Head Games

by Thomas B Cavanagh

  Fulfill your destiny.

  Underneath, TJ had written, Be all you can be. Always believe in yourself. —TJ

  “Any idea why he sent it?” I asked.

  Ben shrugged. “I think he’s trying to be inspirational. TJ’s kind of, y’know, sensitive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Y’know. He’s real emotional. Happened before the last tour, too. He came back from the desert talking about his cleansed spirit and chakras and stuff.”

  “Did he send you a card like this then?” I said, holding it up.

  Ben considered a moment. “No. Don’t think so.”

  “So this is different.”

  “Yeah. I guess. I just figured it was a new twist on the same old.”

  I made a noncommittal grunt. “Where do you think he is?”

  “Probably back in the desert. Or in some cave with his legs folded. Hell if I know.”

  We chatted for another minute or two, but I had everything useful out of Ben I was going to get. We stepped back into the dance studio.

  Holden, Miguel, and the choreographer were teaching Jennifer to perform the dance moves in the number they were rehearsing. She stood between the two Boyz, while the choreographer stood in front. All three faced the mirrored wall, stepping in unison.

  “One two three, left,” said the choreographer. “Twist, kick, three four. Arm, elbow, head, right. Good, Jennifer!”

  I froze, struck by the sight of my daughter dancing between the Boyz. A vision flashed in my mind of Jennifer, ten years older, in a white gown, dancing at her wedding reception. The vision was gone in an instant, but I felt my heartbeat quicken. It was a scene I would never live to see.

  Ben stepped around me and walked back to the group. But I was immobilized. If I moved, I was afraid my knees would buckle and I’d crumble to the floor.

  George clicked a few shots with my camera of Jennifer dancing. Then he nodded to Miguel. Ben took Miguel’s place in the routine and didn’t miss a step. Jennifer glanced over and saw me. Her eyes were wide and she was trying desperately to hide an ecstatic grin. She looked as if she’d just won the lottery.

  Miguel passed into the room behind me. I couldn’t stop watching Jennifer. Her gangly fifteen-year-old frame was surprisingly graceful. I felt that, in some indefinable way, I was witnessing the end of her childhood. It was a moment I didn’t want to end, as delicate as a soap bubble. If I looked away, the bubble would pop and be forever gone.

  “Hey, man, you coming?” It was Miguel in the doorway behind me.

  “Yeah,” I said, watching for another moment and then closing my eyes.

  * * *

  Miguel sighed deeply and his lips formed a pained smile.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “What d’you mean?” I asked. “You don’t know if you got a card or you don’t know where it is?”

  He sighed again. “I don’t know if I should show you.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Yeah? Why not?”

  Miguel got up from the couch, the same one Ben had sat on, and paced back and forth. Finally, he said, “It’s personal. TJ sent it to me, not you.”

  “Look, you wanna find him or not?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then where’s the card?”

  Miguel stopped pacing and looked hard at me. He wasn’t angry. He was struggling internally, trying to decide what to do. Then he vanished into his private dressing room and came back out with a card in an envelope. Same postmark date and zip. I pulled out the card.

  It was a black-and-white image of an urban sidewalk. A crack ran down the middle. Sprouting up through the crack, forcing its way through the concrete, was a bright yellow rose, the only color in the picture. Inside, the text said:

  Never give up. Never.

  TJ had written, Never give up. Always remember. —Thomas James.

  I read it twice. This card was basically the same as the others. But different, too. The signature, for one thing. Thomas James, not TJ. Why?

  The flash of a memory. TJ’s apartment. The photographs I took from the office. There were several images of the band, but … but the only band member featured alone was Miguel. And now Miguel was the one to receive the card with the special signature. Coincidence?

  Something was scratching at the back of my mind, a notion that I couldn’t yet form. What was it?

  “What are you supposed to always remember?” I asked.

  Miguel looked at his feet. “I’m really not sure,” he said softly.

