Public Secrets (31 page)

S
OMETIMES HE SCREAMED
. Sometimes he cried. While Stevie’s body detoxed, new pains snuck in. Little imps of torment, pulsing in the abscesses along his arms, in the tender flesh
he’d abused—between his toes, in his groin. They capered along his skin, first hot, then cold. He could see them, sometimes he could actually see them, with their tiny red eyes and hungry mouths, tap-dancing over his body before they plunged their teeth into him.

Hysteria would follow, with a manic strength that forced the staff to restrain him to the bed. Then he would become quiet, descend into an almost trancelike state where he would stare for hours on end at a single spot on the wall.

When he lapsed into those long silences, he would remember drifting, peacefully, painlessly. Then Emma’s voice, angry, hurt, frightened, demanding that he come back. And he had. Then there had been pain again, and no peace at all.

He begged whoever was in the room with him to let him go, to score for him. He promised outrageous amounts of money then swore viciously when his demands went unanswered. He didn’t want to come back to the world of the living. When he refused to eat, they fed him through a tube.

They used an antihypertensive medication to trick his brain into believing he wasn’t going cold turkey. With that they mixed naltrexone, a nonaddicting opiate antagonist to make his body believe he wasn’t getting high. Stevie craved the seductive hazy escape of heroin and the quick buzz of cocaine.

He was rarely alone, but detested and feared even a ten-minute span of solitude. In those moments, it would be only him and the machines that hummed and grumbled in response to his vital signs.

After two weeks he quieted. But he also became sly. He would wait them out—the tight-lipped bastards that had put him here. He would eat his fruit and vegetables, he would smile and answer all their questions. He would lie to the pretty, cool-eyed psychiatrist. Then he would get out.

He dreamed of scoring again, of filling his veins with that glorious combination of Chinese white and top-grade snow. All that beautiful white powder. He fantasized about it—huge, mountainous piles of beautiful white powder heaped on silver platters. He would scoop it up with both hands, fill himself with it.

He dreamed of killing them, the doctors, the nurses. He dreamed of killing himself Then he would weep again.

They said he’d damaged his heart, and his liver. They said he
was anemic and were ruthlessly dealing with that, and his cross-addiction to heroin and coke. No one called him a junkie. They said he had an addictive personality.

It had been hard not to laugh at that. So he had an addictive personality. No shit, Sherlock. All he wanted was for them to leave him and his personality alone. He was the best fucking guitarist in the world, and had been for twenty years. He was forty-five and twenty-year-old girls still wanted the honor of a few hours in his bed. He was rich, filthy rich. He had a Lamborghini, a Rolls. He bought motorcycles like potato chips. He had a twenty-acre estate in London, a villa in Paris, and a hilltop hideaway in San Francisco. He’d like to see any of the smart-mouthed nurses or holier-than-thou doctors top that.

Had they ever stood onstage and had ten thousand people scream for them? No. But he had. They were jealous, all of them jealous. That’s why they kept him here, away from his fans, away from his music, away from his drugs.

Wallowing in self-pity, he stared at the room. The walls were papered in a soft blue and gray floral. A thick gray carpet covered the floor, and the windows faced south. The matching drapes tried to disguise the fact that the windows were barred. There was a color-coordinated sitting area across the room, two cushioned sofas, and a spoon-back chair. Festive fall flowers sat in a wicker basket on the coffee table. A tasteful reproduction of a nineteenth-century wardrobe held a television, VCR, and stereo system. An entertainment center, Stevie thought bitterly. He wasn’t entertained.

Why had they left him alone so long? Why was he alone?

He felt his breath back up, then release slowly as the door opened.

Visit after visit, Brian tried not to be shocked by his friend’s appearance. He didn’t want to dwell on the limp, graying hair, the lines sunk deep around Stevie’s eyes and mouth. He didn’t want to look at the thin, brittle body—a body that had shrunken with misuse as a man’s shrinks with age.

Most of all, he didn’t want to look at Stevie and see his own future. A rich, pampered, and helpless old man.

“How’s it going?”

Because he was grateful for the company, Stevie’s smile was genuine. “Oh, it’s a barrel of laughs in here. You ought to join me.”

The idea sent a slice of fear up Brian’s spine. “Then you’d have competition for all these long-legged nurses.” He offered a five-pound box of Godiva, a fix for the junkie’s notorious sweet tooth. “You’re looking almost human, son.”

