Savy’s brother, still topless from giving Clay the shirt off his back, had come out of nowhere. Clay didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Fiasco took another blow, and another, before Spider caught Mo under the arms and dragged him off. “No, no, this is your fight, Mo,” Fiasco managed, leaning against the dumpster, “you’re just fighting for the wrong guy.”
“He’s trying to fuck us out of our money,” Spider said. “Money that Savy earned for you and your family. Now let’s deal with him.”
Mo didn’t hesitate. He threw his weight back against Spider and body-checked him into the wall. Spider grunted and released. “You think I’m stupid?” Mo told them. “I know what under-the-influence looks like. And you boys are under something a lot worse than anything I’ve ever taken. You—and my sister too.”
He raised his fists like an old-school bare knuckler, and gestured for them to bring it. “Careful,” Clay croaked from the ground. “They’ll kill you too.”
Fiasco stood to his full height, which was at least six inches taller than Mo’s, and advanced. “You think those druggie arms can beat both our asses?”
“Probably not,” Mo admitted. “But I’ve got a concert’s worth of backup.”
Fiasco laughed his braying laugh. “Go ’head, shout. This is Hollywood, no one’s coming.”
“They will when I yell how you’re beating the shit out of their new hero. How much you want to bet half the parking lot shows up? And the really angry ones, those boys always looking to brawl? They’ll fall on your asses like the Holy Wrath.”
Fiasco and Spider looked at each other, each wanting the other to dictate the next move. Clay struggled to his knees, hoping to grab at one of their legs, slow down the double-team. Mo held his ground, the cords in his neck standing out.
Fiasco’s lips bent into a crooked smile. But he was no longer enjoying himself. “Bet you can’t shout before we’re on you, bitch.”
“Stop running your mouth,” Mo told him. “There’s only one way to find out.”
If asked to describe the half hour that followed his attack, Clay could only speak in probabilities. As in, probably Fiasco and Spider had chosen to embrace their pacifist side, given that he and Mo were still alive. Probably Mo had gotten Sunny D Purple Stuff’s attention, because Clay had ended up in the cargo space of her minivan. And probably Clay was in a daze for much of that time because when his mind grew lucid again, they were already in Burbank, cruising down a dark and empty Olive Avenue.
The Disturbed’s cover of “The Sound of Silence” was whispering from the speakers. Sunny D was on the nod in the passenger seat, not entirely there herself, and Mo was driving with his window down, a cigarette shaking in his fingers—though whether it was from what had transpired or out of fear of being pulled over while high, Clay couldn’t say. He groaned and sat up higher, catching Mo’s attention in the rearview. “You didn’t want to go to the hospital,” he said, as if in apology. “You said you needed to get home right away.”
“Yeah,” Clay replied, and gargling with thumbtacks might have felt better than talking at that point. He wanted to spit out the blood pooling around his tongue, wanted to spit and spit until the sick, coppery taste of it was all gone, but the van’s rear windows didn’t roll down. There was also something rolling around at the back of his mouth. Feels like a Tic Tac, or a— A piece of tooth, cracked off one of his molars. Clay plucked it out, along with a thick rope of saliva, and he sat there holding the enamel between two fingers. “Did your sister see?”
Mo shook his head. “I’m just glad she wasn’t part of it.” He dragged his cigarette down to the filter, then flicked it into the night. “I’ve seen it happen. In the chalk motels along Alvarado. I’ve run into more than a few famous faces there. Wasted men who’ve sold their souls. I taught Savy to walk the line, to never stray—not for money or fame or anything. But she wouldn’t listen to me—no more than I could listen myself. And doesn’t that suck so hard? Me and her love each other, we’re familia, but in the end we can’t save each other.”
“Sometimes love isn’t enough to save us,” Clay said.
“I woke in some random apartment with what’s-her-name here and that man, Priest, was standing over the bed. I asked who he was and he said, ‘I’m the right hand of the Master of Puppets, and you, dear friend, are my golden marionette.’
“Next thing I know I’m home, tucked in my own bed. By then, Priest had convinced Savy to sign herself away. I cursed her, screamed at her—but she honestly believed she’d saved us. When I asked if you’d toed the devil’s line, she said you had, but I could see she was lying. So when I spotted you looking for a way into the show, I had to help. Thought it might send the whole deal crashing down.”
“You and me both,” Clay said, and rested his palms on either side of his lumpy skull. He still wanted to spit, and his nose and groin were aching, swollen things. “Thank you. For everything, Mo.”
“A lot of good it did. I gave you the shirt off my back, but look, you tore that one all up too. And damn, dog, your face looks like it fell into a pressing machine.”
Savy’s brother grinned in the rearview, but the sadness in his eyes spoke louder. They reached the end of Olive and began climbing Country Club Drive. “Still,” Clay said. “I owe you, man. A big one.”
It took his bodyguard awhile to reply. “All the sleepless nights I caused my sister, now I’m the one worried sick. Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
The cul-de-sac was deserted when they reached
