by T. N. Robb
Jesse tugged at his jacket until it was off, then slipped her hands under his T-shirt, and down to his belt. Her fingers fumbled with it, and he knew she wasn't kidding. She was as fast as the Merc, and ready to ride.
FOUR
The Next Morning
The coffee machine was percolating noisily in the bathroom off the reception area of the Cleary Agency. Dottie, Cleary's stenographer, stood next to the machine, reading a line from the script in her hand as she waited for the coffee.
"Sergeant Friday stepped out of the patrol car, and shoulder to shoulder with Gannon, they crossed the merciless highway. The hit-and-run victim lay pitifully on the hot asphalt, a look of dread and surprise on her face."
Dottie looked into the mirror above the sink. "A look of dread and surprise, huh? Dum, da dum dum, dummmm."
She strained to get her face just right, spreading her arms out as if sprawled on the hot asphalt. Her red sweater tightened across her ample chest, and crept up over her midriff. She experimented with first having her eyes closed and her mouth open, and then her eyes open and her mouth closed. Then, stealing a glance through her closed eyes, she attempted to capture the right look. The result was something akin to Lon Chaney as the hunchback being tortured during the Inquisition.
"Oh, God," she murmured. "She looked surprisingly dreadful. That's what it should say."
Mercifully she was interrupted by the coffee machine as it quaked in a final burp and spasm, and settled down, its task accomplished. Dottie filled a cup and carried it over to Cleary, who was talking on the phone while he shaved with his Norelco. He looked beat, but the shave was helping a little. A thin plume of white smoke undulated from the burning cigarette in the ashtray.
"Thanks, Charlie. I'll take a rain check on the breakfast." He hung up the phone, took a drag from the cigarette, then a sip from the coffee, and continued shaving.
"Looks like the lab report won't help us much. What have you got on that post office box?"
Dottie caught a glimpse of herself in the wall of architectural glass that separated the office from the reception area. She absentmindedly practiced her hit-and-run victim's facial expression. "My girlfriend down there says it's paid for by check every month. There's no name on it, but"—she made another attempt at 'dreadful surprise'—"I got the account number."
Cleary noticed her grimace and frowned. "I need a little more to go on than that, Dottie."
"I'm working on it. The banks don't open for another two minutes."
Cleary stopped shaving and just stared at her. Dottie was sharp, but eccentric. He suspected the faces she was making had something to do with her burgeoning acting career.
He had met Dottie on his first day in the office after his brother's murder. She had been filling in as a temporary steno, and had been broken up over Nick's death. He had hired her for the month, and then kept her on. Nick had allowed her time off to pursue her acting career, and he had done the same.
Cleary shut off his shaver. "Dottie, you feeling okay this morning?"
"Yeah, pretty good. Just a little nervous. You know how it is, preaudition jitters; even big stars have them. I guess it's better to have them than not have them. If I didn't have them, I might get up there cocky and all and then flub my lines. If you're jittery, you're more careful."
She pushed a stray strand of dark hair off her cheek and fixed it back into the towering beehive on her head. Her dark eyes regarded Cleary in the glass wall, then she turned around. "Cleary, you were a cop. For my motivation and stuff, if a chick such as myself were run over by a Lincoln Continental, would she have her mouth open and her eyes closed, or you know, the other way around?"
Cleary pondered her question a moment. Before he answered, someone else did. "Great, her TV debut and she's appearing as roadkill."
Dottie slowly turned to the door where Johnny Betts stood, leaning against the frame, a wise-guy look on his face. Her eyes narrowed to slits. "I just have to be roadkill for a few minutes. You have to dress for the role every morning, Betts."
She turned back to Cleary, trying to hide her hurt feelings. He played it totally straight. "Well, she would definitely have a real peaceful look, angelic almost, I'd have to say."
"Oh. Like this, right?"
She tried it, and of course she looked lovely, her eyes closed and her lips just barely parted.
Cleary smiled. "Perfect."
Pleased with herself, she turned and walked toward the door. "Did you forget to walk your rat today, Betts?"
