“Rocco Boyle,” Mo said. “Accident with a length of rope in Burbank.”
With some effort, Clay managed to keep a straight face. “Johnny Thunders,” he hurried on, “caught a dose of rigor mortis in New Orleans.”
“Noooo, no,” Fiasco retorted, “we don’t have nearly enough time for the drug overdoses. Besides, have a little respect for Guillermo back there.”
“Don’t you hold back for me,” Mo told him. “It’ll do me good now that I’m sober.” The last few weeks, according to Savy, had been heavy, as her brother battled the worst of his withdrawal without the benefit of medical attention—the disappearing, reappearing fever, the desperate scrambles to the bathroom to evacuate one end or the other, the general malaise and foul temper and exhaustion. Clay’s own recovery had been a cakewalk in comparison.
Mo’s intention to clean his life up seemed a serious one, at least, and Savy had made it her mission to keep him busy and distracted, getting him out in the sunlight when he was able, letting him hang around band practice—and now having him roadie their first gig. “The music industry is full of parasites and monsters,” Mo told them on more than one occasion. “You’ll need me watching your backs.”
Savy craned her neck to stare at the urban landscape out the windshield. “Do you know where you’re going, Fee? Or are we lost in Watts and you’re not saying?”
They had exited the 10 Freeway twenty minutes before and were now circling some sort of industrial wasteland south of downtown. “I’m following the directions to the venue turn for turn,” Fiasco assured her.
Savy lifted her palms. “What venue? A petroleum plant?”
They found out five minutes later, pulling to the gates of what looked to be a large abandoned factory, where they were met by uniformed security guards. “Invitation only,” one warned.
“We’re the band,” Fiasco replied.
“Which one?” the guard asked, going out of his way to be unfriendly.
“There’s more than one?” Spider asked.
Fiasco showed the guard a red slip of paper and his attitude shifted. “Follow the road to the right, sir. Park at the loading dock.”
The gates parted and Fiasco crested a bridge over what was either a concrete moat or a bone-dry tributary of the L.A. River. They passed a parking lot and saw it was full of cars. No junkers either, but Audis and Teslas and Range Rovers—as if Beverly Hills’ hottest club had suddenly relocated to the bowels of South Central. “What the fucking fuck?” Savy said. “I thought you said 20-30 people, tops.”
What was more, when they reached the loading dock, there were not only two other band vehicles, but a full-on bus, the kind of humming luxury coach that ferried major-label acts from tour stop to tour stop. This isn’t a party with clowns and ice cream, Clay realized with mounting dread. This is a real-deal, slam-bam rock show.
One of the building’s bay doors rolled up and two long-bearded gentlemen—professional roadies or soldiers in the Hells Angels—emerged, smoking cigars. Music poured out of the factory behind them. Live music. No mistaking the sound of real drums.
Fiasco sighed, gripping the wheel, even if the engine was off. “Okay, I think it’s been established that I wasn’t given all the information. Allow me a moment.”
Savy leapt out and shadowed him into the old factory, while Clay, Spider, and Mo kept an eye on the equipment piled in back. “This isn’t like any birthday I’ve ever been to,” Mo remarked. “Looks more like Woodstock in the hood.”
“And that band playing,” Spider said, “are either doing an amazing cover of a Physical Jerks song or they are The Physical Jerks.”
He was right. Cameron Moreno, the Jerks’ frontman, had a distinctive tenor, and Clay would have put money on it being him in there. “What the fucking fuck?” he said.
Suddenly there was a pneumatic hiss as the door of the luxury coach folded open, and Clay did the requisite double take at the man stepping out. The second look was pointless, of course—he would have recognized the face in a crowded room at a masquerade ball. Barrett Roethke, ex-drummer for Rocket Throne, current drummer for Karney and the Demons, nodded as he strolled past.
We’re in over our heads, Clay realized. Way over it. He spied the keys hanging from BadVan’s ignition, and for a moment, saw himself in the driver’s seat, hauling ass out of there.
Savy appeared from a side door just as the famous drummer entered the big bay door, missing each other by seconds. “You’re not going to believe who I just saw,” Clay said.
“Neither will you,” Savy told him.
The girl’s name was Crissy and she was turning sixteen today. A student of Fiasco’s at Dooley’s Den, she was also apparently the daughter of somebody named “Ricky Somebody,” a fact that simultaneously delighted and frightened the others. “Who’s Ricky Somebody?” Clay dared to ask.
Fiasco laughed without humor and hung an arm around Clay. “Since you’re new to L.A., I’ll give you a pass on that borderline retarded question.”
“He’s basically the concert promoter in these parts,” Savy told him. “If any big act wants to come through SoCal they dial up Ricky and ask him, politely. If we had a little heads-up that Crissy was his daughter, it might not’ve been a shock to find a thousand people here.”
“She never told me,” Fiasco insisted—for, however good he was at playing the asshole, he was even better in the role of the supplicate. “Her parents are divorced. Her mother picks her up from lessons. Their last name is Rudinski, for shit’s sake!”
For some reason, Mo was grinning ear to ear. “Then, if this Somebody is such a big cheese, why aren’t we in Malibu or the Chateau Marmont or something?”
“I couldn’t find Crissy in there, but I asked one of the organizers. I guess she’s friends with a record producer’s daughter, who had her party in an empty warehouse with a house DJ.” Fiasco shrugged. “Remember when your friend had their party
