by T. N. Robb
"I decided I could make something out of him that night," she said as she slid into the front seat behind the steering wheel. She pushed Betts's feet off and made herself comfortable with one of his beers.
"I had a gig at the roller rink and I see this chick get in a fight with this rodeo cowboy. She put five slugs into the windshield of his stepside truck." He shook his head at the recollection. "I picked her up walking back to town. We hit it right off."
Jesse tilted her head back to look at Billy Ray. She smiled as they shared a look. It was obvious to Betts there was a lot between them, a complete history buried away. Jesse turned back to him.
"It was real hot that night, like now, and the roller rink was the only place in town that was air-conditioned." She took a swallow of her beer. "See, every Saturday night the radio station in town that played something other than yodeling cowboys and pork belly prices would broadcast live from the roller rink. And there was this rockabilly guy turning all the girls on in his fine sparkly shirt. Oh, he was something."
Billy Ray laughed softly. "Oh, God. Those damn sequin shirts. Calvin bought us those, booked us into military bases and Indian reservations, stuff like that. Every time I asked for the money he owed us for those gigs, he would throw it up to me about those damn shirts." He laughed again, kicked his feet up on the seat.
"We were in Oklahoma at some Moose hall, and I just got so pissed about it I tore mine off and drove all the way back to Lubbock with no shirt on."
"How much did he owe you, anyhow?"
"Oh, about twenty-five bucks."
Now they were all laughing. "I tell ya, we went a lot of long, hard miles together."
Cleary was parked in an alley across from Peaches Records. He had been waiting for a half an hour, and was starting to feel edgy. He looked in his rearview mirror, wondering if he was being watched.
There was only darkness. He checked his watch. He felt like leaving, just forgetting about it, and going home.
But he knew he wouldn't.
* * *
Billy Ray passed the bottle of Southern Comfort over the front seat to Betts and Jesse. "I wrote 'Blue Hotel' that night I picked up Jesse on the road. I remember we watched shooting stars. It started out a little different than it is now."
He played the song with the acoustic guitar, but this time it was soft and slow, like a love song.
She took me by the hand,
My heart was poundin',
She said, "You're the one,
You're the one..."
The sound of it, played this way, was a revelation to Betts, both about the depth of Billy Ray's talent and his feelings for Jesse.
He stopped playing in midsong. "I'm tired. Feel like I'm really sapped."
Jesse was leaning over the seat, watching Billy Ray. "You oughta think about getting back home to Texas," Jesse said.
Billy Ray took the solid gold guitar medal off his neck, leaned forward, and draped it around her neck. "You might have to take me by the hand to get me there, Jesse." She stared at him, their eyes locked for a long moment. Her fingers caressed the gold guitar.
Betts felt uncomfortable watching them. He wondered if he was going to lose Jesse as quickly as he had won her. Maybe he should have just taken off with her for Texas and forgotten about the party. Jesse wasn't the type who waited around for a guy who couldn't make up his mind. He had never considered himself a waffler, but maybe that was what he had become. He didn't know anymore.
Pettys and Slade, carrying martinis, cruised over with a couple of groupies. Pettys called out to Billy Ray from a distance as they approached, "Hey, boy! You gonna sit in that Chevy all night gabbing or you gonna join the party?"
"Billy boy," Slade said as they neared the car. "I've got two hundred and fifty guests dying to get a piece of you. Besides, I want to announce our three-album deal, and I want you there with me. We're going to cut a cake, a big three-layer cake."
Billy Ray nodded, climbed out of the car, and walked off with them. He glanced back just once at Jesse. She stared after him a moment, and in that instant Betts glimpsed a look of desire and betrayal all mixed together. But then she turned to him and he decided maybe he had imagined it, must have imagined it. She smiled at him. "Kiss me, Johnny."
Jesse's allegiances shifted like a change in the wind.
Cleary watched a young hooker, who looked hot and tired. She passed by Peaches and crossed the street, wobbling slightly on her high heels. She spotted Cleary in the ragtop Caddy parked in the alley just as he dumped cold coffee out the window. At first she didn't know whether to consider him trouble or a business prospect. She stopped a moment, then stepped forward, optimistically settling on the latter.