Betts frowned, thinking, but by the time he was ready with a comeback, she had closed the door to the reception room. He shrugged. "What's eating her?"
"Where the hell have you been?"
"I died and went to heaven."
"You look like hell."
"Heard I missed out on some fireworks. What was his name, Hammond?" He devoured one of Cleary's doughnuts, and picked up another.
Cleary nodded and sat forward, stabbing out his cigarette. "Yeah. He wanted me to find the master tapes of Billy Ray's new album."
"They stole 'Blue Hotel'? Damn. That's a major loss, man. What have you got on it so far?"
"Nothing. But until I do, I want you to look after him and his manager. Here's the address."
Betts grinned. "It'll be a pleasure." He stuck the scrap of paper in his pocket, and jammed the last of the doughnut in his mouth. He was about to open the door when Dottie beat him to it. She walked into the office, and glanced over at Betts. "Her Blondness has asked me to deliver a message to His Royal Pompadour. She wishes to 'itsplay.'"
Cleary watched Betts hustle out into the reception room. Through the open door he could see a blonde waiting, looking bored and restless. She stood up, said something to him. He motioned to the exit, took her hand, and they strolled out.
"Johnny," Cleary called after him.
"Yeah?" he said, stepping in front of Jesse as if to hide her.
"Touch base every couple of hours, will ya?" he said, just to make it clear that Betts was supposed to be working, not playing around with his new friend.
"It looks like your young assistant is dividing his allegiances," Dottie said. "I had an interesting little chat out there with his newfound friend. She's as weird as he is. They're made for each other."
He was going to ask why she, of all people, thought the girl was weird, but decided he didn't want to hear it. "You think she's all right?"
"You think he is? Personally I don't know what she sees in him," she remarked. She was still stung by Betts's ribbing, and maybe a bit jealous, too, Cleary thought.
It was the other way around for Cleary. He didn't know what Betts saw in the blonde. But what the hell. Each to his own and all that.
The phone rang, and she picked it up. She listened a moment, asked for a name. She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, and looked at Cleary. "Some guy wants to talk to you, won't give his name. Wait'll you hear this one. Sounds like a robot or something." She handed him the receiver.
"Yeah?" Cleary said.
"I saw you last night, Cleary...in the alley." The voice really did sound mechanical.
"Who is this?"
"None of your business. I saw you, Cleary."
"Prove it to me."
The mechanical voice laughed. "'Hey, Cleary, get used to the music. It's here to stay.' Then he went boom. His head landed on the roof."
Cleary was stunned. He didn't respond.
"You were lucky I didn't get you, too. Don't know if your luck is going to last, though."
"What do you want?"
"It's not what I want. It all depends on what you want You want to live, Cleary?"
"I'm listening."
"You and your hillbilly kid stay out of this. Otherwise, they'll bury you in a shoebox. I hope you're listening, Cleary."
FIVE
Feedback
The bright, hot L.A. sunlight was beating down on the funky garage, heating up the small room inside where a rockabilly band fresh from Texas was playing
on hopes and dreams and raw energy. Everything seemed to vibrate to the sound, including the egg cartons stapled to the tar-paper walls in an attempt to absorb the piercing decibels. Patches of plaster had crumbled and fallen off the ceiling here and there.
The band had a lot of heart and uncorralled talent, which made up for their lack of experience. They were led by a lead guitar who sang with a Texas accent much deeper than Billy Ray's, and backed by drums, a beat-up, ratty bass fiddle, and an out-of-tune piano. A cheap, borrowed, one-quarter-inch tape recorder recorded everything, mistakes and all.
Betts was sitting with Jesse on the hood of his Mercury, which was half-in, half-out of the garage. Next to' the Merc, Billy Ray was leaning on the hood of his turquoise blue '57 Bel Air. The three of them were watching the band as if it were a movie at a drive-in. All they needed, Betts thought, was popcorn and Cokes.
As if reading his mind, Jesse hopped up, and strolled over to a bucket of ice and grabbed a Coke. She opened it and stood there in front of the band as if she couldn't get close enough to the sound of the driving guitar, the pounding piano, and the beat of the bass and drums.
