But she was nowhere. Clay had lost her in the crowd.
Police cruisers, two of them, made the sharp turn onto Horn Street, their lights cutting red swaths through the dark. Clay had called them right before he’d called his father. Peter’s voice had sounded concerned, but measured, like he thought Clay was pulling his leg, the old let’s-tell-dad-his-girlfriend-got-hurt prank. “Hurt how, Clay?”
And Clay swallowed. What Peter was mistaking for hyperbole was, in fact, restraint. Hurt like dead, Dad. “Somebody stabbed her,” he managed.
“Jesus Christ, did you call an ambulance?”
“I called the police.”
“Where is she? Are you with her?”
“I’m on Sunset. Close to where it happened.”
That had been twenty minutes ago. Time Clay had spent with his back to a brick wall, watching everyone and everything.
Now the police were on their way up to the duplex where Essie lay dead. Clay waited for the inevitable backup, the ambulance with its lights off, the unmarked forensics van.
Instead, the cruisers returned to Sunset, in no apparent hurry. Had they gone to the wrong place? He had described the building and its location to a tee. Had they found the second-floor apartment locked? Wasn’t a report of murder grounds to force entry? Or had they not taken him seriously? The old there’s-a-stabbed-corpse-on-Halloween trick.
Clay was dialing 911 again when he spotted his father’s Mercedes and flagged him down. Even if he had deliberately avoided getting his band involved, it was a comfort not to be alone anymore.
Peter pulled to the curb and the passenger window drew down.
“Dad, we have to go up and check…”
The words died right there.
Estelle was sitting in the passenger seat, as full of life as the day he’d met her. “Essie! Where did you find her?”
“Right in front of your snake club,” Peter said, with deliberate patience. “She called me when I was speeding over. Told me you ran off somewhere and did I know where?”
Essie, for her part, wouldn’t look at Clay—as if they were siblings in hot water together. And yet, she wasn’t any more wounded than before she’d arrived to help him.
“Essie? Where’s the blood, the knife—”
“I was worried when you ran off,” she said. “You haven’t done any drugs, right? I told your father you weren’t about that anymore.”
“Es. You were in that room with me. Tell him.”
“The Viper? Yes, and you were superb. But where did you go after your set—”
“Your blouse. You changed your blouse.”
“My blouse? No, I haven’t.”
“It was canary-yellow before, now it’s white.”
“I’ve been wearing this one all evening,” she replied. “You can ask anyone.”
“Who?” Clay gestured along the boulevard. “There’s no one who’d know but you and me!”
“Why did you call me and say Essie was hurt?” That tone again, coupled with Peter’s cross-examining glare. “Are you mad I didn’t come to your show?”
“I saw it happen.” Clay’s own voice was helplessly defensive. His eyes were everywhere, searching for any hint that Essie had been in that room with him, that she had come to his aid and paid for it in pain, in blood, in shock, in life. “I saw the knife go into you. The girl with half a face—the only reason I got away was because of you. Tell him!”
Essie frowned. Her eyes rose briefly to meet his own, then danced away. She seemed embarrassed for him, afraid even. “You’ve got blood on your jeans, hon.”
“Yes. Exactly,”Clay shouted with sudden triumph. “Let’s have it analyzed. Let’s do a DNA test. I bet it turns out to be yours, goddammit!”
At that moment, Clay caught sight of himself in the Mercedes’ side mirror: hair tangled, face drained of color, arms flailing like a schizo preaching conspiracy. “This is what happened in Philly,” his father told his girlfriend. “He falls for the wrong girl, then starts lying to cover his habit. Only difference now is his mother isn’t here to pull him back from the edge.”
Essie held his hand in both her own. “You can’t help anyone with rage and judgment, Peter. Let him in the car. Do you want to be let in, Clay?”
“I’m not high. Look in my eyes.”
“I thought we got past this,” Peter told Essie. “But first he tries to crucify you about your work history, then he thanks you for coming to his show by pulling another stunt.”
“I’ve told you the truth about everything except trashing your room,” Clay retorted. “That, you wouldn’t have believed if I told you. But Essie does. Why don’t you tell him what you told me in my room the other night, Es. About your real career.”
Her face was a blank, staring at the dashboard.
“Oh, come on!” It was like trying to walk against a hurricane. “Do you have an evil twin now? Come fucking on!”
Peter started to reply, but a public bus passed at the exact instant and by the sneer on his lips, Clay was glad not to hear the words.
Essie still had his father by the hand. “Petey, just unlock the doors.”
His eyes glassy, Peter scrutinized his son. In his mind he was already getting a nocturnal visit from the police, who would tell him that his only son, his last link to the woman he had spent most of his life with, had OD-ed behind some dumpster.
“I saw what I saw,” Clay said, calm as he could. “I’m not crazy, Dad.”
“No one said you were,” Essie assured him.
Peter’s hands lay motionless in his lap; he made no move to the unlock button. “I’m holding up traffic.”
“Tell me you believe me.”
“Not going to happen, sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
“I’ve done everything I could for you.”
“Except the one thing I needed you to do,” Clay retorted. “So go. Fuck off!” And to Essie: “If none of that happened, then you didn’t save my life. So I guess you can fuck off too.”
Now Estelle looked downright miserable. And his father had heard enough—no one told Peter Harper to fuck off twice. He sped
