled right now.”

“By the smile? Oh, I am. On the inside. Turn around and leave.”

“Aren’t you supposed to call the house and make sure I’m not expected?”

“Oh.” The guard made a phone with his fingers and mimed a conversation. Then he hung up his fingers and said, “Turn around and leave.”

“I’m here to see Lex Ryder.”

“I don’t think so.”

“My name is Myron Bolitar.”

“Should I genuflect?”

“I’d prefer it if you just lift the drop arm.”

The guard put down his book and slowly made his way to his feet. “I don’t think so, Myron.”

Myron had expected something like this. Over the past sixteen years, since the death of a young woman named Alista Snow, only a handful of people had even seen Gabriel Wire. Back then, when the tragedy first occurred, the media had gorged on images of the charismatic front man. Some claimed that he got preferential treatment, that at the very least, Gabriel Wire should have been charged with involuntary manslaughter, but the witnesses backed away and even Alista Snow’s father eventually stopped demanding justice. Whatever the reason—cleared or swept under the rug—the incident changed Gabriel Wire forever. He ran off and, if rumors were to be believed, spent the next two years in Tibet and India before returning to the United States under a cloud of secrecy that would have made Howard Hughes envious.

Gabriel Wire had not been seen in public since.

Oh, there were plenty of rumors. Wire joined the conspiracy legends of the moon landing, JFK assassination, and Elvis sightings. Some say that he wore disguises and moved freely, going to movies and clubs and restaurants. Some say that he got plastic surgery or that he shaved off his famed curly hair and grew a goatee. Some say that he simply loves the seclusion of Adiona Island and that he sneaks in supermodels and assorted lovelies. This last rumor was given extra credence when one tabloid interrupted a phone call between a famous young starlet and her mother discussing her weekend with “Gabriel at Adiona,” but many, Myron included, smelled a planted story timed, by eerie coincidence, the week before said starlet’s big movie opening. Sometimes a paparazzo would be tipped off that Gabriel would be somewhere, but the picture would never be conclusive, always appearing in whatever rag with the headline IS THIS GABRIEL WIRE? Other rumors had it that Wire spent considerable time institutionalized while others insisted that the reason he kept out of sight was simple vanity: His beautiful face had been sliced up during a bar fight in Mumbai.

Gabriel Wire’s vanishing act did not spell the end of HorsePower. Just the opposite, in fact. Not surprisingly, the legend of Gabriel Wire grew. Would people remember Howard Hughes if he was just another rich guy? Were the Beatles hurt by the rumors of Paul Mc-Cartney’s death? Eccentricity sells. Gabriel, with Lex’s help, managed to keep their music production level steady, and while there was some lost revenue because they couldn’t tour anymore, the record sales more than offset that.

“I’m not here to see Gabriel Wire,” Myron said.

“Good,” the guard said, “because I never heard of him.”

“I need to see Lex Ryder.”

“Don’t know him either.”

“Mind if I make a call?”

“After you turn around and leave,” the guard said, “you can have sex with Rhesus monkeys for all I care.”

Myron looked at him. There was something familiar about the man, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “You’re not your average rent-a-cop.”

“Hmm.” The guard arched an eyebrow. “Dazzling now with flattery on top of the smile?”

“Double dazzle.”

“If I were a hot chick, I’d probably be disrobing by now.”

Yep, definitely not your average rent-a-cop. He had the eyes, the mannerisms, the relaxed coil of a pro. Something here was not adding up.

“What’s your name?” Myron asked.

“Guess my answer. Go ahead. Take a wild guess.”

“Turn around and leave?”

“Bingo.”

Myron decided not to argue. He backed up, surreptitiously taking out his modified Win-spy BlackBerry. There was a zoom camera on it. He headed to the end of the drive, got the camera up, snapped a quick pic of the guard. He sent it off to Esperanza by e-mail. She’d know what to do. Then he called Buzz, who must have seen on his caller ID that it was Myron: “I’m not going to tell you where Lex is.”

