by T. N. Robb
"Okay, when does the next shipment arrive?"
He looked at Betts, his eyes shifted back and forth. "Listen, I don't want to get in no trouble with these guys, see."
Betts grabbed Peaches by his bloody nose and squeezed. Peaches howled, fell to his knees, raised his hands begging for mercy. Betts let go.
"Okay. They're coming tonight. Right around two A.M. They don't chance no daytime deliveries. Now you tell me something. Who the hell are you? What's your angle?"
Betts stared at him. "I'm the band's accountant, Mr. Peaches."
Cleary walked into Peaches, and immediately knew he was out of his element. A dozen or so teenagers were milling about, and the place had a sock-hop atmosphere. He seemed to be the only adult in the store, and most definitely the only man wearing a coat and tie. Welcome to Rock 'n' Roll America, he thought.
Even though Betts's car was parked right out front, he didn't see him anywhere. He walked up to the blond beehive behind the counter and asked where he could find a Billy Ray record. She looked at his bruised and cut face, regarding him suspiciously, as if she didn't believe he was serious. He leaned over the counter. "For my nephew, you know. His birthday."
"Oh," she said, smiled, nodded, then pointed to a rack where two girls were standing. "We're sold out of his album, but we've got plenty of his singles."
"Thanks." He tipped his hat. "You know Billy Ray is playing tonight at The Crescendo Club?"
She nodded tentatively.
"Maybe see you there," Cleary said, and walked away.
The girls were talking in front of the Billy Ray section with their backs to him when he approached. "'Scuse me, ladies."
They turned around. A wall of makeup and a couple of feet separated him from the girls. They were wearing what Betts had called "tough titty jackets," and he didn't doubt that these two deserved them. "What is it, mister, Doris Day or Pat Boone? You gonna listen to the creep in the booth?"
"Neither," he said, walking on, as he suddenly realized where he could find Betts. He probably wouldn't know a counterfeit Billy Ray record from a real one, anyhow.
"Que Sera, Sera," one of the girls called after him. He walked past a life-sized cardboard cutout of Elvis, and over to the row of listening booths. He shoved aside the curtain of each one, catching vignettes of Rock 'n' Roll America.
In the first, three teenage girls in bobby socks and their boyfriends' letter sweaters were squeezed into a booth listening to "See You Later Alligator," and sharing a cigarette. In the next booth, a clean-cut guy with a flattop was kissing his best girl and stroking her mohair as they listened to Elvis crooning "Love Me Tender." In the third booth, a guy in a pompadour and his chick were dancing to Litde Richard doing "Long Tall Sally."
Cleary heard a now-familiar voice coming from the next booth: Billy Ray singing "On the Run." He pulled open the curtain and found Betts leaning forward over the player.
When he saw Cleary, he stopped the record and winced as he looked at his face. "Damn, hope you're not planning on entering any beauty contests. Does the other guy look like that, too?"
"They're gonna. So what do you have?"
Betts took the single off the turntable and held it up to another one. "Take a look at these two 45s. You see any differences?"
Cleary didn't even look at them. "I'm not in the mood for games, Betts. Whatya got?"
"This is the 45 off Billy Ray's first album. See the stamped code next to the label? Silhouette Records uses that on all their platters." He picked up the other one. "See here? No stamp. It's a counterfeit, and a good one."
Cleary pushed the curtain back and stepped out of the booth, followed by Betts. He looked around the store, noticed the two tough titties entering the next listening booth. He saw Betts and the chicks exchanging looks and making odd little gestures, which he suspected was some sort of unspoken gauge of hipness.
"Is there such a thing as a Peaches?"
"The sleazoid by the office door."
Cleary turned to see a blubbery, two-bit hustler holding a cloth to his bleeding nose and glancing furtively at them. "I better have a talk with him, find out where he gets them."
"I took care of that. They're just delivered: cash, no questions asked. He's got a shipment coming tonight, around two A.M."
"Looks like you use a lot of body language when you talk."
Betts grinned. "Cooperation guaranteed."
"Calvin Pettys tells me that Billy Ray is keeping his date at The Crescendo."
