Clay paused until a proper retort came to mind, which was happening faster these days— with Fiasco constantly on his case about one thing or another. “Don’t fear the whisperings,” Clay crooned into his minty airspace. “It’s no secret we think you’re an asswipe.”
Fiasco clapped Clay’s shoulder and Clay clapped him back. “Anyway, she has a boyfriend now, right?”
“News to me,” Fiasco said, suddenly indifferent.
He had come to like his discussions with Payton Alexander. Sitting there with his feet up, watching brightly colored fish drift by, occasionally playing the new Killers or Hold Steady albums while they talked. It was the most stable and reliable part of Clay’s week. That was the point, wasn’t it?
“You don’t seem to mind Essie as much as you did at first,” Payton pointed out.
“I have my own troubles these days.”
“With Savannah, you mean?”
“She subscribes to the love-and-music-don’t-jive ideology. But it does happen. Springsteen’s wife plays in the E Street Band. Johnny Cash and June Carter toured together most of their lives. And Fleetwood Mac—something was going on there, right?”
“There were also divorces in Sonic Youth and The White Stripes,” Payton replied. “To say nothing of a thousand bands you never heard of for that very reason.”
“Fine, be that way.”
“You’re frustrated Savannah doesn’t feel the same as you do.”
“It makes me think she doesn’t care nearly as much about me as I care about her.”
“Could this be true?” Payton was especially skilled at this line of questioning. He liked to dump the thousand-pound gorilla in your lap and see how purple your face got.
“No, I think she’s scared. I know she’s scared.”
Payton took one loafer off and arranged it on his desk, as if for decoration in his bonsai forest. “You’ve told me a lot about her family. A brother with drug habits. A grandmother in poverty. Another brother who deserves better. These motivations existed long before you arrived. Your passion might have disarmed her, but she’ll always return to her magnetic north, and if she feels like Farewell Ghost is her chance, she won’t jeopardize that for anything.”
“So suck it up? Be a man.”
“You’ve seen what resisting gets you. Why not put your energies into the band and respect her wishes?”
“Because she’ll know I’m faking.”
“Or she’ll see you’re doing it for her.” Having scratched liberally at his socked foot, Payton snatched the loafer, gave the insole a quick sniff, and replaced it on his foot. “Sit down with her, listen to what she really wants. Life is a longer journey than you think.”
“But we’re rock musicians,” Clay shot back. “It’s not cool to think about the future. Everything that’s happened since I joined this band has given me a heightened sense of living in the moment. Carpe diem. Just look at what happened to Davis Karney.”
“Indeed.” A shiver passed through Payton’s bones. “Can you imagine the type of person who would kidnap a body from a hospital?”
Clay hesitated, his train of thought derailed. “What?”
“I guess you don’t listen to the news.”
“We’re recording our demo. I stopped looking for a few days. Why?”
“Davis Karney has gone missing from the burn unit at Cedars-Sinai.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“They suspect foul play. A demented fan, perhaps, with knowledge of the hospital and its security cameras—since nothing was caught on tape. Meanwhile another fan is offering a reward for the man’s return. But money might not be what a body snatcher is looking for.” Payton steepled his fingers and shook his head. “Truly, there are sick people in this world.”
“Yes,” Clay mumbled. “Truly.” And it was unfair, expecting Payton to grasp the depth of Clay’s anxiety. Though he had spilled about his home and music life, Clay had confessed nothing of his… unique interactions with Boyle or Davis Karney. He wished he could have. He imagined Payton listening patiently, suspending his disbelief, gasping at the right moments, offering sage advice with a straight face. But Clay wasn’t ready to take the risk and probably never would be.
For some troubles, there was no earthly expertise.
20
CLOSER
Farewell Ghost finished their six-song demo near the end of October. Spider hired a friend to help with the mixing and not long after they circulated their material to club bookers around town. The Viper Room was the first to come calling, offering a half-hour set on Halloween night.
The Viper lived on the Strip, one block east of the Whisky a Go Go. Once owned by Johnny Depp, as well as the infamous site where River Phoenix—who Clay only knew as the lost Boy Scout in Indiana Jones—had met his overdose end, it was a smaller venue than most of its neighbors. Performers spoke fondly of the intimate connection with the audience. The stage was the size of a postcard (there wouldn’t be much jumping around up there) and curtained off between sets; and the room was lit only with battery-powered candles and a dim florescent-pink panel over the bar. If it had been a literal room of vipers, their fangs would have had a field day.
Ghost was slotted in for 10pm, the third of five bands on the bill, but Clay arrived as soon as the doors opened. Their first two gigs had been wrought with anxiety and surprise, and he was determined to enjoy the experience for a change. Let the others backfire across Hollywood in BadVan, he wanted to catch the other acts, maybe even meet some—he couldn’t call them fans yet, could he?—people who had come to see them.
The first act, Holy Toledo!, took the stage to an empty room. They’d driven down from Sacramento and had clearly been expecting a better crowd—it was Halloween night in Hollywood, for shit’s sake—but they soldiered on and
