“It did happen fast,” Ganek admitted. “One day we were homeless, dirt poor—Rocco was talking about teaching me bass just to get a band, any band, going; the next thing I know, we were moving to L.A. and Roc had landed this sweet apartment off Melrose. Then Throne’s flying off on their first world tour and I’m going with them. Europe, Asia, Australia. It was like a dream we never wanted to wake from.”
“Was there someone who started the ball rolling? Someone Rocco met?”
Ganek seemed to draw a blank and Clay resigned himself—Boyle would tell him or no one would. Except then inspiration jolted the old road warrior and he leaned forward, elbows heavy on his knees. “The earliest memory I have of Rocco talking to anyone in The Biz was when we were living on top of that Mouth House. I’d passed out on the beach—which was sort of common back then. But that time I remember ’cause I didn’t come to till the middle of the night. I went staggering under the stars back to the Mouth, and I see this stranger, up on the roof with Rocco. It was odd. When we were up top, we generally kept out of sight in case the cops drove by. But there they were, standing straight up and tall for anyone to see. And I don’t know why I’m telling you this—other than this is goddamn fine scotch—but the sight of that other guy kind of freaked me out.”
“Really?” Clay fought to keep his voice level. “Why’s that?”
“He wasn’t a tramp like us. Not even close. Guy was wearing a suit and he had this fine polish to him. He belonged on our roof about as much as we belonged on Rodeo Drive, and that’s what made me afraid. I hung back in the drive-thru bushes, trying to eavesdrop. The guy was constantly reassuring Rocco, patting him on the shoulder, reasoning with him. And—now that I’m remembering—there was something… falling on them.”
“Falling on them?”
“Like little pellets.But it wasn’t falling anywhere except on the Mouth House. I distinctly remember holding my palm out, looking to the sky. The storm was only over the two of them.”
“The Hailmaker,” Clay mumbled.
“Say again?”
Clay shook it off.
“Anyway, Roc finally seemed to buy whatever the suit was selling. The storm quit and the suit climbs off the roof—and just starts straight up PCH. Who the fuck walks a highway in the dead of night dressed like that?”
“Did Rocco talk about it?”
“When I hopped the dumpster, he jumped, like he thought the suit had come back. I asked who the accountant was and he told me, ‘Some random dude—I was playing guitar and he came wandering out of the dark.’ Except next morning, in the sunlight, Rocco confessed Suit was in The Biz. We all knew Rocco wanted to be a star, but that morning was the first time he mentioned moving to Hollywood and actually doing it. Never saw Suit again and I assumed Roc didn’t either. Through the years, I met a lot of industry people who gave me the willies. None like him though.”
Ganek stroked his chin and glanced in the direction of the Generator for the first time. “I don’t know if that’s the story you were looking for, but it’s the one I got. I’ve spent so many nights wondering what really happened to my friend. I doubt we’ll ever know.”
Clay emptied his glass. “Even if we did, it won’t change what happened. That’s the hardest part.”
“Amen.” Ganek checked his watch and winced at the angle of the hands. “Shit, I think my plane leaves in an hour.”
“You need a ride?”
“Nah, the buzz was there a few minutes ago, but it already left for the airport.” To prove the point, he lifted himself gracefully from his chair. “Thanks for the sips.”
“Stop by any time. I’m kind of a glutton for Throne stories.”
Ganek promised he would, but Clay doubted he’d be seeing him again; the nostalgia for the old estate was out of his system and there was nothing left here but an uneasy dread that everyone who’d known Boyle (in life or death) seemed to carry with them.
A flash of movement caught Clay’s eye through the French doors—Essie, making lunch in the commercial lapse between her favorite soap opera and her favorite talk show—and he told Ganek, “By the way, Rocco’s old guitar isn’t the only thing still around. We’ve also retained Estelle’s services. My father liked her so much he’s offered her a full-time position.”
“Estelle?”
“The woman who cared for your flowers?” He gestured through the doors, where Essie could be seen, madly tossing a salad.
Ganek gave her a long look. “Don’t know her. I did all the housework when I lived here. Shirl wouldn’t let me call a plumber if the toilet turned into a geyser.”
“Oh, was I mistaken? Did she work for Boyle?”
“He had a gardening service. All men.” Ganek’s brows knit together with big-brother concern. “Did you background-check her, Clay? Because you know some folks would sell their souls to get in here. Be real careful.”
“What do you mean Ganek never heard of her?” Across the table, Peter gave his son the best wry-eye he could muster at such a late hour, having endured a day of corporate legalities, now only wanting to enjoy the cornucopia of food—Chinese appetizers, Italian entrees, cheesecake from Cheesecake Factory—delivered all together like the best of Western living. And here was his only begotten son, once again throwing a goddamn wrench in the works, claiming his perfect girlfriend was a liar and a fake.
“Boyle never employed her either,” Clay said, keeping his voice low.
Peter frowned with his whole body. “But she knows all about the house.”
“Any Throne diehard would know that. Didn’t you do