  “Nothing specific?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The photographs flashed in my mind again. The only band member in a picture by himself was Miguel. There was something else …

  “Why did he sign it Thomas James?” I asked.

  “That’s his name.”

  “If you say so. I’ve only ever heard him called TJ.”

  “What do you think TJ stands for?” he said, finally looking at me, a glint of irritation in his eye.

  “Yeah, but nobody calls him Thomas James. Right?”

  Miguel looked down again.

  “Right?” I repeated.

  “I do,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Sometimes.”

  And then it hit me. In the picture of Miguel alone, he was asleep in a hotel bed. He was shirtless, eyes closed, wrapped up in rumpled sheets.

  I sighed.

  “Look,” I said as gently as I could, which probably wasn’t very gentle. “I’m not here to pry into your relationship with TJ. It’s none of my business. But Eli’s hired me to find him before the tour starts, and if you have any information about where he’s hiding, you need to tell me. I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut about everything but where he is.”

  “Eli,” Miguel said, disgusted. “Eli’s the one who drove him away. If something happens to TJ, it’ll be on Eli.”

  “Whoa. Wait a sec. Slow down. Eli knows about you and TJ?”

  “Knows? Of course he knows. He’s the one who forced me to—”

  Miguel caught himself, fighting back a surge of anger, probably wondering how much he should say to me. But his blood was up, making him want to talk, and I knew I would have a short window to get whatever info I needed.

  “What did Eli force you to do, Miguel?”

  He put his face in his hands. “He’s right. I know that. I mean, look who buys the records and the magazines. They’re all girls. They have this image of who we are. If we don’t deliver what the audience wants…” Miguel rubbed his eyes.

  “So what did Eli do—tell you two to knock it off or the band was gonna dissolve?”

  “Something like that. Except he came to each of us separately.” Miguel smiled to himself. “TJ told him to go to hell.”

  I took a step toward him. “But you didn’t.”

  Miguel’s smile faded. “I know these boy bands only last so long. We’ve got a year or two, maybe more, before something new comes along. I plan to milk it for all it’s worth before it’s gone. I don’t want to do anything that’ll end it early.”

  I took another step. “So you went to TJ and told him it was over.”

  Miguel nodded, the memory clearly painful. “He told me I was a coward. And a liar. I told him that we could wait. Boyz Klub would run its course. We could start over then. He said it would be too late. That I would have already lost my soul.”

  “So he was pretty mad?”

  “At first. But I know he was hurt.” Miguel wiped a tear from his left eye. “So was I, man. But what could I do without risking everything? What could I do?”

  “When was this?”

  “Couple weeks ago. A few days later he disappeared.”

  “Where is he, Miguel?”

  “I don’t know, man. I wish I did.”

  “Come on, Miguel. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know!” he said, his voice rising. But he appeared to be less angry at me than generally frustrated that he didn’t know. I think I believed him. “We weren’t exa
ctly talking when he left.”

  “Okay. Okay.” I sat in a lounge chair across from him and rubbed my temples, trying to organize my thoughts. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do you have any guess where he could be?”

  Miguel shook his head wearily. “I’ve tried, man. I’ve thought until my head aches. If I knew, I’d probably have gone to him myself.”

  I laid my head back on the top of the chair cushion. My thoughts were racing. I quickly tried to assimilate this new twist. “When you said that Eli knew, that you blame him, you also said that if anything happens to TJ, it’ll be Eli’s fault. What do you mean? What could happen to TJ?”

  Miguel’s face contorted and I thought he might bawl. He reached back and produced a folded piece of paper from his pants pocket. He handed it to me.

  “This came in the card,” he said, grimacing.

  I unfolded it and read TJ’s meticulous penmanship:

  Some days bring sunrises and some days bring sunsets. And each day is filled with greetings and partings. Good-byes need not always be sad. Although I believe that there could have been more, I celebrate the time we did have together. And I cherished being an artist and expressing myself through music. Now that I’m gone, try to remember me like that: as an artist. I’ll soon cast off my chains and finally, thankfully, be rid of the burdens placed on me by society … by expectations … by life. What will lift my wings and carry me skyward is the memory of your breath upon my cheek and our voices raised together in song. Adios, Miguel. Do not forget me.—Thomas James.

