by D. J. Manly
"It's all your fault, anyway," she had accused in a half-teasing voice. "He's a mirror copy of you in all ways. Not bad enough he has to look like you, he acts like you, too. All that boy wants to do is play music."
The sound of the phone ringing jolted her out of her daydream, startling her suddenly. A shiver went up her spine. She glared at the phone. She didn't want to answer it. When she had picked it up this morning, it had been Pepi with news that had shaken her world. Her ex-husband was in jail and he had confessed to shooting his brother, who was lying near death in the hospital. She couldn't take any more bad news right now. She had turned off the answering machine a few minutes ago when members of the press had started calling. Perhaps she should have left it on, but then again, no, did she really want to hear something devastating over an answering machine?
She needed to get to the hospital to find out how Johnny was. She was having such a hard time pulling herself together. The phone was still ringing. Shit. She should pick it up. How much worse could it get?
Besides, it could be Angelo. She held her breath and slowly lifted the phone.
"Yes?"
She closed her eyes. It was Pepi again. "Please, don't tell me that anything has happened to Johnny," she whispered.
"Nothing has changed," Pepi replied, "but I wanted to let you know that he has just come out of surgery. They won't tell us anything. I also called to tell you that Frank has arranged for extra security at the hospital. They'll be on the lookout for you. Come in by the ambulance entrance, okay?"
"Okay. I'll be there soon, Pep, I just can't..." She started shaking again. "Can't seem to pull myself together. I need to have a stiff drink, I think."
"I know the feeling. Has Angelo called yet?"
"No, and I'm worried, Pepi. Chances are high he's going to learn about this from the news. How would you like to hear that your dad's in prison for shooting your uncle on the goddamned news? If only I could reach him. Problem is, Pep, I really don't know where he is. The last postcard I got from him was from Amsterdam in July, imagine. God knows where he is now. Did you get anything after that from him?"
"No, but Jan, I know he'll come home as soon as he hears about it," Pepi replied. "Depending where he is, you have to account for the time change and stuff...it might be night where he is." He stopped. He was babbling.
There was a pause, then, "Have you seen Drake at all?" Jan inquired, her voice sounding weak.
"I tried this morning. He doesn't want to see anyone. The warden is having him watched pretty closely. I want to arrange for bail, but..."
"He just needs some time to himself now, Pep, really. He's got to be okay. He did ask to see Johnny, didn't he?"
"Yes, but I doubt they're going to allow it." Pepi didn't want to talk about Drake right now, she could tell. "Jan, want me to send the limo? You might not be in shape to drive, and..."
"No. My car is less conspicuous. I saw on the T.V. this morning tons of people hanging around outside the hospital, not to mention the press."
"Don't watch television, Jan. They're saying some stuff that's just not true. Don't listen to it."
"I won't," she sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
"I got to go. See you then," Pepi told her and hung up.
After a few seconds, Janet replaced the phone and stood up. She walked over to the small room that served as her closet and searched for a pair of jeans.
She had little trouble locating them. There were at least twenty pairs of designer jeans hanging perfectly on hangers, one after another, in various sizes. She had once been a perfect size eight, now it felt more like a ten. She took a faded pair off a hanger and began to pull them on.
When her marriage to Drake was over, he had not been stingy with the divorce settlement. He had given her everything; bought her a beautiful house in Malibu close to his own and given her an overly generous living allowance, which was separate from the support for Angelo. She and her son had never wanted for anything. Her mom had told her it was guilt money. Maybe it was. Anyhow, in exchange, she had gladly shared custody with him, letting her son spend most of the summers with his dad and uncles.
After the initial bitterness over the divorce left her, she decided that getting along with Drake was essential to the well-being of their son. Drake Junior, who preferred to be called by his middle name, Angelo, was not going to be made to pay for his parent's mistake. Gradually, she and Drake became friends. Although she would always be in love with him, she had come to accept the fact that he would never be hers. It worked out nicely.
They found that as parents, they were almost always in agreement about their son's upbringing.
Both wanted him to be protected from the glare of the media when he was growing up so he could lead as normal a life as possible. Drake agreed that his son should use her family name rather then his in school, and most people never suspected that Angelo Smith was really Drake Russo's son. As Angelo got older, however, his father wanted him to understand how he lived, so Janet allowed him to spend the summers on tour with his father and uncles, flying in every so often to see him and sometimes attending a concert herself, which she still enjoyed.
They were both extremely proud of Angelo. He wasn't full of himself, they hadn't spoiled him, and he seemed happy. He was pretty typical for a young man of his age and he had done well in school. She just hoped that when he returned from his wanderings, he'd want to go to college instead of just hanging around clubs playing guitar with local rock groups.
Finally, after an hour and a half of changing her mind about what to wear, Janet was dressed. Anyone who knew her well would have taken one look at her and surmised that something was wrong. Janet usually wouldn't be caught dead without any makeup on and her hair, which was always beautifully styled, had been hastily tied back with an elastic band. Her usual dress was tailored suits with matching accessories. Today she had thrown one of her son's T-shirts over jeans and covered it with a grey angora sweater.
