by Tripp Ellis
JD gave me a glance, and I shrugged back at him. We weren't beat cops. And neither of us were going to arrest his bandmates for possession. We had bigger fish to fry. It hadn't been decriminalized for recreational use yet in Florida. Hell, it was legal in just about half the states, anyway.
Once the band got into the zone, Styxx clicked off an intro and a wall of thunder blasted from the speakers.
JD did his thing in front of the mic, and the groupies cheered.
I didn't mind watching the groupies' cut off jean-shorts and fishnet stockings gyrate in motion to the beat.
Just like the day before, the rehearsal space filled with curious onlookers, and before long, the place was packed. There was barely enough room for the band to jam. If this was any indication of their draw, JD's tribute band, Wild Fury, would be huge.
It was so loud, and the massive speakers vibrated my body so much, that I didn't notice the calls and text coming through to my phone. After practice, I realized both Joel—my agent in Los Angeles—and Sheriff Daniels had called multiple times.
I stepped into the hallway, but it was still too loud to make a phone call. The muffled sound of another band filled the air. I strolled outside, past the guys smoking cigarettes, and leaned against Jack's car in the parking lot.
Daniels was an urgent call, but I was anxious to speak with Joel as well.
13
"You got your warrant," Daniels said. "You're looking for a .22-caliber pistol. That's it! Get in, and get out, and try not to harass the man too much."
"You don't think he did it," I said.
"No. I don't. But we're being thorough. Erickson and Faulkner are on the way over now. Meet them at Royce's, execute the warrant, and report back."
"Wilco," I said. It was military jargon for will comply.
I hung up the phone and looked at the last text message from Joel. [Call me back ASAP. It's urgent!]
I shot him a text as I walked back into the warehouse to retrieve Jack from his pseudo-stardom.
[What's going on? I'm a little busy at the moment.]
[I thought you were in desperate need of cash?]
[I am.]
My cell phone lit up the dim hallway as I walked back to the rehearsal space. Inside, JD basked in the adulation of his new friends.
"Yo! JD. We gotta roll!" I shouted.
JD excused himself and made his way through the crowd. He grinned from ear to ear. He muttered to me in the hallway, "I'm liking this rockstar thing."
"Rockstar might be a bit of a stretch," I said, trying to bring him back down to earth.
He frowned at me. "Don't hate."
An obnoxious voice slurred, "Are you the new singer for Louder Than Fuck?"
Jack's face crinkled. "It's Wild Fury now!"
"That's a stupid name!"
JD scowled at the man. "How about you form your own band, then you can name it whatever you want?"
"I had my own band until you took my spot!" he snarled.
"So, you're the sucky singer they fired?" JD asked.
The drunk's face reddened, and his jaw clenched tight. He was skinny and had long, scraggly blond hair. He wore ripped up jeans, a concert T-shirt, and a leather vest. An angry retort escaped his thin lips. "You're the one that sucks!"
Wrong thing to say.
What he did next made the situation even worse.
With open palms he shoved Jack in the chest, knocking him back a step.
The drunk almost fell down in the process.
Jack cocked his fist back, ready to clock the bastard. I jumped in between the two and shoved the drunk away.
He staggered back a few feet, then caught his balance. He steeled his resolve and marched toward Jack with his hands balled into fists. He tilted his head down, looking like a bull ready to charge.
"Back off!" I said.
"What the fuck are you going to do about it?" he smarted.
"You don't want to know." I pulled my badge from my pocket and flashed it, trying to diffuse the situation.
He stopped for a moment, listing as he stared at the shiny gold badge. His face crinkled. His sour eyes flicked to Jack, who I was still restraining with my palm against his chest.
The drunk taunted, "So, you got a cop to protect you? Can't handle things on your own?"
Jack's jaw tensed and he pushed against my palm, wanting to charge forward.
"Easy," I muttered. "He's not worth it." Then I addressed the drunk singer. "Beat it, or I will take you down for public intoxication and assault."