  When I finished reading, I looked up and saw Miguel watching me intently, his face pained. Clearly, he wanted to know if I understood. I think I did.

  It had been a while, and I don’t ever recall reading one with quite so much imagery, but I was pretty sure I recognized a suicide note when I saw one.

  CHAPTER 11

  George told me that no one else at Global Talent had received a card from TJ. Only the band. But, clearly, Eli knew more than he was letting on.

  I left a dazed Jennifer in the reception-area lounge. She was still on an incredulous high after meeting and dancing with the members of her favorite band. I expected the big question of why I was meeting privately with Ben and Miguel, but she remained quiet. She appeared to be savoring her moment, making it last longer, like Cinderella humming a happy tune on the way home from the ball. Besides, the pissed expression on my face probably discouraged open discourse.

  I strode down the lush hallway covered with photos and ignored the assistant manning the desk outside Eli’s palatial office.

  “Hey—,” she said as I whooshed past. I leaned on Eli’s door and pushed into the office.

  He was standing in front of the window wall, hands on hips, talking to himself.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what she says. I won’t play those games. We’re in L.A. on the fourteenth and she needs to book us now or we go with another show.… No.… I said no!”

  Then I noticed the thin cord hanging from his ear and realized he was talking on the cell phone tucked away on his belt. I felt the presence of the heavyset assistant behind me. Still talking, Eli saw us from the corner of his eye and turned his head.

  “Well, then have him call me,” he said, looking directly at me. “I’d love to talk to him.… No, that’s not confirmed yet.… Soon. If I knew when, I’d say so, goddamn it. Hold on.” His eyebrows went up at me. “You find TJ?”

  “We need to talk,” I said.

  “You’re damn right.” Eli nodded at the assistant, who backed out of the office, closing the door. “Hey, Billy, I gotta call you back. Ten minutes.… I know.… I know. Don’t go anywhere. I mean it.… Yeah.”

  He pressed a button on the phone and narrowed his eyes at me. “So what’s up, slick? George tells me someone approached you.”

  “I think we have a problem.”

  “No kidding. If the press suspect TJ’s missing, just wait until the rumors start flying. It’s probably already on the Internet message boards. That’s why you gotta find him now. To nip all the nonsense in the bud.”

  “Were you gonna tell me about TJ and Miguel, or was this some sort of test?”

  Eli opened his mouth, already preparing some smart comment, when my question smacked him in the teeth. He closed his mouth. Removed the cell’s earphone. Then he sat in a chair and sighed, holding the arms and leaning back.

  “Shit,” he said. “You’re good. I’ve managed to keep that a secret for more than a year. I can only think of five people who know. I don’t even think Ben and Holden know.” I said nothing and sat in a chair opposite him. “How did you find out?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Didn’t it occur to you that TJ ran off right after you told them to knock it off?”

  “Sure.”

  “And you didn’t think it was important enough to tell me?”

  “Tell you?” He stifled a mirthless chuckle. “I struggle for a year to keep that a secret and I’m supposed to blab it to some guy off the street five minutes after I meet him? George doesn’t even know, for crissakes. I wasn’t gonna say anything in front of him. And now look. Somebody’s already leaked that he’s missing.”

  “Is that why you hired me? TJ wasn’t exactly gonna take your call, or anyone’s from Global. You thought someone from the outside might be able to reach him.”

  “Generally. Plus, George said you knew what you were doing. Seems he was right.”

  “It’s hard for me to do my job if you’re hiding things from me.”

  “Hiding? What does TJ’s sex life have to do with this? Just tell me where he is, not who he’s doing.”

