Steven had collected instruments, a lot of them drums. Most were busted, ones he’d intended to repair. Before we’d signed with the label, he’d even worked over Click’s kit a few times. He had two Ghanaian tribal drums resting next to a mismatched collection of snares, even a steel drum he’d made himself.
“No Clay, huh?” I asked.
“He thought it’d be presumptuous,” Click said. “Considering how you barely know him. Offers his deepest sympathies.”
I nodded, and there was a beat that threatened to become an awkward pause, and then Graham asked, “How you holding up, Mimser? You good? Given the circumstances?”
“Not so good. I’m sorry about all this press.”
“Ink is ink. You just got to ride it out. Really sorry about that craptroll at the funeral home.” Graham’s face twisted alarmingly with sudden hatred. “Fucking
“Van shut that down.”
“I spoke to Fred. He says things don’t look that bad for you.”
“Depends from where you’re looking.”
“He’s good at his job, Mimser, he’ll do his best for you. You’ve got to give the man some credit, he’s managed to keep things pretty level on this end.”
It sounded like he was talking as much about the pictures as Mikel’s murder, but I wasn’t certain. So far, none of them had told me they’d as much as heard about the images, and it added yet another tension, because now I wasn’t certain if I should be embarrassed, or just should anticipate embarrassment.
“He seems more interested in the fact that
“Ink is ink, like I said. Not to be a total dickwad, but that’s kind of an upside, maybe, for a darkness, huh?”
I just stared at him. Every sale was more money in the pocket, and if Mikel was now serving to further promote Tailhook, well, there was really no way that Graham or the label could see his death as an entirely bad thing. It was the way it was, and there was nothing to be done about it. For that instant, though, I hated them all so much I wanted to scream their dead hearts to life.
“That was the first time I’d ever seen your dad,” Van said. “At the service.”
“Tommy,” I said. “Call him Tommy.”
“I didn’t know about your mom.”
“Now everyone does.”
“I thought I knew just about every one of your dark secrets.”
“I don’t write about that one.”
“You will,” she said.
“No I won’t. I can’t.”
She shook her head. “Clay’s temp, I’d have you back in a heartbeat. But you’ve got to deal with this thing.”
I held up my glass. “Mineral water.”
“Not this morning it wasn’t.”
I tried to change the subject. “How long you guys back?”
Van looked annoyed, but Click cut her off. “Couple more days, time to see family and pay bills. Graham figured if we were going to have to cancel one date, might as well cancel three.”
“Where to next?”
“Glasgow, then Dublin.”
“It’ll be cold,” I said. “Bundle up.”
“Our shit is squared away,” Van said, pointedly. “Look after your own, Miriam.”
The reception, such as it was, started breaking up before five, and I wandered upstairs as people began to leave, to get away from the platitudes, eventually reaching my old bedroom. Tommy was sitting at my desk, looking out the window. The room faced west, and the sunset was starting to fade, and that was the only light in there.
He caught me staring at him, got up hastily from the desk, trying to straighten his awful suit. Maybe it was the shadows, but he looked a lot worse for wear, and he hadn’t looked all that good when I’d seen him on Thursday morning.
The silence got awkward fast, so I spoke, told him the first thing that came to mind.
“I used to live here.”
He nodded. “I spoke to Mrs. Beckerman when I arrived. She told me . . . she told me where your room was.”
“How long you been here?”
“Only a half hour. I didn’t . . . I didn’t know if I should come or not.”
“Tell me you didn’t do it.”
He grimaced, slowly, as if feeling heartburn. “I didn’t, Miriam. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Do you know how it happened?”
He shook his head. “I’d been drinking. . . .”
“You said you’d stopped.”
“I had.”
“You know about these pictures? About this fucker who was taping me in my own home?”
He flinched, nodded as if hoping he could get by with only the barest of confirmations.
“Do you know who did that? Was it one of Mikel’s buddies? Damien?”
“I don’t know anything about that.” Tommy ran his hand over the top of the old stereo, disturbing the light dust. “You were drunk at the service.”
“It would be you who could tell.”
“I wasn’t the only one who could tell.” When I didn’t say anything, he added, “You need to stop doing that. Need to stop drinking like that.”
“I don’t need this kind of advice from you.”
Tommy took a step forward suddenly, grabbing my arm. I felt his grip tightening on me. My insides fell to liquid, seemed to foam up and fill my lungs, flooding them and forcing away my breath. I was eleven again, small and scared.
“Listen.” He hit both syllables evenly, equally. “Listen to me, Miriam. You don’t know how dangerous this is. You don’t know what could happen.”
I tried to pull away, to back away, but his grip just tightened. I suppose I could have kicked or punched or screamed, but I didn’t think of it, I didn’t even consider those actions as options.
He was my father. His anger, his power, all over again, inescapable.
It froze me in place, and it terrified me.
All I could manage was, “Please.”
The word was enough, the effect was enormous. Tommy dropped my arm like I was a hot wire, backing away, and his expression changed from anger to alarm, and then to something else. He seemed confused, as if he’d lost his bearings.
“Oh, God,” Tommy said. “Oh, Mim. I’m so sorry.”
Then he pushed his way past me, going for the stairs, taking them quickly, double, triple steps at a time.
When I got downstairs, he had gone, and the party was over.
CHAPTER 21
The caterers were out of the house within minutes of the last guest’s departure.