"Yeah, I know. Afterward he's sending Archie off in style. I'm picking him up at the club, taking him up to his spread in the hills. Silhouette's throwing a party for the new album."
"Real optimistic of them since they're still missing one side of it."
Betts shrugged. "Billy Ray doesn't know that. Slade's still keeping it quiet, and I haven't said a word."
"Keep close to him, Betts. And watch yourself. We're walking on dangerous ground here. I'll swing by the club for the last set."
"Hey, man, why don't you come by the party, too? You got an invitation. From me."
"I'm gonna be busy tonight, right here in this neighborhood."
"Oh, yeah." He frowned at Cleary. "You sure you don't want me to go with you? I mean, no offense, but they got the better of you at the motel."
"Don't remind me. Like I said, stay with Billy Ray tonight."
Betts grinned. "It's probably better you don't show up at the party with that face. Might scare off all the chicks, you know."
Cleary stared at him, not finding any humor in his ribbing.
Betts looked at the floor, then back to Cleary. "One other thing that's bothering me. Why're you protecting Pettys, anyhow? Why haven't you turned him in?"
"Is that what you think I'm doing, Betts, protecting him?"
"Well, aren't you?"
Cleary rubbed his bruised jaw. "Look, the cops don't have enough to arrest him on Hammond's murder. It's better to keep a low profile and let him hang himself. If he's guilty, he will. Like I told you before, don't say anything to Billy Ray about Pettys. Or to anyone else. Not even your girlfriend. Got that?" Betts nodded.
Cleary started to leave, but stopped in front of Betts and pulled several albums from his leather jacket. "I don't want to have to bail you out of jail."
Offended, Betts made it clear that he had paid for every one of the records with his own hard-earned cash, before he strolled away.
"Hey," Cleary called after him. "Good job."
"See ya, Cleary."
EIGHT
Surprise Package
The marquee outside of The Crescendo read: BILLY RAY AND THE ROCKETS—FINAL NIGHT. In the parking lot, the Scorpions were making their appearance in full force. Their shiny, souped-up hot rods were congregated on one side of the lot, and a few Scorpions were hanging out, acting as if the lot was just as good a place for the evening's entertainment as the inside of the club.
Betts, with Jesse at his side, pulled up next to a '51 Rockett 88 Olds. As they stepped out of the Mercury, a Scorpion at the wheel of the Olds revved his engine, the sound growing from a soft purr to a loud, throaty growl. Betts wasn't sure if he meant it as a greeting or a challenge, but he didn't wait around to find out.
Jesse grabbed hold of his hand and tugged him toward the sound of the music, which they could hear clearly from across the lot. "C'mon," she said, "they're already playin', and don't look back at those guys."
He didn't feel threatened by the Scorpions. Why should he? So he had won a race. And he certainly didn't steal Jesse. Hell, she had led the way. But then again Larry, the Scorpions' leader, might not see it that way, and his humiliation was probably still fresh in his mind. Betts tried not to walk too fast, as if he were hurrying, and he knew if any of the Scorpions called after him, he would have a tough time ignoring the challenge. But no one bothered them, and that bolstered his confidence.
Inside the club the dance floor was elbow to elbow. Billy Ray and the band were whooping it up, sounding hot. T
hey moved through the smoky haze until Betts saw Calvin Pettys waving at them from a booth in the comer. He hadn't seen Pettys since he had picked up Billy Ray the first morning of his bodyguard duties. He looked at Pettys's black eye as they slid in across from him.
"Nice shiner. What happened?" Jesse asked.
Pettys glanced at Betts, an uneasy look on his face. "Went out with a dishonest woman," he told her. "She tried to steal my money when I was in the bathroom. I caught her red-handed, and she belted me."
"She must have been a big girl to pack a punch like that, Calvin," Betts said, feigning ignorance and laughing to himself at Pettys's weird concoction.
Pettys took a swallow of his drink, shook his head. "We're living in violent times, kid."
"Amen."
Billy Ray finished a song and quieted the applause. "Y'all know how tough it is staying alive these days. I've lost a few friends along the way. I know there's a few old boys from Texas up there with Archie who can really knock, so he ain't missing the music."
He glanced over to the corner table. "But, man, the music misses him."
