Kiss Kiss laughed out loud—though Clay didn’t know at what—and led them along a wide corridor full of gritty modern paintings in the tradition of Basquiat and Julian Schnabel. Originals, probably. They located one staircase, then another, descending the waterfall of the house; and the floors and rooms grew larger the lower they went. They drifted past various displayed oddities, items that—Kiss Kiss informed them—Karney had purchased on a whim from catalogs and estate sales: a knight’s armor, a cigar-store Indian, a lard-ass Bob’s Big Boy, an ancient bust of Roman emperor Caligula (likely genuine, given the missing nose and dominatrix alarm collar), and an eight-foot wax figure of a nude potbellied woman carrying a wax baby with Davis Karney’s face in her arms. “Davis is real excited to see you,” Kiss Kiss went on. Again she spoke directly to Clay at the expense of Savy, who trailed at a considerable distance. As unskilled as Clay was at deciphering the complexities of female interaction, even he couldn’t miss that, with Savy and Kiss Kiss, it was hate at first sight.
They hurried past rooms both artfully designed and unapologetically trashed—the kitchen sleek with stainless-steel and rife with fly-hovering leftovers; the living room full of sectional sofas, made impenetrable by mountains of laundry and shattered bottles. Kiss Kiss was moving quickly, but through one doorway Clay thought he spied a room with stained glass and a John Deere ride-on mower.
At last, they arrived on the bottom floor, where floor-to-ceiling windows offered an unbroken view to the south—Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and the skyscrapers of downtown L.A. in a brilliant panorama that was only a little choked with smog. Kiss Kiss brought them to a door adorned with a sign that said yes, we really do want you to fuck off!, and without knocking, she threw it open and told Clay, “If you’ll excuse me, I’m no good without my morning bath…”
Clay was tempted to point out that it was well after one in the afternoon, but held off. “You’re not like the usual goons Davis brings over,” Kiss Kiss allowed. She rubbed Clay’s hairless cheek, and her eyes shifted subtly to gauge Savy’s response.
Sadly Savy wasn’t offended in the least. Or was she only playing it cool? When they entered the studio and were alone again, she whispered, “See? Plow a couple of those Amazons and you’ll know you’ve arrived.”
By then they had caught sight of the equipment in Karney’s studio—the first-rate Mesa/Boogie amps and Steinway piano, the glassed-in vocals booth and state-of-the-art recording booth—and Clay’s butterflies churned. Another of Roethke’s custom drum kits was parked in one corner. And a long row of no less than ten high-end guitars stood at attention, some covered in dust. In the palace of a rock star, Clay thought, and we’re here to accuse him of murder.
They wandered the studio like patrons at a museum, staring at everything, touching nothing. “Hello?” Savy finally called.
And after a long beat, someone unseen called back: “I agree. Hell is very low.”
It reminded Clay of the first time he’d heard Boyle, a specter’s voice reaching across an unknown distance. The voice of the dead. It seemed to originate behind a door at the back of the studio. The room beyond appeared to be dark, except for the shifting glow of television light around the door frame. Clay looked to Savy who, wielding her usual self-confidence, advanced down the short hall to give the door a shove.
Davis Karney was there, crashed out in a recliner, watching TV in a pair of striped, domestic-looking pajamas. His piercings and top hat were gone and his shoulder-length hair was tied back, so that in the TV glow he could have passed for an unfortunate-looking accountant.
The room itself was some kind of lounge, a place where musicians could hang between recording sessions, play cards, smoke up, and burn—
Incense.
Incense hung heavy on the air in here, as pervasive as anything in the mystic shops of Venice. A flowery stench covering something else. Something chemical. Clay couldn’t put his finger on it. But the incense and under-scent, coupled together, burned his nose and eyes.
Karney didn’t acknowledge them as they entered, transfixed as he was on the images flashing on his giant screen. He was alone, no bodyguards, no Nelson the Pencil, and he had one hand on the remote and the other in a death grip around a bottle of Jack. So much for the AA meetings, Clay thought. He and Roethke were going to have quite a tour ahead of them.
Snorting at the incense, Savy made an attempt to thank Karney for seeing them, but he only shook the bottle to hush her, liquid sloshing under the tide of his fist. “Haven’t watched this in years,” he croaked tunelessly. “I thought you might like to see it before it gets destroyed.”
There was something not right about his tone. Still, when Karney motioned them in, Clay and Savy obeyed, angling for a glimpse of the screen.
The image playing there was a grainy one—a home-movie shot from a stationary camcorder across a dark room. Long tallow candles burned in the dark, and in their peripheral light two figures—a man and a woman—seemed to be fighting, struggling against each other. “What is this?” Savy asked.
“Watch,” Karney croaked.
Clay did, feeling anxious for some reason. A moment later the fog in his mind lifted—as he recognized the room onscreen, the arrangement of the furniture… and the infamous chandelier, the candlelight reflected in its crystal adornments.
This video had been recorded on his own property.
It had been shot inside the Generator.
As the figures moved closer to the camera lens, it didn’t look like they were fighting anymore; they were naked and their mouths were joined, their flesh flickering in the intimate candle hue—and suddenly Clay’s heart leapt skyward, seeing the female’s face.
“Oh, God,” he gasped.
Onscreen Rocco Boyle and Deidre McGee were alive.
And finally Karney glanced up to acknowledge Savy and