He tucked his chin, and his face crinkled. "I didn't assault nobody. You ain't seen assault yet. And I ain't drunk!"
"Go home, Rip!" Styxx said as he entered the hallway.
Rip staggered, swaying. After a moment of contemplation, he said, "Man, fuck all y'all. Y'all suck! You guys don't even deserve a singer like me."
Rip backed away, then twirled around and stumbled out of the warehouse.
"Now you know why we got rid of him," Styxx said. The drummer looked at me. "I didn't know you were a cop."
"We both are," JD added.
Styxx's eyes widened.
"Having second thoughts about having me in the band?" JD asked.
"You're not gonna bust us for the herb, are you? I mean, this is not, like, some giant sting operation?"
I chuckled. "No. It's not a sting operation."
"You swear?"
"We swear," I said.
"I just want to sing in a band, man," JD said.
Styxx grinned, and the two clasped hands. "Right on, man!" He paused. "Does that mean you can help with some parking tickets?"
I chuckled again.
Jack said, "I'll see what I can do."
Another text from Joel buzzed my phone. [You've got a meeting with the studio tomorrow at 9 AM about the TV show.]
[What!?]
[Yup.]
[I can't. I'm in the middle of a case.]
[You can, you will, you must! The studio is sending a private jet. Be at the FBO at the Coconut Key airport at 9:00 PM tonight.]
[We can't do this another time?]
[You know how fickle this town is. The window of opportunity only opens briefly.]
I sighed, then texted. [I'll be there.]
Joel sent back a smiley-face emoji.
JD and I left the warehouse and cautiously rushed through the parking lot. I was sure we hadn't seen the last of Rip.
We hopped into the Porsche and sped over to Harold Royce's house. Faulkner and Erickson were waiting, decked out in black tactical gear, assault rifles, and helmets.
I said, "It's a little overkill for the situation, don't you think?"
They looked at me like I was crazy.
"Are you kidding me? I ain't taking any chances," Erickson said.
"Me neither," Faulkner added.
We marched up the walkway and rapped on the door. I shouted, "County Sheriff's Department. We have a search warrant!"
I heard commotion inside, then a moment later, Harold opened the door.
I displayed the warrant.
Harold snatched the paperwork from my hand and looked it over, then stepped aside. He scowled at me as we stormed into the home and began searching.
"Try not to mess my shit up," Harold growled.
He wasn't pleased.
We combed the house, searching for the .22-caliber pistol while trying to be respectful about it. We looked through drawers, closets, under mattresses and seat cushions, inside appliances, air vents, and various other nooks and crannies.
Harold had a smug grin on his face after our exhaustive search. "Didn't find what you're looking for?"
"I thought you said you owned a .22?" My perturbed gaze blazed into him.
"Oh, that's right, I forgot. If I recall correctly, I lost that in a boating accident some time ago." Harold tapped his temple with his index finger. "The old brain isn't what it used to be. Must have slipped my mind."
It was clear that Harold had disposed of the weapo
n during the time it took to get the warrant. What I thought was a low probability lead became more suspicious.
I thanked Harold for his cooperation, and we left the premises.
"Call us the next time you've got another wild goose chase," Erickson said.
Faulkner chuckled.
They climbed into a patrol car, and the tires barked as they launched from the curb.
"I think he gave the gun to a neighbor, or hid it somewhere else," JD said.
"Something tells me he doesn't want us finding that gun," I said.
"Or maybe he's just being a cantankerous old man that doesn't want to comply. Hell, somebody shows up at my house, asking for my guns, I wouldn't hand them over."
We climbed into JD's Porsche and drove back to the marina at Diver Down. We ambled inside and took a seat at the bar.
Teagan wasn't her usual, bubbly self. She had a melancholy look on her face, and her voice was listless. "What can I get for you?"
"How about a rematch?" JD asked. "A chance to win my money back?"
Teagan was adamant. "No way!"
Jack giggled. "Afraid it was all luck?"