"Hey, partner," she called as she approached the Eldorado.
She glided in front of the finned monster and slid her ass suggestively along the side of the seventeen-foot-long gleaming black machine. She stopped at the open window and gazed in at Cleary, who was feeling just as tired as she looked. Next to him on the seat was the debris of a fast-food, late-night dining experience.
He offered her a cigarette. She took it. Just as he was lighting hers, he saw a truck pull up to the rear door of Peaches. A couple of guys jumped out and quickly unloaded several boxes of records. Peaches stepped out of the store and hustled the boxes inside. Cleary was sure he saw him glance once right at the Caddy.
Less than two minutes after they had arrived, the two guys from the truck jumped back inside, pulled out of the lot. They turned left and headed past the Caddy. "So, honey, you wanna party? What do you say?" the hooker asked.
Cleary, not wanting to be seen by the men in the truck, ducked down on the seat as they rolled by. The hooker stared at him a moment, and shrugged. "A simple 'no' would have done fine," she said, and walked away.
Cleary started the Eldorado and was about to follow the truck, when a Packard screeched out of a side street and wheeled directly at the Caddy. He knew, he suddenly knew, what was going to happen. And then it did. He heard the pop of machine-gun fire, and rolled to the seat just as the windshield shattered.
Then he was alone in the street again. He sat up, brushing the glass off him, and glimpsed the Packard heading one way and the truck disappearing in the opposite direction. He wondered if the Packard was going to circle the block for another look.
"Bastards." He wasn't going to wait around to see what happened.
The Eldorado's engine was still running. He shoved it into gear and screeched down the street in the direction of the truck. Hot air blew in at his face. Ragged remains of the windshield jutted out at odd angles. At the comer, the hooker was crossing the street, trying to get as far away from the shooting as possible. She jumped back, her mouth agape as he waved and roared by.
The street was empty and he was cruising at seventy-five when he spotted the truck at a stoplight several blocks ahead. He braked, turned off, then followed from a safe distance. He trailed the truck for a half an hour, and like a bee drawn to the hive, he was sure he was being led to the honey: the source of the counterfeit wax.
He followed the truck into a warehouse district, but had to drop back because there were no other vehicles. The truck turned on Spring Street, and he waited until he was sure he wouldn't be seen. He pulled up to the intersection, looked left, the direction the truck had turned. It was nowhere in sight.
He spent the next few minutes crawling along the dark streets, looking for the truck. He was sure it was somewhere nearby. But he had lost it.
ELEVEN
The Electric Dirge
The needle on the phonograph was stuck in a scratch, and it was playing the same fragment of a word over and over: "woom, woom, woom." On the couch in the living room, Johnny Betts blinked open his eyes, waking to the sound. He looked around.
Jesse was curled up next to him, her head on his lap. She moaned softly as he sat up. He rubbed his face, felt his head pounding. Gray light was streaming through the vast glass wall. It was dawn.
Pa
rty debris was everywhere. The furniture and rugs were marked with cigarette burns and stains from spilled drinks. Records and stray pieces of clothing were strewn about on the floor. The place looked as if the party had lasted for days, instead of a few hours.
Jesse sat up and looked at him blankly, as if not recognizing him for a moment. Then she greeted him groggily. "Morning, Johnny."
"Hi. Where is everyone?"
"Elsewhere. Party's over. Everyone left when the music died."
"Where's Billy Ray?"
"Last time I saw him he was headed for bed. Must have been past four. I don't know."
"Was he alone?"
She shrugged. "Think so. Who knows what was waitin' for him upstairs."
Betts scratched his head and stood up. "I better check on him. When I get back, I'll have you for breakfast. How's that sound?"
"I'm over easy for you, Johnny," she said glibly. "I'll be waiting. I think I'll just close my eyes here awhile. Think I was dreaming about Texas."
He looked down at her, felt guilty for saying he would take her there. He had meant it, too, but...