With that, he ripped into his rockabilly anthem, and the crowd went nuts, flooding the dance floor and standing up on chairs.
Tommy Slade, who'd been working the tables, greeting record-industry types in the crowd, moved over to the corner table and patted Pettys on the shoulder. "He sounds pretty damn good tonight, Calvin. Loose, you know? I appreciate you talking to him about keeping this date. A lot of important people turned out tonight who you normally wouldn't see here. That's a fact."
Pettys nodded, leaned back, and patted his bulging gut, which was threatening to pop the buttons on his shirt. "Lot of sympathy here tonight. You can just feel it. I think Billy Ray appreciates that."
Slade nodded. "It's a tough time now, I know, but it's tough for all of us. Damn if I'm not hurting, but what can you do?"
"Well, we're all trying to stay aboard the same bronco, Tommy."
"Yeah, a fat man could really get hurt falling off a bucking mustang," Jesse sniped, sliding her fingers through her hair. "Kind of like Humpty-Dumpty."
Pettys frowned at her, rattled the ice in his drink, but let her comment pass.
"Hey, Slade," Betts said. "I didn't think you dug the way Billy Ray played."
Slade smiled, turning on his charm. "Hey, I believe in Billy Ray. I'm his biggest fan. I'm one hundred percent behind him, make that one hundred and ten percent."
He looked from Betts to Pettys and back again. "But I'm working on a new kind of music with him. I want to do for Billy Ray what I've done on the East Coast for the race musicians."
"What do you mean?" Betts asked.
"I'm trying to popularize his songs so he doesn't have to ever go back to Lubbock or wherever and have cowboys and oil riggers throw bottles at him. That's what I'm talking about."
He smiled. "A little sugar on the pill. Does that make me the bad guy?"
"Nope," said Jesse, "it just makes you the candy man."
Pettys gave her a pat on the hand. "Control your tongue, honey. You're not doing Billy Ray any good talking like that. In fact, in case you don't know it, that mouth chased your boy away. Billy Ray sure doesn't go for it."
Jesse was about to lash back at Pettys when a big greaser butted in next to Slade and leaned over the table. He looked directly at Betts, ignoring the others. "I heard you blew off the Scorpion boys the other night with that '49 Merc of yours."
Betts looked up, momentarily startled as Slade shrunk back, brushing his arm where the greaser's denim sleeve had touched him.
"Yeah. We got acquainted," Betts said casually, wondering why he was attracting the attention.
The greaser offered him a cigarette out of respect. Betts took it, looked at Jesse with a slight smile, then back at the greaser, who lit the cigarette.
He took a drag of his own, then smiled. "Well, you must be real good buddies with those cats, 'cause right now there's half-a-dozen Scorpions out there under your hood." The greaser was enjoying himself. "Looks like they're gonna lift that engine right out."
Betts's smile faded, his face clouded over. "Excuse me," he said to Jesse and slipped out of the booth. "Stay here."
He stalked over to the side door leading to the alley, his anger building with every step. He slammed the door behind him. Nobody messed with his car and got away with it.
He spotted three Scorpions under the hood of his car. One was holding a flashlight, two others were working in the engine compartment. The other Scorpions were standing around drinking and watching the two under the hood. It was obvious that their interest was more than mere curiosity.
He didn't care how many there were. He was seething, seeing red, ready to fight, ready to take on the Scorpion boys en masse.
"Hey! Get the hell away from my wheels, man!" His hands curled into tight fists.
One of the Scorpions, a little guy with a real high pompadour to make up for it, turned to Betts and put a finger to his lips. "Shh. Quiet, man. You'll distract them. Serious matter here."
Betts blew by the twerp, knocking him down. One of the guys under the hood looked up, and Betts saw it was the leader, the guy he had rubbed out on Mulholland.
"You son of a bitch." Betts went for him, but was grabbed by a big, ugly Scorpion, one of those who had pulled a switchblade on him after the race.
"You don't want to do that, Hoss. That ain't healthy," the big guy said.
Betts belted him in the jaw, and the big guy was hurled back against the side of the Mercury. He pushed himself off the car, surprised by the force of Betts's punch. Two other Scorpions grabbed Betts, restraining him. He jerked his arms, trying to get free, but only managed to drag the two men a few steps closer to the leader.
