Levon checks out the roadies moving lights and speakers, cords and mic stands. I want him to have what he wants. Whatever that is. My father’s money. A movie theater in Albuquerque. Me.
“Mom,” Levon says.
“What?”
“The road manager—his name is Mom. Or they call him Mom. I remember him. He watched me a few times.”
“Is he there?”
“Yeah, hang on. Wait here.”
Our pickup is blocking the alley, but no one else is back here except the huge, dirty, white truck with the band’s equipment, its hazards blinking yellow. I get into the driver’s seat of our truck, touching the steering wheel, the armrest, all the things Levon had touched.
I watch him talk to the Mom guy. They do a bro handshake and laugh a little. A few minutes later they high-five, and Levon starts to walk toward the truck. I quickly scoot back into the passenger seat before he notices.
He gets in. “Wade told him my dad went to Thailand.”
“Figures.”
He pulls out of the alley and onto the street. A crowd is starting to form—misfit kids and bald guys with tattoos, cougars dressed younger than they should be, sorority girls with way too much lip gloss.
“Mom says the band will be there in an hour and to come back then.”
As we drive up Collins to kill time, the anticipation swirls thick in the air around us. This is it. It’s happening. But what exactly? It’s like everything has led up to this point, but how the hell are we going to actually do it?
Levon pulls back down the alley behind the venue and turns off the ignition.
“OK, what’s your brilliant plan now?” he asks.
“Well, I think we should confront him. What do we have to lose? C’mon,” I say with a little bit of force. “We are here.”
Mom is potbellied, with a mustache and a tiny, greasy ponytail. He looks like an overgrown rat. I give him my best smile and tell him who I am. He says he knows and opens the door to let us in, staying outside to smoke his cigarette.
Inside, there are several dressing rooms, but one huge one has a printed sheet of paper stuck to the door that says Wade Rex.
Levon gives me a quick nod.
Then I open the door.
Chapter 29
The room is all white—the walls, the columns, the curtains that section off a private area, the couches. There is a giant piece of art framed in black wood, a completely white canvas except for a smudge of red. It looks eerie, like a stumbling, bleeding person accidentally brushed against it.
My father is in the corner, and there are two girls, one on either side of him—a redhead and a brunette. (According to Us Weekly, he doesn’t like blonds.) It’s so clichéd, like the set of a boring music video. He is smoking a joint and blowing the smoke in a thin stream into the redhead’s mouth. They are so in their own world that they don’t even notice us standing there. Levon looks catatonic. “It’s cool,” I whisper to him. “I got this.”
“Hey, Dad!” I say, pretending I’m really excited to see him. “It’s me, Candy! Your daughter!”
Wade stands up, his jaw slack. He is still very skinny and hasn’t aged well since I last saw him on TV. I go to give him a high five but pull my hand away at the last second. He smirks like a moron.
“I see you’re still living the rock-star life. Where’d you get these two?” I say, pointing at the girls. “Bimbos R Us?”
The girls curl back like frightened animals, then grab their stuff and leave. It’s not like I’m holding a gun or anything. Although that would be way more Tarantino.
“Candy, what are you doing here? And what happened to your hair?”
“I thought we could have a little family time.”
“Can you stop with the act, please?” He takes a step back and actually gives me a once-over. “You’re looking fine, by the way.”
That’s when Levon steps forward and punches my father in the face.
The punch propels Wade back onto the couch and it tips over, leaving his black cowboy boots dangling in the air. I turn to Levon. He looks charged, like a superhero that has gained unnatural power. “I’ve been waiting two years for that,” he says under his breath.
A huge bodyguard with a bald head and shiny silver spikes through his eyebrows appears out of nowhere and grabs Levon forcefully, bending his arm behind his back. As tough as I know Levon is, this guy could break his arm like it was a pencil.
“Hey!” I yell.
Levon looks up at the guy, still reeling from the punch, his eyes wide, temples pulsing.
Wade gets up slowly, holding his face. There’s a thin streak of blood running down his hand.
“You brought him here?” Wade asks me.
“Other way around.”
“What happened? I was worried about you,” he says.
I let out a sharp laugh. “Who needs to cut the act now?”
“I’m serious.”
The bodyguard says, “Wade, you need to get that cleaned up. I’ll take care of this punk.”
“Wait!” I say, following the bodyguard, who drags Levon down the hall into another smaller room. The door shuts, and I hear a loud shuffling sound, Levon gasping.
I bang on the door.
“Don’t hurt him!”
I run back into my father’s dressing room.
“What is he doing to him?” I yell at Wade.
“Duke’s kid was the one who kidnapped you?”
“That’s not relevant anymore. I wanted to be with him. I love him, actually. How about that? Oh, I forgot, you don’t know anything about love. Your vacuous rock songs have names like ‘Spill It on Me.’”
His eyes are red, and he’s breathing heavy like a dog.
“I loved your mother,” he says.
“That’s great, Wade, but what about me?”
He tries to hug me, and I push him away.
“What is he doing to Levon? Tell him to let him go!”
He holds up his arms like it’s out of his hands now, which of course it isn’t. He probably knows exactly what take care of this punk means.