“First of all, I’m fine,” Myron said. “Thanks for having my back at the club last night.”

“My job is to take care of Lex, not you.”

“Second, you don’t have to tell me where Lex is. You’re both at Wire’s place on Adiona Island.”

“How did you figure that out?”

“GPS on your phone. In fact, I’m right outside the gate now.”

“Wait, you’re already on the island?”

“Yep.”

“Doesn’t matter. You can’t get in here.”

“Really? I could call Win. If we put our minds to it, we’ll figure a way.”

“Man, you’re a pest. Look, Lex doesn’t want to go home. That’s his right.”

“Good point.”

“And you’re his agent, for crying out loud. You’re supposed to be looking out for his interests too.”

“Another good point.”

“Exactly. You’re not a marriage counselor.”

Maybe, maybe not. “I need to talk to him for five minutes.”

“Gabriel won’t let anyone in. Hell, I’m not allowed out of the guest cottage.”

“There’s a guest cottage?”

“Two. I think he keeps girls in the other one and shuffles them in one at a time.”

“Girls?”

“What, you want the more politically correct ‘women’ ? Hey, it’s still Wire. I don’t know their ages. Anyway, no one is allowed in the recording studio or main house except through some tunnel. It’s spooky here, Myron.”

“Do you know my sister-in-law?”

“Who’s your sister-in-law?”

“Kitty Bolitar. You might know her better as Kitty Hammer. She was at Three Downing with you guys last night.”

“Kitty’s your sister-in-law?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Buzz?”

“Hold on a second.” After a full minute had passed, Buzz came back on the phone. “You know the Teapot?”

“The town pub?”

“Lex will meet you there in half an hour.”

 

 

Myron expected the only pub on an island of the stuffy old-moneys to be like Win’s office—dark woods, burgundy leather, antique wooden globe, decanters, heavy crystal, oriental carpets, maybe paintings of a fox hunt. That wasn’t the case. The Teapot Lodge looked like a neighborhood drinking hole in a seedier section of Irvington, New Jersey. Everything looked worn. The windows were loaded up with neon beer signs. There was sawdust on the floor and a popcorn stand in the corner. There was also a small dance floor with a mirrored disco ball. “Mack the Knife” by Bobby Darin played over the sound system. The dance floor was packed. Age range: wide—from “barely legal” to “foot in grave.” The men wore either blue oxfords with sweaters tied around their shoulders or green blazers Myron had only seen on Masters golf champions. The well-kept, though not surgically or Botox enhanced, women wore pink Lilly Pulitzer tunics and blazing white trousers. The faces were ruddy from inbreeding, exertion, and drink.

Man, this island was weird.

Bobby Darin’s “Mack the Knife” neatly segued into an Eminem and Rihanna duet about watching a lover burn and loving the way said lover lies. It is a cliché that white people can’t dance, but the cliché here was concrete and unshakable. The song may have changed, but the limited dance steps did not alter in any discernible way. Not even the rhythm or lack thereof. Too many of the men snapped when they danced, as if they were Dino and Frank performing at the Sands.

The bartender sported a receding-hairline pompadour and a suspicious smile. “Help you?” he said.

“Beer,” Myron said.

Pompadour just stared at him, waited.

“Beer,” Myron said again.

“Yes, I heard you. I just never heard someone order that before.”

“A beer?”

“Just the word ‘beer.’ It is customary to say a kind. Like Bud or Michelob or something.”

“Oh, what have you got?”

The bartender started ripping off about a million titles. Myron stopped him on the Flying Fish Pale Ale, mostly because he liked the name. The beer ended up being awesome, but Myron wasn’t much of a connoisseur. He grabbed a wooden booth near a group of lovely young, uh, girls-cum-women. It was indeed hard to tell ages anymore. The women were speaking something Scandinavian—Myron wasn’t good enough with foreign languages to know more than that. Several of the ruddy-faced men dragged them out on the dance floor. Nannies, Myron realized, or more specifically, au pairs.