He walked over to the phonograph, touched the needle, and the "woom" transformed to "woo-man." The word completed, he turned it off and patted barefoot upstairs. The master bedroom was at the end of the hall, and the door was partially open. He tapped on it three times, then pushed it.
Three guitars hung on the far wall like works of art. On another wall was a poster of Elvis, and next to it a blowup of the cover of Billy Ray's first album. The bed was empty, the covers still made. He saw an impression of a body on the bedspread, then noticed the door to the bathroom was closed. He walked over to it.
"Yo. Billy Ray? You in there?" There was no answer. He knocked, turned the handle, pushed the door open slightly. It was dark inside. He turned on the light. There was no sign of Billy Ray.
He walked over to the bed, felt the impression. It was cool, as if no one had lain there for some time. He stepped back, looked around, puzzled. He checked the other rooms upstairs to no avail, then went back downstairs to the living room.
He looked at Jesse who had lain back down. "He's not up there, babe."
She didn't answer. She had fallen back asleep. He went over to her, crouched down on one knee. Wisps of blond hair fell across her face. She looked frail, vulnerable, her baby-doll beauty frozen like a sculpture. Her breathing was gentle, and he wondered if she was dreaming of Texas again.
He rose to his feet, backed away, then turned to the glass wall and looked out over the yard. Billy Ray's acoustic guitar was lying face down by the pool, but no one was around. Then he remembered the car parked under the palms, near the edge of the canyon.
He walked outside, wandered over to the shrouded comer of the lot. The Chevy was still there, parked near the edge of the canyon. As he approached it, he was sure he would find Billy Ray lying across the backseat sound asleep, oblivious to the morning light. But he was wrong. The interior looked as if it had been turned into a garbage can with bottles, beer cans, and paper from fast-food joints. It was deserted.
He headed back to the house, wondering if Billy Ray might have left with one of the groupies. But why would he leave the house? Then the thought crossed his mind that he might be out looking for more Black Beauties to replace the stash Betts had dumped. He rubbed his jaw at the memory of the incident.
He was passing by a table near the pool when he noticed a set of car keys and a wallet lying on one of the chairs. After a moment's hesitation, he picked up the wallet, opened it. It was Billy Ray's.
He laid it back down next to the keys, glanced down at the acoustic guitar. In the early morning light, it reminded him of a bloated fish. Where the hell could he be? He was starting to feel apprehensive.
Something was wrong.
He walked over to the edge of the pool, gazed down, saw something blurry under the rippling surface. His mouth dropped; he froze in shock. Billy Ray was lying on the bottom in six feet of water, face up, naked, spread-eagled, drowned.
Billy Ray was dead.
On a grassy knoll above a lawn of tombstones, a lone guitarist stood on a pedestal of dark granite. His collar was up, his shades down. His hair was piled in a thirty-weight pompadour, and he was dressed in black. His hand came down across the strings of a raven-hued Stratocaster, and the first chords of a spine-chilling electric dirge cut through the stifling air.
Below the guitarist on the burial ground was a red '56 Chevy Bel Air. It was parked next to a ten-foot-deep pit carved into the soft, green cemetery lawn. The front seat had been removed, and in its place was a shiny black casket. Surrounding it and covering most of it were a hundred and nine black roses. Billy Ray was departing by way of a Hollywood rock and roll funeral.
The chassis of the Chevy was connected to a fourway cable that began to tighten as it was reeled in by a nearby crane. The car inched off the ground as the mourners watched. Among them were greasers, groupies, and rockabilly rebels. Representing the record industry were the requisite hustlers, promoters, agents, and managers. And there were Tommy Slade and Calvin Pettys.
Expressionless and looking numb, Betts stood off to the side with Jesse, Dwayne, and the other band members. The guitar dirge heightened his sense of remorse and loss as he watched the Chevy rising above the burial plot.
"Well, at least he's going out with style,'' Dwayne said, his voice sad, drained of hope.
Jesse gave him a sharp look, then nodded bitterly toward the contingent of record bizos. "Yeah, their style. Record promotion is all this circus is about." She looked up at Betts, shook her head sadly. "California ain't no resting place for Billy Ray."