“It’s a free country. You can’t contain him.”
“He just fucking assaulted me, Candy.”
“You deserved it. You looked at me like I was another one of your…”
As if on cue, the brunette returns and starts cleaning up Wade’s cut.
“Listen, Wade, I know everything. I know about the limousine, about Whisper, about the money you promised Duke, and how you blew him off after he went to jail for you for two years.”
Wade is acting like I’m telling him he forgot to tip a waitress. The brunette is acting like she’s not listening, but she’s hanging on every word.
“Is that what he told you?” Wade asks, like it’s some ridiculous story.
“Yes, and I believe him. And you will pay.”
Wade swats the brunette away, rights the couch, and sits on it. Then she starts dabbing at the wound again.
“Candy, he kidnapped you.”
“It was consensual.”
“There’s no such thing,” Wade says.
“So you’re not going to pay?”
“Not now, not after he kidnaps my fucking daughter.”
“Why would you even care? I haven’t seen you in years.”
“Candy, let’s not start this now.”
“It’s cool, Wade. I don’t need to see you. This, all of this, is pretty depressing. You’re an aging rock star who dates girls my age.” The brunette—who’s probably in her midtwenties—smiles, obviously flattered by the comparison.
“You’re going to have to pay for living your life like a spoiled child, for using the people around you like pawns.”
As quickly as it came, the brunette’s smile disappears.
“How do you think you can
go to that fancy school of yours? I work, Candy.”
“If you want to call it that. But all the money in the world doesn’t make up for you not being able to take your head out of your ass and actually care about someone. My mother died, and you just dropped me off.”
I told myself I wasn’t going to cry, but I can’t help it. A switch gets turned on inside me, generating tears like they’re on tap.
The brunette places the Band-Aid above Wade’s eye, and it looks pathetic. It’s not fixing anything. A metaphor if I’ve ever seen one.
“You look like her,” Wade says.
“Well, I’m glad I don’t look like you, Night of the Living Dead.”
The brunette drops her jaw. Apparently that was going too far. I give her a look that says You have no idea how far I can go.
“Candy, I’m not paying someone a million dollars for kidnapping my daughter. You could’ve been killed.”
“Like you would even care. You left me with Rena, which was kind of like dying anyway. By the way, I know she’s not my grandmother. Not that it would’ve mattered. You would have left me anywhere. Face it, Wade. You just don’t give a shit. You never have.”
The brunette leaves, shaking her head on the way out, and another woman—in her forties but dressed kind of slutty—comes in. She starts to put makeup on Wade’s face.
“Tell them to let Levon go. Now!”
Wade starts to lift his arms again and I look at him, my eyes burning.
A stagehand with a headset comes in and says, “Wade, I need you in the wings.”
Screw it. I will get Levon myself, with or without Wade’s help.
“Candy,” he says as I walk toward the door. “You need money to go back to Connecticut?”
“It’s Massachusetts, fucktard.”
I go down the hall to the other door. It’s locked, and there’s a guy standing guard. He’s got spiked, black hair and blurry tattoos on his arms.
“You can’t do this,” I tell the guy.
“I’m just watching the door, young lady. I don’t see or hear anything.”
“Levon?” I say to the door.
I hear him mumble something inaudibly.
“I’m going to get you out of there, Levon. Hang on.”
The guy smiles at me like, yeah right.
Our disposable phone, which I have on me, buzzes.
It’s a text from Marissa.
I tried to call you but there’s no voice mail
detective price said case is reopened
I let out a yelp.
“Oh my God.”
Another text comes in, which I read with a surge of happiness to Levon through the door.
footage shows wade driving car
I won’t have to testify
Mr. Bad Tattoo, who’s drinking from a pint bottle, lifts an eyebrow.
“Wade is onstage,” I say through the door. “I’m going to get your money if it’s the last thing I do. Then I’m going to get you out of here. By the way, nice right hook.”
I take off, giving Mr. Bad Tattoo my best scowl.
Backstage is a maze of hallways and rooms. I find what seems like another main backstage room. It’s huge, and there’s a vintage bathtub filled with ice, champagne bottle arms sticking out of it. Various people are sitting around on their phones. Through the walls, I can hear the Black Angels’ first song, my father scream-singing, the pounding bass, and the roaring whine of electric guitar. No one even bothers to say hi to me. I walk down the one hallway I haven’t been down yet.
There are two other tiny rooms. In one, a couple sleazily makes out. In another, a black briefcase sits next to a laptop. The briefcase is locked. It’s a four-number combination. I make a few random attempts, and then it comes to me: 1989. It’s a song on the Black Angels’ first record. The case clicks open, but nothing is in there except a passport (belonging to the goon bodyguard, from before he stuck metal through his eyebrows), some gum, and a Swiss Army knife.
Before I shut it, I notice a manila folder with what looks like a bunch of contracts inside it. As I pull it out, I gasp at what I see underneath it: a checkbook with the words Black Angels LLC on the top. I know the company; it’s where my trust fund comes from, the very checks Rena gets to pay for me. I rip one off, replace the checkbook just where it was, and shut the briefcase, randomizing the numbers. I fill out the check for one million dollars with a pen that has a half-naked girl on it. I fold the check in half, put it in my back pocket, and walk back down the hall.