A few minutes later, the pub door flew open. Two large men stomped in as though putting out small brush fires. Both wore aviator sunglasses, jeans, and a leather jacket, even though it was maybe a hundred degrees out. Aviator sunglasses inside a dark pub—talk about trying too hard. One of the men took a step left, the other a step right. The one on the right nodded.

Lex entered, looking understandably embarrassed by the bodyguard spectacle. Myron raised his hand and gave a little wave. The two bodyguards started toward him, but Lex stopped them. They didn’t look happy about it, but they stayed by the door. Lex bounced over and slid into the booth.

“Gabriel’s guys,” Lex said by way of explanation. “He insisted they come too.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a schizo who grows more paranoid by the day, that’s why.”

“By the way, who was the guy at the gate?”

“Which guy?”

Myron described him. The color ebbed from Lex’s face.

“He was at the gate? You must have set off a sensor when you drove in. He’s normally inside.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know. He’s not exactly chummy.”

“You’ve seen him before?”

“I don’t know,” Lex said a little too quickly. “Look, Gabriel doesn’t like me talking about his security. Like I said, he’s paranoid. Forget it; it’s not important.”

Fine with Myron. He wasn’t here to learn about the lifestyle of a rock star. “You want a drink?”

“Nah, we’re working late tonight.”

“So why are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding. We’re working. This is how we always do it. Gabriel and I holed up alone in his studio. Making music.” He glanced back at the two big bodyguards. “So what are you doing here, Myron? I already told you: I’m fine. This doesn’t concern you.”

“This isn’t about just you and Suzze anymore.”

Lex sighed, sat back. He, like lots of aging rockers, had the emaciated thing going on, with skin like weathered tree bark. “What, it’s about you all of a sudden?”

“I want to know about Kitty.”

“Dude, I’m not her keeper either.”

“Just tell me where she is, Lex.”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“You don’t have an address or a phone number?”

Lex shook his head.

“So how did she end up with you at Three Downing?”

“Not just her,” Lex said. “There were, what, a dozen of us.”

“I don’t care about the others. I’m asking how Kitty ended up with you guys.”

“Kitty is an old friend,” Lex said with an exaggerated shrug. “She called out of the blue and said she could use a night out. I told her where we were.”

Myron looked at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

“What?”

“Just called you out of the blue for a night out? Please.”

“Look, Myron, why are you asking me these questions? Why don’t you ask your brother where she is?”

Silence.

“Ah,” Lex said, “I see. So you’re doing this for your bro?”

“No.”

“You know I love to wax philosophical, right?”

“I do.”

“Here is a simple one: Relationships are complicated. Especially matters of the heart. You have to let people work their own stuff out.”

“Where is she, Lex?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

“Did you ask her about Brad?”

“Her husband?” Lex frowned. “Now it’s my turn to say, ‘You’re kidding, right?’ ”

Myron handed him a copy of the still frame he’d gotten off the security camera of the ponytailed guy. “Kitty was with this guy at the club. Do you know him?”

Lex took a look at it and shook his head. “Nope.”

“He was part of your entourage.”

“No,” Lex said, “he wasn’t.” He sighed, picked up a cocktail napkin, started tearing it into strips.

“Tell me what happened, Lex.”

“Nothing happened. I mean, not really.” Lex looked toward the bar. A pudgy man in a fitted golf shirt was chatting up one of the au pairs. Tears for Fears’s “Shout” was on and literally everyone else in the bar yelled “Shout” at the appropriate time. The guys who’d been snapping on the dance floor still snapped.

Myron waited, gave Lex space.

“Look, Kitty called me,” Lex said. “She said she needed to talk. She sounded pretty desperate. You know we go way back. You remember those days, right?”