A Fistful of Rain

“Which?”

“Six hundred thousand,” Lumley said. “Yes, I should think that wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Then I’d like you to do that, please.”

“We’d be happy to. I’ll have Mr. Rodriguez call you as soon as your cash is ready.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“No,” said Lumley. “Thank you for banking with Four Rivers.”

Graham’s apartment was in the Pearl, and that’s where I headed next. During the last few months I’d been with the tour, he’d made a habit of traveling with cash, upward of fifty thousand dollars at a time on some legs. He’d kept it in his briefcase, used it to pay for incidentals and emergencies and shopping sprees, but mostly it was for travel. Cash was the best way to get around the paparazzi and their penchant for digging through credit card receipts.

There was no way he was carting four hundred grand around in his briefcase, but he’d know where I could get it.

I took Burnside across the river, back into downtown, then up toward Powell’s. The Heineken Brewery used to be on Burnside, this huge old brick building that had stood since the bad old days, when Portland was renowned by sailors the world over as “the worst port in the world.” But Heineken sold the property a couple years ago, and some developers bought it and promptly tore the whole thing down. Now there were expensive condos and yuppie health food stores.

Graham’s apartment was in an earlier iteration of the process, a twenty-odd-story collection of new apartments with an Art Deco feel. He’d bought it after Scandal, when it had become clear that Tailhook was staying together, and that he was part of the package. Prior to that, he’d lived exclusively in L.A., and he still kept a home there. He’d bought in the Pearl because it was considered the trendiest damn section of town, full to the popping with young urban professionals, all of them beautiful, all of them eager, and most of them looking for a date. Click had his place just a little farther north from Graham’s.

I parked the Jeep and hopped out, and there was a security guy at the desk in the lobby, and he wanted to know who I was visiting. I told him I was Miriam Bracca to see Graham Havers, and the guard got all flustered and begged my pardon and told me he hadn’t recognized me.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“Mr. Havers has some company there already, I don’t think it’ll be a problem if you head on up without me calling first,” the security guy said.

“If it is, I’ll tell him I snuck past you.”

Security Guy grinned like we’d just become the best buds in the world. “Cool. And if anyone asks, I’ll say I’ve never seen you.”

I laughed and he grinned even bigger, and then I got in the elevator and went up to eighteen. There was no one in the car and no one in the hall, and I rang the bell beside Graham’s door, and waited. There was no music coming from inside, which was strange, because normally when Graham was home, he was playing something, usually a new band, usually someone none of us had ever heard before.

Graham answered the door, looking like he’d had some rest and wasn’t planning on any company coming by. He was in purple Adidas workout pants and a white V-necked silk shirt, and he was barefoot.

“Mimserama!”

“Hey, can I come in?”

He threw a glance over his shoulder, into the main room, then reached a hand for my shoulder, to guide me inside. The gesture popped a sudden memory of the Parka Man’s gloves on my arms and face, and I stepped back without thinking. Graham looked confused, but before he could voice it I went past him.

“Guy downstairs said you had company,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, it’s not a problem. You’ve met them, I think.” Graham edged around me, leading down the hall and gesturing into the main room, where his lifestyle was plain for any and all to see. He had a wide-screen Philips monitor mounted on the wall, between two arched windows that looked out into downtown, and two huge Klipsch speakers at the far corners of the room. The stereo setup was NAD and multicomponent, each piece seated gently in a chrome cabinet. The space was open, with low furniture, all modular, all vaguely Danish.

Detective Marcus had been standing at one of the three CD racks, examining the titles. Hoffman was on the couch. Both now directed their attention to me.

Graham continued past, saying, “You guys know Mim, of course, talked to her already. They just dropped by for a few questions.”

He told the last to me, adding a little shrug, as if to say that it all seemed silly to him.

“Miss Bracca,” Marcus said. “Pleasant surprise.”

“You and me both.”

Hoffman didn’t say anything.

“I can come back,” I told Graham.

“No, we’re pretty much finished here,” Marcus said, before Graham could answer. “We’ll be going now. Thanks for your help, Mr. Havers.”

“Hey, anything to assist, you know how that is.”

“You’d be surprised what a minority you’re in.”

Graham made a comment about being grateful for the police in general, then headed back down the hall, to get the door. Marcus followed, wishing me a good day, and Hoffman came last, but she stopped as she was passing me.

“Rough night?” she asked.

It took me a second to realize she was talking about the cut on my head. I tried to fumble out my prepared lie, but I didn’t need it, because she’d already continued on her way. I watched her and Marcus shake Graham’s hand, and then they left, and he shut the door after them.

“No idea what the hell that was about,” he told me cheerfully when he came back. “Just dropped by, wanted to know if I had any idea about anything about your brother or those pictures. Wanted a list of possible enemies, shit like that. I told them every unsigned guitarist. Then they asked for disgruntled employees. I told them I’d try to get them something, but the way Van is, that list would be fifty pages long.”

“Just for the tour managers,” I said.

He nodded, grinning, then focused on me, concerned. “What happened to your head? You take a spill?”

“A bad one.”

“Were you loaded, Mimser?”

“No. I’m just a klutz.”

He laughed. “I love it, an Oregonian using Yiddish. Klutz. You’re not a klutz, kiddo. You want something, I’ve got stuff in the fridge, I’ve got some chai and some of those energy drinks that you and Van were chugging on the road. Bought a damn flat of the stuff, and I can’t stand it. Taurine, what kind of fucking flavor is taurine?”

“It’s kinda citrus,” I said. “I don’t need anything.”

“God, I do. I’ve got an ounce and a half of coke in the bathroom, I was gonna wet myself when that Hoffman one asked if she could use my facilities. Don’t think she noticed it, though.”

“You left it out on the counter?”

“Hell, no, it’s in my shaving kit.”

Graham left me laughing and went into the kitchen, then came right back, opening a can of soda. He flopped on the couch, and waved at me to take any seat I wanted.

“You hear the latest?” he asked me. “Nothing for Free is at seven, and Scandal just hit forty-nine. Our illustrious sponsor called me this morning, offering to tack on another twenty-five dates.”

“You going to take them?”

Graham chugged his soda like it was water, then lowered the can and began drumming one of his irregular beats on its side, staring at me. I wondered if he was actually on the coke he’d been talking about.

“Talked to Van about the albums, didn’t talk to her about the dates yet, there’s an issue, kind of, but maybe you should talk to her.”

“There’s an issue?”