“Yeah. I think Dr. Matthews’s real name is Frankenstein. So what’s going on in the real world?”

They talked uneasily, and much too politely, while Stevie worked his way steadily through the chocolate-coated creams and nuts in the box.

“Pete hasn’t been by in a while,” Stevie said at length.

“He’s pretty tied up.” There was no use mentioning that Pete had his hands full dealing with the press, and the promoters. Devastation’s American leg of the tour had been canceled.

“You mean he’s pissed.”

“Some.” Brian smiled and wished desperately for a cigarette. And a drink. “When has that ever bothered you?”

“It doesn’t.” But it did. Every slight hurt like a seeping wound. “I don’t know what he’s being so tight-assed about. He got out the press release. Viral pneumonia complicated by exhaustion, right?”

“It seemed the best way,” Brian began.

“Sure, sure, no problem. No fucking problem. Wouldn’t want the public to know old Stevie mixed one speedball too many and thought about blowing his brains out.”

“Come on, Stevie.”

“Hey, it’s cool.” He blinked back tears of self-pity. “Only it burns me, Bri, really burns me. He doesn’t want to come see the junkie. He doled out the smack when he was afraid I couldn’t perform without it, but now he doesn’t want to see me.”

“You never told me Pete scored drugs for you.”

Stevie dropped his eyes. That had been a little secret. There was always one more little secret. “Now and then, when things got tight and my sources dried up. The show must go on, right? The fucking show always goes on. So he’d score a little H for me, all very disapproving, then when the show was over, he’d put me back in one of these places.”

“None of us knew it was going to get this bad.”

“No, none of us knew.” He began to drum his fingers on the top of the candy box. “Remember Woodstock, Bri? Christ, what a time. You and me sitting in the woods, dropping acid, tripping
out, listening to the music. Jesus, what music. How’d we get here?”

“I wish I knew.” Brian dug his hands out of his pockets, then pushed them in again. “Look, Stevie, you’re going to pull out of this. Hell, you’re right in fashion now. Everybody’s drying out, cleaning out.” He worked up another smile. “It’s the eighties thing to do.”

“That’s me, always on the cutting edge.” He grabbed Brian’s hand. “Listen, it’s hard, you know. Man, it’s really hard.”

“I know.”

“Man, you can’t know ’cause you’re not here.” He swallowed the anger and resentment. He couldn’t afford to show either now. “Maybe I’ll do it this time, Bri, but I need help.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“Okay, okay, so I’m here.” Goddammit, he was sick of platitudes and good wishes. “But it’s not enough. I need something, Bri, just a taste of something. You could slip in a couple grams of coke—just to get me through.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked. With a sinking heart, Brian knew it wouldn’t be the last. “I can’t do it, Stevie.”

“Christ, Bri, just a couple grams. Nothing major. All they give me in here’s Tinkertoy drugs. It’s like going cold turkey with aspirin.”

Brian pulled his hand away and turned around. He couldn’t bear to look at those dark, haunted eyes. Pleading eyes. “I’m not going to score coke for you, Stevie. The doctors say it’d be like putting a gun to your head.”

“I already tried that.” Fighting tears, Stevie pressed both hands to his face. “All right, no coke. You could get me something else. Some Dolophine. It’s a good drug, Bri. If it was good enough for the Nazis, it’s good enough for me.” He began to whine, staring at Brian’s back. “It’s just a substitute, man. You’ve done it for me before so what’s the big fucking deal? It’ll keep me straight.”

Brian sighed. When he turned, opening his mouth to refuse yet again, he saw Emma in the doorway. She stood like a statue, her lush hair caught back in a braid, baggy blue pants hitched with white suspenders lying on a crimson shirt. There were big gold hoops at her ears, and she carried a game of Scrabble. Brian thought she looked sixteen, until he saw her eyes.

They were cold. A woman’s cold, accusing eyes.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No.” Brian stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’ve got to get on.”

“I’d like to talk with you.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke, but moved to the opposite side of Stevie’s bed. “Maybe you could wait outside for me. I won’t be long. The doctor said Stevie needed rest.”

“All right.” It was ridiculous, Brian thought, but he felt like a child about to be scolded. “I’ll see you in a day or two, Stevie.”

“Right.” He said nothing else, but his eyes begged as Brian left the room.