"It wasn't luck. But every time I use my psychic ability, I end up paying the price."
JD's face twisted with confusion. "What do you mean?"
"So, yesterday, I used my psychic mojo to win a couple hundred bucks. I split it with Tyson. Today, the power steering goes out on my car, and the shop wants $465 to fix it."
"I don't see how the two are related," JD said.
"You don't see the connection?" Teagan asked, incredulous.
"Random coincidence," JD stated with confidence.
"Maybe you see your life as a series of random, unconnected events. I see life as a series of intricately woven moments that all come together to form a deeper meaning."
"So what's the deeper meaning?" JD asked.
Teagan shrugged. "I haven't figured that out yet."
"Why don't you pour us two whiskeys, and I'm sure we can delve deeper into the meaning of life," JD said.
"I'll take a cheeseburger with that whiskey." I looked at my watch. "Can you make it snappy? I gotta catch a flight."
JD looked at me like I was crazy. "Where are you going?"
I caught him up to speed.
"I want to go!" Jack said.
I hesitated.
"Come on! You're going to pitch the TV show, right? The TV show which is loosely based on our escapades," JD said with air quotes. "You need me there to help sell it."
"I don't need you screwing it up."
Jack feigned offense. "When have I ever screwed anything up?"
"Let me get back to you on that one," I said, dryly.
"Besides, I would like to see my daughter while I'm out there." He paused. "She hasn't returned my phone call in a week. Might be the only way I get to speak to her. Why don't you call her and tell her we're coming? She won't answer for me."
I pulled out my phone and dialed Scarlett's number. I fully expected to get her voicemail, but she picked up the phone.
"Hey, what's going on?" she asked in a dreary tone.
"What's the matter?"
A depressed sigh escaped her lips. "I didn't get the part."
"The screen test for Ultra Mega 2?"
"Yeah. I'm totally bummed. I've been in a funk all week. Tell Jack I'm sorry I haven't called him back. I just haven't really felt like talking to anyone, and I don't want him to think I'm a failure."
"He would never think that," I said.
Jack hung on the edge of his seat, trying to hear Scarlett's voice through the tiny speaker.
"I just don't get it," Scarlett whined. "I thought the screen test went so well. And David Cameron is so cool! He acted like he really liked what I was doing. I know there are a thousand other people up for that part, and it was just two lines anyway, but I thought I really had a chance."
"Keep your head up. There will be other roles. Trust me."
"I know. It's just so hard here."
"Well, I've got some good news." I paused for dramatic effect. "Jack and I are coming into town."
"When?" Scarlett asked.
"Tonight. We're going to hop on a plane after dinner. I've got a meeting with the studio in the morning."
"That's great! Where are you guys going to stay? I mean, my place is a mess, and there's really not room for two of you."
"No worries. The studio sprang for a room at the Château."
"How long are you in town?"
"In and out," I said. "Do you want to talk to Jack?"
"Yeah, put him on."
I handed the phone to JD.
"I see how it is," he teased. "What do I have to do to get a phone call from you?"
I left Jack to his conversation.
"That's exciting," Teagan said. "I want to hear all the details when you get back."
"I'm sure you and Alejandro can hold down the fort while I'm gone," I said.
"You can count on me," Teagan said, starting to perk up. She stood at attention and gave me a mock salute.
I chuckled. "You think you can look after Buddy and Fluffy for me? I'll give you the key to the boat. Just make sure they're fed and watered and take Buddy out a few times a day. I'll pick up the tab for your repair bill if you do that."
Teagan smiled. "Sounds like a deal to me."
Jack finished the call with Scarlett and handed the phone back. We ate dinner, then I ran down to the Vivere and packed a bag. I took Buddy out for a quick walk, then left the key with Teagan on my way out.
We drove to Jack's house. Once he had packed a few things, we took a cab to the airport. He didn't like leaving the Porsche unattended, and I didn't blame him.