She took one last look at her eyes in the mirror, still red from crying, and then quickly pushed in the security code for the burglar alarm. She grabbed her purse, made sure she had the keys to her '97 New Yorker and left by way of her parking garage, checking first to make sure there were no journalists around. So far, so good, but she knew it was only a matter of time. She could have bet next month's allowance that the lawn would be covered with reporters by the time she came home.
She unlocked her car and slid inside, finally lighting that cigarette she'd wanted an hour ago. She leaned her head back into the headrest and took a generous puff. She knew she should give up smoking.
Her son had nagged her often about the effects on her health, and her doctor often shook his head at her like she was a naughty child. She made a face and stubbed it out, vowing to give up the nasty habit if she could only get through this crisis, but she vaguely remembered promising that before.
Ah, hell, now was not the time to worry about it.
She slapped down the visor and pressed the button for the automatic door opener. The door cranked upwards. She put the key in the ignition and hit the gas, still nervously checking her mirrors for the press.
She resisted the temptation to turn on the radio because she knew what she would hear. She tapped her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, waiting for the traffic light to change at the corner of her street.
What if Johnny died? What if this went to court and everything came out into the open? There were things that lay buried deep inside, things she knew but was too frightened to talk about, things they all knew. If they finally spoke these things---if it was acknowledged, accepted for what it was---it would be like a huge tidal wave sweeping in on all of them, carrying them away. All the heartache, tragedy, the lies and pain, what was it all for?
No, she thought, there were things that could never be spoken. There were things meant to remain in silence, ghosts that haunt, but never truly come into the light. If the ghosts showed themselves, the pain woul
d destroy them all. But it has stayed in the shadows, a voice inside her head whispered, and still Johnny has been shot. Drake was in jail. Maybe it was just too much to stay hidden, just too damned much.
* * * * * *
When Frank called him on the cell phone and told him that Drake finally wanted to see him, Pepi felt like crying with relief. He shut down his phone and walked over to Mac, who had been sitting in the exact same spot in the waiting room since two or so that morning.
"Drake is going to see me. I'm meeting Frank at the police station where they're holding him."
Mac looked up at Pepi and swallowed. "I'll stay here. If the doctors come out and say anything at all, I'll call you on your cell phone right away, okay?"
"Thanks, Mac, you do that."
"Is Drake all right?" Mac looked up at Pepi, squinting his tired eyes.
"I don't know."
"If he wants me, let me know. I'll come right over," Mac said, his voice was strained.
Pepi nodded, squeezed his shoulder and walked to the elevator. He placed the code card in the slot and the elevator went directly to the underground parking where Carter, their limo driver, waited. As Pepi walked across the parking lot toward the limo, he spotted several navy blue sedans scattered around.
Sitting inside them were straight-faced men who Frank had hired from an elite private security firm. To him, they all looked like they hadn't had a good shit in a while. The thought made him smile for a moment.
"Sir," Carter said, nodding at him. He opened the door of the long white limo with the smoked windows and bulletproof glass, and Pepi slipped inside. He then closed the door, and the locks clicked down. Carter glanced at his passenger a couple of times, but remained quiet. He knew that Carter was probably just as anxious as everyone else to know what was going on, but Pepi didn't feel like talking.
He had a headache, and being inside the limo made him think of his brothers and the times they had riding back and forth to concerts in this very vehicle.
Carter was an excellent driver, and sped out of the parking lot past the screaming hordes of people and swerved smoothly onto the freeway.
Pepi closed his eyes. Poor Mac. He had had a hell of a birthday this year, hadn't he? First Johnny didn't show up to his party until after ten, and then he and Drake got into it like when they were kids. Then of course, after Johnny was shot, Mac ended up spending the rest of the night at the hospital with Frank and himself and a host of other party guests, who eventually had to be told to leave. He knew Mac was taking this as hard as he was. Mac, Drake and Johnny began jamming together as boys, and he had always been one of them. Mac loved them all, and they loved him back.
Suddenly Carter was speaking to him. "Your mother, sir, at what time am I to pick Mrs. Russo up from L.A.X?"
"Oh, Christ," Pepi said, "that's right. Thanks, Carter, for reminding me. With everything going on, I almost forgot. Mama is due on an evening flight from New York tonight. I think it arrives at midnight, but I'll..."
"Sir, I'll check the time of arrival. Don't worry."
"Good, thank you, Carter."
"Do you want me to bring her directly to the hospital, sir?"
"Ah...yes." Then out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the police station. "Oh...here, Carter, right here, this turn. The police station is on the right."
"Yes, sir, I see it."
There were hordes of people and reporters everywhere. The police had sectioned off the street and erected barriers in the parking lot with yellow tapes strung across which read 'Do Not Cross'.
Pepi sighed. People began to scream and run toward the vehicle when they spotted the approaching limo. Police cars were positioned in front of the door. Uniformed officers were running around, trying to direct the limo to a parking place. Carter whispered something under his breath as he was forced to come to a standstill. People surrounded the car, trying to see who was in the limo, crying out something that sounded distorted and frightening.
A police officer started saying things over the loudspeaker about clearing the area. Pepi took a breath. He heard the word 'disperse' several times.