Betts took her hand, sensed her pain. He was feeling it himself as much as anyone here—hell, more than most. He had already spent a day in deep despair at the death of the man he admired more than anyone, the man who had felt the same feelings that were locked inside him, and expressed them like nobody else could do. Now he tried to hold himself together as he watched the burial of the man he loved, and the man he was supposed to be guarding. Damn, if he hadn't been drinking, and hadn't fallen asleep, Billy Ray would still be here, and none of this would be happening.
He glanced off to the right, the pain written all over his face. Then he saw a familiar figure approaching them. Cleary walked up to him, placed an arm over his shoulder, then patted him lightly on the back. He nodded his condolences to Jesse and the others.
"They filled me in down at the station," he murmured to Betts.
"I tried to get hold of you yesterday after I found him, but..." Betts's voice trailed off. He swallowed. Tears welled in his eyes.
"Got hung up getting my car fixed yesterday. I ran into a little trouble at the record store stakeout. Real fine bunch of guys down there."
Betts looked at him. He had forgotten all about Peaches, and the stakeout. "Oh, yeah. You okay?"
"I'm here. How are you doing?"
Betts shrugged, gazed off at the ceremony as the guitar's lonely wail accompanied the Chevy's slow ascension. After a moment, Cleary nodded toward the car casket. "Not that it matters to him any now, but I trailed a delivery truck from Peaches back to a warehouse district on Spring."
"You mean you found where they're making the counterfeits?"
Cleary shook his head. "I'm still working on that. I lost the truck."
"I wonder who's behind it?" Betts said as he watched the Chevy lowered into the grave, but his mind was elsewhere. He thought back to his confrontation with Peaches, and suddenly Billy Ray's death took on new meaning. He turned to Cleary and spoke quickly under his breath. "We lookin' at foul play here or what?"
"Not according to the autopsy. Got a copy of the report from Fontana."
"And?"
Jesse suddenly spoke up, her voice soft and distant. "They call this the City of Angels."
Betts and Cleary looked at her. "What, babe?" Betts asked.
Entranced by the burial ceremony, Jesse seemed oblivious to her surroundings. "I nev
er saw any angels in Billy Ray's rearview mirror." She focused on Betts and Cleary. "They killed him."
Cleary frowned, studying her. "Who did, Jesse? Who killed him?"
Her expression turned distant again. She looked at the ceremony, and the record-biz contingent. "Them," she said softly to herself. "The money men. Hollywood." She continued speaking, her voice barely audible. "The smiles, the lies, and that godless L.A. sky." From her expression it was obvious that her comments were ingrained, bitterly cherished beliefs. The bizos, the corruptors, the money men in their coats and ties, they were the ones who harnessed, then destroyed young talent like Billy Ray. They chewed them up, spit them out, and moved on to new meals.
Cleary stared at her a moment, unsettled somehow by the strange young woman. He turned back to Betts. "According to the coroner, he went for a swim alone in the middle of the night with a blood-alcohol level of one eight and—" Seeing the pained look of self-recrimination on Betts's face, he stopped, placed a hand on his shoulder.
"It wasn't anyone's fault, Johnny. Even you couldn't watch him twenty-four hours a day. Far as anyone can tell it was an accident."
"I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Cleary."
Dwayne, who was on the other side of Jesse, had turned to him. "Billy was terrified of the water. Drunk or not, he wouldn't have gone in that pool for love nor money."
Betts looked between the two of them, then out at the ceremony as the shiny red Chevy sunk below the earth, ending the career and the times of a once-pure rock and roller.
TWELVE
Personal Effects
Cleary pulled up in front of the Seventh Precinct and parked the Eldorado in the area reserved for the detective bureau's official vehicles. He walked into the station, where he had worked sixteen years, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. For a time after he had been suspended, he had been a persona non grata here—an outcast, a dirty cop. But after he had revealed where the real dirt lay, he had become something of a folk hero among his former colleagues. Most of them, at least.