“I bought you this.” Emma laid the board game over Stevie’s bony knees. “I figured you could practice up so you could try to beat me.”

“I always beat you.”

“When I was a kid, and because you cheated.” She lowered the bedguard to sit beside him. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

He couldn’t keep his hands still. His fingers played a nervous tattoo on the box. “I guess not.”

“So you want some drugs.” She said it so matter-of-factly, it took a moment for it to register. His fingers picked up the rhythm against the box as he looked at her.

“What was the name of it again? I’ll write it down. I imagine I can get my hands on some in a few hours.”

“No.”

“You said you wanted it. What was the name?” She’d taken out a pad and held a pencil poised over it.

There was hope, and a desperate greed, before shame flushed his skin. For a moment, he looked almost healthy. “I don’t want you involved.”

She laughed at that, a low, amused sound that made the sweat break out on the back of his neck. “Don’t be soft, Stevie. I’ve been involved since I was three. Do you really believe I had no idea what went on at the parties, on the tours? Give me some credit.”

He had believed it, because he’d needed to. She was, and had always been, the quiet light of innocence in all the noise and madness. “I—I’m tired, Emma.”

“Tired? Need a lift? A little buzz to take the edge off reality? Give me the name, Stevie. After all, I saved your life. It seems only just that I should help you lose it.”

“I didn’t ask you to save my life, goddamn you.” He lifted a hand as if to push her away, then let it fall limply on the sheet. “Why didn’t you leave me the hell alone, Emma? Why didn’t you just leave me alone?”

“My mistake,” she said briskly. “But we can do our best to fix it right up.” She leaned closer, bringing him a whiff of soft scent as her voice and eyes hardened. “I’ll get the fucking drug for you, Stevie. I’ll get it. I’ll feed it to you. I’ll push the needle in whatever vein you might have left. Hell, maybe I’ll even try it myself.”

“No!”

“Why not?” She lifted a brow as if amused. “You said it was a good drug. Isn’t that what you said to Da? It’s a good drug. If it’s good enough for you, it’s good enough for me.”

“No. Goddammit. Look what I’ve done to myself.” He held out his scarred and scabbed arms.

“I see what you’ve done to yourself.” She threw the pad and pencil across the room. “I see exactly what you’ve done to yourself. You’re weak and pitiful and sad.”

“Miss!” A nurse came through the door. “You’ll have to—”

“Get out of here.” Emma whirled on her, fists clenched, eyes blazing. “Get the hell out. I’m not finished yet.”

She left. The hurried sound of her retreating feet echoed.

“Leave me alone,” Stevie murmured. The tears were spilling out of his eyes, seeping through the fingers he pressed to his face.

“Oh, I’ll leave you alone, all right. When I’m done. I found you lying on the floor, in your own blood and vomit, beside the gun and the needle. Couldn’t you make up your mind which way you wanted to kill yourself, Stevie? It was just too damn bad, wasn’t it, that I didn’t want you to die. I pumped life back into you, right there on the floor. I cried because I was afraid I wouldn’t be quick enough or good enough or smart enough to save you. But you were breathing when they took you away, and I thought it mattered.”

“What do you want!” he shouted. “What the hell do you want?”

“I want you to think—think about someone else for a change. How do you think I would have felt if I’d found you dead? Or Da—what would it have been like for him? You have everything, but you’re so hell-bent to self-destruct you could have twice as much and it wouldn’t matter.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Oh, that’s a poor excuse, poor and pitiful and sad and completely suitable to what you’ve made yourself.” She was near tears now herself, but she fought them back, letting the bubbling anger pour out instead. “I’ve loved you ever since I can remember. I’ve watched you play and year after year been astonished by what you’re capable of creating. Now you’re going to sit there and tell me that you just can’t help killing yourself. That’s fine then, but don’t expect the people who love you to stand and watch.”

She started out, only to be stopped in the doorway by a petite brunette. “Miss McAvoy? I’m Dr. Haynes, Mr. Nimmons’s psychiatrist.”

Emma’s body braced, like a boxer readying for a new match. “I’m on my way out, Doctor.”

“Yes, I can see that.” The woman smiled and offered a hand. “Nice show, dear. I recommend a brisk walk, then a hot bath.” She moved by Emma to go to Stevie’s bed. “Ah, Scrabble. One of my favorites. Care for a game, Mr. Nimmons?”