It was in my contract that the studio paid for a private jet and accommodations every time I traveled to Los Angeles on official business. I had gotten quite spoiled by it. We breezed through the FBO, and the Slipstream G-750 waited on the tarmac. The sleek aircraft was a twin-engine jet that retailed for upwards of $70 million. The G-750 had a maximum speed of Mach 0.925, and a range of 7500 nautical miles.
It had satellite telephone, wireless Internet, a full galley, and a plethora of entertainment features including a large flatscreen display and surround sound stereo system. The plush leather seats were a dream, and the passenger cabin was detailed with the finest appointments.
The captain introduced himself and shook our hands, and a gorgeous flight attendant sought to fulfill our every desire.
Well, almost every desire.
We were wheels up in no time. I reclined the comfy seat and grabbed a little shut-eye during flight. With the time difference, we arrived at the FBO in Burbank just before midnight Pacific time.
Jack looked at his watch and adjusted it to the local time. With a mischievous grin, he said, "There's still time to hit the bars."
Our LA adventure was about to begin.
14
The cushy limousine rolled through the streets of The Valley, gliding across the concrete like a hovercraft. JD perused the crystal snifters in the fully stocked minibar. He poured two glasses of whiskey and handed one to me.
Far be it from me to refuse his hospitality.
"I could get used to this," JD said.
We crossed over the hill, over the 101, and took North Highland down to Sunset Boulevard. Jack leaned back, sipping his drink, taking in the lights of the strip.
My usual driver, Zaven, wasn't available. When I asked where he was, the current driver, Billy, said, "He got fired."
My brow lifted with surprise. "Do you know why?"
Billy's eyes glanced at me through the rearview mirror. "I don't know. I don't ask. They pay me to drive, and that's what I do."
He either didn't know, or wasn't saying.
I liked Zaven. He seemed like a decent guy. But Billy was doing a fine job.
We pulled into the Château. Billy parked and quickly ran around the car and got the doors. I gave him a nice tip, which he seemed to appreciate. He said
someone would pick us up in the morning to take us to the studio.
We checked into the hotel, and a bellhop took us up to our suite. I called dibs on the master bed. Jack would have to sleep on the foldout couch. There was a full kitchen with refrigerator, stove, and microwave. The room had a lounge area, an office area, and a master bedroom. The infamous hotel was definitely a place you could settle into for a few days, weeks, or even years if you had the money. The hotel had a rich history of Hollywood excesses. That wild spirit permeated the entire structure, making the hotel seem almost alive.
JD glanced at his watch after we had settled in. "Still plenty of time to find trouble."
With the time difference, I was pretty beat, but Jack was like a little kid—full of energy and raring to explore new territory. I knew he wouldn't let up until I acquiesced to his demands. A T-shirt and shorts wouldn't cut it in the glitzy glam of LA nightlife. I changed into my suit that I had planned on wearing during my meeting with the studio.
Jack did the same, but his formal attire was not without flair. His tie screamed, and the purple crushed velvet vest he wore underneath his suit jacket made him look like an odd character out of a comic book movie.
Night is when the Château comes alive, and we didn't have to travel far to find excitement. The hotel bar was the epicenter of illicit meetings, multimillion-dollar deals, and lustful dreams of stardom. Hollywood is like stepping through the looking glass into another dimension. One where you can reinvent yourself on a regular basis. There is no limit to the heights you can achieve, and no bottom to the depths in which you can despair. The city, and the bar, had a pulse, a rhythm, and a palpable presence. The ghosts of old Hollywood lingered in every shadow. Stepping into the bar was like walking into an inner sanctum in which you were now privy to the workings of the cult that is Hollywood. There were a few bars throughout town that had the same vibe—that old school charm—but none quite like this. The deep couches, the smooth martinis, the whispers of insincere promises—all an aphrodisiac for fame and fortune.
We ordered a drink from the bar, and the two glasses of top-shelf whiskey cost more than the rent on my first apartment. We leaned against the bar and sipped the fine liquor, taking in the ambience of the old establishment.