The kissing couple is now on the floor, and they have broken a lamp. Back in the huge room, someone has fainted, and three people are hovering over her. I go up to the side of the stage to watch, hiding behind a curtain so the goon, who is on the other side of the stage in the wings, doesn’t see me.
My father is in his hectic, frazzled, stage persona mode, shaking his hair and dragging the mic stand. It occurs to me that it is the one thing he does well. It is entertaining to watch him, even though I know the real story behind him, the one that VH1 or E! would never run. Liam, the bass player, looks kind of bored, and the drummer is sweating profusely. The guitar player, a new replacement for the old one who died of liver cancer, looks out of place—younger and definitely green. He is happy in a way that suggests he can’t believe his fate. His goofy look says I’m playing with the Black Angels!
After the song ends, the applause is deafening.
It’s time for the drum solo, so everyone else exits stage right except for Wade, who walks over to stage left where I’m standing. I know this—he always exits stage left.
I hold out the check and the half-naked-girl pen and say, “Sign it. It’s the right thing to do. The guy has spent two years in jail.”
He looks at me. He’s exhausted. Makeup is streaming down his face. His matted hair is in disarray.
“I read somewhere you’re worth seventy million. You can afford one for Levon and his father.”
“Candy, where did you get this?”
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that you deliver on your word. That’s what makes someone a man.”
He looks at me. The crowd roars louder. The stagehand runs up and says, “Wade, you’re coming back, right?”
“Yes, hang on.”
He sighs, and his eyes turn sad. He looks so tired that I half expect him to collapse. But instead, he says, “Sorry,” and turns back into the bright lights, the crowd screaming harder than ever.
Chapter 30
On stage right, the goon’s eyebrow spikes glint in the low light from the stage. I make my way behind the curtains and creep up behind him, stand on my tiptoes, and whisper in his ear.
“Let him go, or I’m calling the cops.”
He smiles like that’s an absurdity, which it kind of is. I don’t want Levon anywhere near the cops.
“You can’t hold him against his will.”
“Just giving him a message,” the goon says. “You don’t punch Wade Rex in the face.”
“Yes, you do, actually. He did.”
The band breaks into “Spill It on Me,” and again, deafening screams.
I make my way back toward the room where they’re keeping Levon. There are more and more people backstage. Lots of older girls. One of them says, “Hey! Are you OK?” recognizing me even with my shaved head. I ignore her and keep moving.
Mr. Bad Tattoo is not only passed out; he’s also snoring, still holding the empty bottle of cheap gin. What kind of low-rent bodyguard is this guy? But I’m not complaining.
I grab the key on the wooden stick next to Mr. Bad Tattoo and use it to open the door as quietly as possible. Levon looks fine, other than the duct tape on his mouth and wrists. This time I bite the tape off his wrists. Then I rip the tape off his mouth and he huffs loudly. Mr. Bad Tattoo wakes up for a second and then falls back asleep. We tiptoe
out of there and run into Mom in the main hallway.
“Dude, I have to ask you to leave,” he says to Levon. “Heard what happened.”
I turn to Levon and say, “I got this. I’ll meet you at the truck.”
Mom guides Levon out the back. Better than being bound and gagged.
All I need is a signature. I’m so close.
The band finishes, and they all pile off the stage. The raging sea of applause and screams is louder than it’s been all night, if that’s even possible. The band passes right by me. As they walk by, the smell gets more and more pungent, until the sweaty, disheveled drummer brings up the rear. I turn and follow them into the main dressing room.
The bass player, Liam, who’s been in the band since day one, recognizes me. He’s gotten kind of fat, but he actually looks younger and healthier than the rest of them. The new guitar player still has that goofy smile. Various people—press, groupie girls, and roadies—mill around the room. Mom is trying to relegate them to one side while the band members wipe their faces and catch their breath. Liam comes right over to me.
“You are so big! I remember when you were this tall,” he says, pointing to his knee. “You were the coolest kid, so chill. What happened to your hair?”
“It’s a fugitive thing. I remember you, Liam. We used to make Kool-Aid.”
“Yes, and we didn’t spike it, thankfully.”
“Not until I went to bed.”
He laughs but then looks at me inquisitively, as if drawing some sort of conclusion. “It’s crazy how fast time moves.”
“Sometimes. But then again, at boarding school, an hour can seem like a day.”
He laughs again, and there is a glint in his worn but kind eyes. A ding goes off in my head. I beckon him to follow me, and we end up in the opening act’s dressing room, now abandoned and strewn with empty beer cans. We sit on a faded-red love seat that has some sort of sticky substance on it.
“Glamorous, huh?”
“Well, you of all people know,” Liam says, “it’s never really glamorous.”
“Yeah. In fact, sometimes it can get ugly, like the limo crash.”
He tries to act like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but that doesn’t work. The cheer drains from his eyes, and he slowly shakes his head. “Is that why you’re here?”
Stealing Candy Page 14