He had encountered crowds of fans before, but never before had they seemed as agitated and anxious.
Carter managed to inch forward as the police were slowly pulling people away from the vehicle.
"Unlock the doors, Carter, I'm getting out!" Pepi announced. Carter hesitated and then did as he was asked. The locks in the back slid up. It took him several minutes to get the door open wide enough so he could get out, and the moment he managed to, he was bombarded. He didn't know who was worse, the fans or the press. Microphones were pushed into his face, and people were jammed all around him.
He fell backwards against the car and put his hands up in front of his face, trying to regain his balance. He saw Carter try and open his door in order to come and help him, but Pepi shouted to him to stay inside. Carter wasn't a young man, and there wasn't anything he could do.
Several police officers were pushing their way through the crowd, and one managed to get a hold of his forearm. He began to lead him towards the door of the station, which seemed to be miles away, when in actuality it was less than twenty or thirty feet. The camera bulbs flashed. In the distance, fans cried, "Free Drake, free Drake, we Love Drake." Reporters' voices all shouted together, "Pepi, is Drake guilty? Why doesn't Drake want a lawyer? What will happen to the Russo Brothers now?"
Pepi wanted to scream at them, feeling cornered like a rat, not being able to move more than an inch at a time. The chanting of the fans and the hounding questions being thrown at him reverberated in his head.
"Leave me the fuck alone!" he finally cried out, but it didn't sound like his voice. "For Christ's sake, leave me, leave me...!" He lowered his head, his mind racing, barely aware that someone was pulling him forward.
Finally, he was being whisked inside the main door of the police station. Instantly, several police officers barricaded the door behind him. He felt himself being pushed into a chair. Someone shoved a glass of water into his hand. He couldn't answer when he heard someone ask him if he was all right. He put his face in his hands. His heart was practically pounding out of his chest. Never in his life had he ever felt like this, even after that concert in London where there was a near riot in the crowd. He managed to take a few sips of water, then looked up into the eyes of a stoic police officer and said, "I want to see my brother."
"You and everybody else." The officer's mouth twisted into a semblance of a smirk. "Mr. Carr is here. He's waiting for you."
Pepi got up and followed the man down a corridor.
Phones rang and people were talking, but he didn't understand what they were saying. He kept his head down. His legs felt like rubber. For the first time---at the age of twenty-eight---he felt old.
A young policewoman stood in an empty room at the end of the hall with their manager, Frank Carr.
Frank was a man in his early forties with shoulder-length silver-grey hair and a gold earring. He was fit and handsome, and quite the ladies' man. They really liked Frank, with his charming Australian accent and his no-nonsense style of getting things done. They made tons of money for him, and he took care of them.
Frank had never seen Pepi look so bad, not even when he had been hospitalized in Singapore with that bout of food poisoning. His long brown hair was disheveled and tangled, and there were black rings under his eyes. It was apparent he hadn't shaved, washed nor slept since the day before. His jeans were spotted with blood, and there were coffee stains on his navy sweatshirt. "You look like shit, my boy."
"I don't doubt it. I got one brother in jail and the other one on the brink of death. You tell me when I got time for a hairdresser."
Frank put his arms around him for a moment, then released him. "I've got a great lawyer for Drake, but you have to talk to him..."
Pepi ran a hand over his face. "I know he'll need a lawyer to iron all this out eventually, but I was thinking there's no hurry. This is all one big misunder
standing, you know that. Drake would never hurt Johnny, Johnny's his life, he loves Johnny...he..." Pepi broke off helplessly. This all seemed so crazy. To even take this seriously, to say the words, made no sense.
"Pepi, haven't you been listening to the news? The DA is going to charge Drake with attempted murder sometime today or tomorrow."
Pepi shook his head. "No, it can't happen, Frank. It just can't happen. Johnny is going to pull through this, and...he'd die if he thought Drake was in jail because of this. It's not what Johnny would want, Frank. You've got to do something."
"Johnny can't speak for himself right now," Frank replied. "This is out of my hands, kid. I can't fix it this time. I can't even get him bail if he won't see a lawyer." Frank took a seat. He was exhausted himself.
He hadn't slept all night and there were reporters hounding him everywhere, tying up all the lines at the recording studio. It had been like watching a train coming down the track all these years. The train had been frantically blowing its horn, but no one moved.
He knew that when it finally hit, it would hit hard. It could destroy everything. And as he met Pepi's tired brown eyes, he knew Pepi knew it too.
The radio the policewoman carried on her belt crackled suddenly. She took it and pressed a button.
A voice said something that neither of the men could understand, and she muttered "Ten-four," in response. She looked over at the two men in front of her and announced that they would be bringing Drake in now.
Frank stood up again. Pepi felt weak suddenly, and tried to remember if he had eaten anything that day.
The door opened and a black officer led Drake into the room by the elbow. He had handcuffs on.
Pepi looked over at his eldest brother for a moment, and his bottom lip started to tremble.
Suddenly, he took several heavy steps toward him and enveloped him in his arms. They both started sobbing.
The male officer moved closer and placed a hand on Pepi Russo's shoulder. "You're not supposed to touch the prisoner," he told him sternly.