Betts admired Jesse's profile in her tight capri pants, blond hair pulled back and tumbling over her shoulders. He wasn't so sure yet if she was the settling-down kind of woman he had had in mind, but hey, it was a start.
The last twelve hours were like a dream—the girl, and now playing bodyguard to Billy Ray. He couldn't imagine a better gig to get out of Cleary. Still he had been a bit apprehensive when he told Jesse what he was going to do today. "Crazy," she had said. "Let's go."
"Ah, wait a minute. You think Billy Ray's gonna dig me bopping by to guard him and bringin' along his old honey? Sounds like a drag for him."
She had looked at Betts as if he were from another planet. "What's your problem, man? Billy Ray's cool, you know. You don't have his number down yet if you think he's the type who gets all weirded out about seeing an ol' lady from his past. Especially me."
We'll see, Betts had thought.
Now he looked over at Billy Ray, who was fingering a gold guitar-shaped pendant he wore around his neck. There was a distant look on his face, like maybe he was thinking back to when his band had been unpolished, and made up for it with enthusiasm. Or maybe he was thinking back to when he and Jesse had something going.
He sensed Betts watching him, glanced at him, leaned over and cleared his throat as if he were about to make a speech. "Never had a bodyguard before. Kinda different." He nodded toward the bulge in Betts's jacket where his sawed-off twelve gauge was packed. "Hope that's not too uncomfortable."
Betts shrugged. The twelve gauge was uncomfortable, but he sure wasn't going to let Billy Ray know about it. He looked at Jesse, then back to Billy Ray. "Don't wanna cramp your style. You know what I mean?"
"Listen, man, any fool with eyes can see you two got a good thing going. That's cool with me. What we had... well, that's yesterday's news."
Betts nodded. "She told me you two split up after you hit town."
"Yeah, it got pretty stormy. I guess she had me mistaken for somebody else."
Betts glanced at Jesse, who was moving to the rockabilly beat in a way that reminded him of how they had melded gears last night in the backseat of the Merc. He felt like the luckiest guy in the world.
"She's like a two-dollar pistol, Johnny. You grab a hold of that girl, you can get burned."
Betts wondered exactly what that meant. At the moment, he couldn't see anything wrong with the way Jesse either looked or acted. He felt like asking Billy Ray to explain, but it wasn't exactly the sort of thing you asked about a chick who was standing right in front of you.
Jesse headed back to the cars with a couple of Cokes just as Dwayne, Billy Ray's guitar player, walked into the garage. She handed Betts one of them, and snapped her fingers. "They're hot, those guys."
"We better hit it if we're going to make that recording session," Dwayne said to Billy Ray.
"You were right about these cats, Dwayne. They got something. I feel it." He looked over at Jesse. "Ain't that right?"
She grinned. "Yeah. They remind me of the way you used to play back home."
The words seemed to fall into the air and then hang there; no one said anything for a moment. Then Billy Ray slid off the car, walked over to the band, said something, waved. He hopped into his convertible with Dwayne and screeched out of the garage. Betts climbed into the Merc with Jesse and gave chase. "Hope you didn't get him mad."
She shrugged. "Hey, I just told him the truth. He knows it, I know it. So what? Nothing wrong with the truth. If you can't take the truth once in a while, you're screwed. That's how it is."
* * *
When Betts and Jesse arrived at the studio, the rest of the band was set up and ready to play. There was an exchange of looks that told Betts the guys were a little puzzled by Jesse being here.
The control room door opened, and Betts saw a guy he didn't like. The man didn't even have to open his mouth for him to know it, either. He didn't like the way the guy was dressed with his fancy ascot, how he walked with his chest all puffed out, or how he was glaring at him.
"Billy Ray, I told you not to bring your fans into the studio. Especially today of all days, after what happened last night."
"Tommy, the detective sent him over here."
"What detective?"
"Cleary, the private eye. This is Johnny Betts. He's my bodyguard."
The man stared at him a moment, considering what Billy Ray had said. "I see." He nodded to Betts, but didn't extend his hand. "Okay, let's get going. We can wrap it up today."