The big, ugly guy recovered, and started toward Betts. "In two seconds, pal, you're gonna be wishin' you hadn't done that."
The little guy stepped in front of him. "Let me handle this."
Just then, Betts caught a flash of movement and saw Jesse racing toward them, then flying off the ground like a gazelle and landing smack on the little guy's back. He spun around and both of them fell to the pavement.
The Scorpions howled with delight, and the big guy lifted Jesse and held her at his side with one arm. Betts strained to get away from the two holding him.
The little guy was on his feet, holding his hands up, palms out to Betts. "Be cool, man. Take it easy."
Betts ignored him, yelled at the big guy. "Put her down."
He laughed. "She's too dangerous to be loose." He put Jesse on her feet, but still gripped her arms.
Betts stared darts at Larry. "What kind of a prick would steal a guy's engine 'cause he can't win fair and square?"
The little guy shook his head. "You got it all wrong, man. That ain't how it is."
The Scorpion leader came out from under the hood, holding something, and walked over to Betts. "Take a look. I bet you've never seen this piece of handiwork on your engine, huh, bright boy?"
Betts squinted at the object. Whatever it was didn't look like it belonged under his hood.
"I swear, for a guy who just got his ass saved, you sure are an ungrateful son of a bitch," Larry said, and stopped in front of him.
Betts stared. "What is it?"
"Nitro. Rigged up to your odometer." He smiled. "Real cute. He wanted you to get a few miles away when you got barbecued."
The Scorpions let go of Betts, who rubbed the back of his neck, feeling stupid and a little afraid as Larry tossed him a small bundle of four sticks of dynamite. He caught it, pulling it to his chest.
"Someone don't like you too well. You'd be burnt Spam tonight if French Fry hadn't gotten curious." He nodded to the little Scorpion.
"Curious?" the big, ugly guy said, and laughed.
"Yeah, curious like in a five-finger discount."
"Hey, I wanted to see what the hell he had under the hood, okay? Besides, I'd seen someone else doing it first, you know."
"You get a look
at the guy?" Betts asked him. French Fry strutted about, basking in his moment of glory. "Naw...just his car and the plates as he drove off. That's all."
"Tell me about it."
"A '55 Chrysler 500, hemihead, four barrel, all tricked out, real nowhere. Nevada plates... 5732. He was heading east."
Larry smacked him on the head, his way of showing his pride for the little guy's deed. "He handles all our investigations. Tough cookie. It's these little guys who can weasel into places the rest of us can't."
Still holding the dynamite, Betts turned to Larry. "I owe you one, man."
He shrugged. "Don't get this wrong. I didn't pull them out for you, moonshine. If they blow you up, how am I gonna get my money back?"
Betts noticed the slight smile on the greaser's face as he sauntered past him over to the Mercury. He looked a moment at the engine, shook his head, then slammed the hood. As he did, a black Eldorado pulled up next to him.
Cleary stuck his head out the window, looked around at the Scorpion boys, signaled Betts over to the Caddy. "Nice lookin' bunch of friends here, Betts. What's the matter, you lose your dipstick?"
"Funny, Cleary. You're a very funny man. Take a look at this." He handed him the dynamite. "You weren't kidding about being careful. Things are definitely heating up. The kinda heat we don't need."
Cleary looked at the dynamite, his face turning rigid with anger, then he glanced up at Betts. "You got any idea who this belonged to?"
Betts shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced over the Eldorado's roof at Jesse, who was just standing there, watching. Then he looked back down at Cleary. "One of my newfound acquaintances here got a look." He told Cleary the make and model of the car and its license plate number.
Cleary started the Eldorado. "I still got a few friends in records downtown. Stick close to Billy Ray," he said, and stepped heavily on the gas pedal.
NINE
Backstage
Betts's arm lay across Jesse's shoulder, and hers was wrapped around his waist as they walked back into the club. The band had taken a break, and the jukebox was playing a Bill Haley tune. The Scorpions were pouring back into the club, and there was a feeling of camaraderie among them after their feat in the parking lot. People in the club were looking around as if they sensed the fresh wave of energy.
