Clay’s eyes shifted between Savy and Roethke, pondering how many people had been at the “epic” parties Savy spoke of.
Seeing the look on Clay’s face, Roethke offered a bright smile. “You were good last night, m’man. It looked like you were going to fudge yourself before you got up there, but once you were in the crosshairs, something took hold, didn’t it? You were a stud—even I wanted to screw you.” The smile lingered. “I imagine by now you’ve met the blue tigress?”
Savy punched Roethke in the thigh, hard enough for him to howl and fall against the door. “Ahhhh,” he cried dramatically. “She gives the worst dead-legs!”
“So I’ve witnessed.”
“You’re the meanest chick I ever met.” Roethke took Savy’s hand in his own—the one not rubbing the sting out of his leg—and he kissed her knuckles with chapped lips. “What time do we tell the third wheel here to pick you up?”
“We need a favor, Barry,” Savy persisted.
“Fine, be that way. My best cannabis is fifty paces into the woods thataway.”
Savy shook her head and showed him the record under her non-punching arm. “I got most of the Demons’ autographs last night. All that’s missing are yours and Karney’s.”
Automatically Roethke patted his boxers for a pen, turned, and found a Sharpie sticking out of a greasy stove burner. Savy held out the mannequin-covered cover and Roethke scribbled his name. “Wow, I didn’t realize there was still analog in this digital world.”
“We were hoping you could help us track Karney down. Without his signature, it’s not worth much on eBay.”
“So mean,” Roethke said. “At this hour my boss is probably fast asleep with Kiss Kiss. You get a look at her, Third Wheel? Tits like yoga balls. Even Hustler said it was too much.”
“Where does Karney live again?” Clay tried. “Malibu?”
“No, man, salt air dehydrates his throat. He’s off playing king-of-the-hill in Hollywood. But in case the two of you’ve been under a rock, he doesn’t take kindly to visitors. Doesn’t even answer his gate after that lawsuit with the paparazzi.”
“That’s where you come in,” Savy told him. “Any chance you dial him up, put in a good word for us?”
“For a lousy autograph?” Roethke cocked his head. “I know those type of girls, Tigress, and you’re not those types of girls. What’s the game? Is your brother fucking up again? You and Grandma need money?”
Savy lowered her head and seemed to lose the script. And Clay didn’t fail to note the accuracy of Roethke’s details. Hurrying on, he added his part of the preconceived story: “If you want to know the truth, we’re going to ask Davis if we can open some of your shows. We know you already have Kings of Leon, but if we could nab twenty minutes before they come on, the exposure would launch our careers.”
“Keep dreaming the dream, my friend. Our managers would never let an unsigned act on board—even if you guys are terrific.” Then Roethke looked to Savy, her you-can-do-better-for-me expression, and his posture dipped. “Davis was impressed by your set. And he has aspirations about starting his own record label under our music group. Touring with us is a pipe-dream right now, but I’ll call on your behalf. If nothing else it’ll wake Kiss Kiss. You never heard such a sexy throat in the morning.”
Savy grinned and stepped into Roethke’s open arms. He crushed her chest against his own and lifted her off her feet. Clay braced for some antagonistic, male-vs.-male look, but the drummer’s eyes seemed distant, staring into the trees. “Take Rising Moon Road up from Sunset,” he instructed. “All the way to the top. You’ll see Karney’s house behind a wrought-iron gate with a bunch of succubi statues. Can’t miss those.”
Savy stepped away. “Thanks, Barry. You’re a real paladin.”
“Whatever that means. Just be careful over there. Davis Karney is a sexist of the first order. He’s not going to respect you the way I respect you.”
As Savy started down the steps, Roethke snatched Clay’s arm. They watched Savy stride back to the Jeep. “It’s a shame you haven’t made her yet,” Roethke whispered, so close his lips were grazing Clay’s ear.
He did his best to hold his own. “Yeah? How do you know I haven’t?”
“Because you’re jealous of me,” Roethke correctly observed. “And when I mention the tigress, you have no idea what I’m talking about.”
The Jeep wound its way up the narrow passage of Rising Moon, steep enough to press them back into their seats, curving endlessly, and blindly—designed, it seemed, to bring death down on you via a barreling delivery truck or Porsche-wielding film producer short on time and sense. At the hill’s apex, the street abruptly ended at the stone driveway of an ultra-modern house squatting low behind its wrought iron. As Roethke foretold, marble statues of curvaceous nude women stood sentinel on pillars along the fence, their hands posed lasciviously on their hips or reaching out to passersby with all their fingers splayed. Creepy-sexy. Succubi, Roethke had called them. Demon women who seduced mortal men and lured them to dark fates.
“Hold up here,” Savy said. “I’ll try Barrett one more time.”
She kept her cell on speaker as it rang. “Please,” Clay groused. “That guy passed out two seconds after we left.” But this time—their fourth attempt—Roethke answered on the last ring before voicemail.
“’ello?”—sounding worse than before.
“Traffic was bad, but we’re at Karney’s gate. Did you talk to him?”
“Oh, yeah. Davis was already up, juicing or some healthy AA shit. He could tell I’d been pouring whiskey on my Honey Smacks, so he really didn’t want to chat—bad influence and all. As soon as I mentioned how badly you wanted to meet him, though, he quit trying to hang up. I thought his record label was a lot of shitfaced rambling, but looks like it stuck.”
Savy thanked Roethke, dodged his invitation to return to his