  I leaned forward onto my knees. “There’s a big difference between running away to recharge your batteries and running away to escape your life. In this kinda case, motive can be everything. The why could tell us where.”

  Eli shook his head. “Okay, Einstein. Now you know why. Tell me where.”

  “Maybe if I knew this from the start, I’d have found him by now. At the moment all I’ve got is a general suspicion.”

  “So, go get him, slick.”

  “What else don’t I know?” I said, giving him a pointed look.

  “What else is there to know? You already found the one thing I was trying to keep secret. Anything else is small-time next to that.”

  “Let me be the judge of what’s small-time.”

  Eli shook his head again. “There’s nothin’ else.” He paused, then looked sideways out the window. “It’s no secret TJ and I didn’t get along. We argued over the types of songs we should record. About how the music videos should be shot. Everything. And, privately, we argued about him and Miguel. TJ’s a major pain in my ass.”

  “But you’re willing to pay me a quarter mil to find him.”

  “This is bigger than me. Bigger than TJ. This is corporate sponsorship. This is megamillions. This is a sold-out worldwide concert tour. This is … an industry.” He took a deep breath. “Whether I like it or not, I need TJ on that tour. He gets twenty percent more fan mail than the other members of the band. For God’s sake, don’t tell them that. They couldn’t possibly read all their mail so we only give them selected stacks to look at. But I get the stats. I know.” Eli paused and rubbed his face, an atypically weary gesture for his normally frenetic manner. “I need an innocuous, heterosexual TJ on that plane when we kick off the tour. And I need you to find him.”

  I expected him to punctuate his last statement with a jaunty slick or ace or Sherlock or something, but he didn’t. He just looked at me with hangdog eyes, uncharacteristically vulnerable. I suddenly believed that he didn’t honestly know who the guy in the elevator was. Eli seemed to have aged ten years since I’d walked into the office.

  I seriously pondered quitting. As I’ve said before, terminal cancer imbues in one an incredibly low tolerance for bullshit. The money would be nice for Jennifer, but it wouldn’t do me any good in my pine box. I could walk away.

  But then I thought about Miguel�
�s note. If that really was a suicide note, and it wasn’t already too late, I was the only chance TJ had. I now had a new reason to find him: to save him.

  I had quickly grown to admire TJ in the past few days and believed the world would be a lesser place without him. And I couldn’t bear to think about what his death would do to Jennifer, let alone the millions of fans just like her.

  I considered telling Eli about the note, but I couldn’t think of what good it would do. Even if I found TJ alive, it seemed pretty clear he was through with Boyz Klub. Based on what I’d learned about TJ’s character, I didn’t think he’d be persuaded to change his mind. Eli was on the road to some serious expectations adjustments. Even if I managed to find TJ, the only victory would be if he was still actually breathing. I got up from my chair and looked down at Eli.

  “I’ll find him,” I said. “I suggest you pray I do before it’s too late.”

  He nodded slightly, mistakenly thinking that I was talking about the start of the concert tour.

  * * *

  Jennifer was quiet as I pulled my truck out of the parking garage and onto a busy downtown street. The tall bank buildings stood like glass canyon walls on either side of us and reflected our passing in distorted, staccato frames.

  “I’ll drop you at the apartment and then I’ve gotta go out for a while,” I said.

  Jennifer was looking out the window. With her face turned away, I couldn’t see her expression. She remained silent, but she radiated an energy—an electric charge—that was palpable inside the cab of my truck.

  “Jennifer?”

  “Okay,” she said, still looking out the window.

  I made my way through the grid of one-way streets until I found the on-ramp for I-4, Orlando’s aortic artery. I pulled out onto the highway and immediately braked to avoid a flatbed truck full of lawn equipment.

  “Why did you talk to Ben and Miguel alone?” Jennifer asked. Her tone was mild, idly curious.

  I was expecting the question. “George asked me to do some background interviews of the band. Routine security stuff. George and I go way back at OPD. Honestly, I think he gave me the job because I have cancer.”