"That's Tommy Slade, the other producer," Jesse whispered to Betts. "You see, they're all jerks."
Betts and Jesse leaned against the wall, waiting for the band to start playing. To pass the time, Betts discreetly ran his hand down Jesse's back and over her soft, round buttocks wrapped in the tight capris. He rubbed the back of her thighs, and started to slip his hand between them when she grabbed his wrist. She leaned over, kissed him lightly on the lips. "Don't start me going now, Johnny." She breathed in his ear. "Wait till later. I'm all yours, you know."
The band ripped into a new song Betts had never heard. Dwayne and Billy were still cranked up from the garage band and were getting in their licks, playing it hot, and enjoying the hell out of it. Betts dug the new tune. Jesse was tapping her fingers against her leg. The place vibrated. Then the moment was shattered by a voice from the control booth.
"Cut! Cut! Cut! Hold it!"
The band stopped and looked up at the control booth. Through the window, Betts could see Slade shaking his head. "Billy Ray, what is this?" He smiled. "This isn't what we discussed."
"Whaddya talkin' about? It's my music," he said defiantly. "It's what I'm about."
"This hillbilly stuff, the singing through your nose, the other guy there, slapping at the bass... and you pulling on that tremolo bar—"
"It's the way I play."
"Play it the other way, Billy Ray. Okay, let's go again now."
Billy Ray didn't move. He glared up at Slade. "I already changed my music too damn much. I don't see how I can change it any more."
After a long, tense moment, Slade spoke into the microphone in a low, serious voice. "Come on in here, Billy Ray. I think we should have another talk."
Jesse shot Johnny a look as Dwayne grimly parked his guitar and lit a cigarette. Jesse leaned over toward Betts. "The smaller the cowboy, the bigger the hat."
Dwayne strolled over to them. "Billy Ray will straighten him right out."
Betts watched as Billy Ray stepped into the control booth. "We're trying to make a hit record here," Slade said, forgetting to turn off the microphone. "Okay? All that hollering or yodeling, or whatever it is, makes normal kids uncomfortable. You see what I mean? That does not make for a major hit."
"The folks at the club sure seemed to like it last night."
"That club holds one hundred and forty-eight people, ninety-eight perce
nt of which were misfits, criminals, or disturbed teenagers. We want better demographics than that, Billy Ray, and bigger numbers."
Slade heard feedback from the mike, and realized they were being overheard through the speakers. He flipped off the mike switch.
In the studio, Betts, Jesse, and the band watched them talking, reading their body language as Billy Ray stiffened defensively.
"Archie always told me to play it the way I felt it," Billy Ray said.
"Listen, Archie was my partner, and I loved the guy. But he's gone now, and I've got to do what I think is right for Silhouette Records."
"Maybe I should go play my music for someone else if that means changing my music, and ruining it."
"Like where, those pissy little gin mills you started in... down in Lubbock?" Slade howled with laughter. "Be my guest."
Betts could tell by the way Slade was glaring and pointing at Billy Ray that he was getting tough with him. But then, what could you expect from a jerk like Slade? At heart, Betts knew, he was nothing but a pushy son of a bitch. Billy Ray backed off a step, looked down. Jesse glanced away, not wanting to watch any more of it.
"Let me explain something to you, Billy Ray. We own all your songs, all the publishing rights, worldwide, forever. So, if you keep giving me static on this, we'll just have someone else record them. Simple as that. You get the drift?" He smiled thinly. "In fact, we own your name, did you know that?" He stabbed Billy Ray in the chest with his index linger. "We own your name. Hell, that's as good as owning you, buddy. Think about it."
Betts saw the slump in Billy Ray's shoulders. When he walked back into the studio, he was quiet, sullen. He strapped on his guitar without even a glance at any of them. He looked like a guy just out on parole who was beginning to realize that the conditions on his freedom might be a lot worse than life in the slammer.
"Okay, let's hit it again," he said. This time when they played it, the song sounded more like White Bucks than Billy Ray.
Jesse looked up at Betts, shook her head as if to say, "You'd never compromise like that, would you, Johnny?"
