By Degrees (3 page)

“Whoa, that’s pretty harsh, don’t you think?
 
I don’t know if we can do that.”
 
He’s looking at me like I’m a little crazy.
 
And maybe I am, but crazy is the only thing that works in these situations.

“Then I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.”
 
I finish my walk to the door, hesitating before I’m completely through to say one more thing.
 
“Just keep in mind that I work on a first-come, first-served basis and I only work with one client at a time.”

“I’m going to think about it!” he says to my back, as I step out into the hallway leading to the exit.

I say nothing in response.
 
It’s better that I let him have the last word.
 
Sometimes meetings with me can take the wind out of very big sails, and I don’t need bruised egos standing at my back when I’m trying to work.

Walking past the reception desk, I nod at the woman still clicking on her keys.
 
“Have a nice day, Nanette.”

She looks up, her surprised expression telling me she wasn’t expecting the courtesy.
 
“Thanks.
 
Uh, you too.”

I’m on my phone before I’m out of the building.
 
My assistant answers in two rings.

“Scarlett Barnes and Associates. Did you bring that mother to his knees?”

I smile. “We’ll see.
 
Book me a table at Scoto’s just in case.”

“Consider it done.
 
Eight o’clock?”

“Perfect.
 
See you in an hour.”
 
I hang up the phone and walk out the glass front doors of the building.
 
If Mel doesn’t come through for me, I can always bring my assistant Scott out to dinner.
 
He’s never offended over being my back-up plan, and he’s always more fun to have around than clients, so it works for both of us.

A Lincoln Town Car with black tinted windows pulls up to the curb as I’m stepping out into the sun.
 
The large, black chauffeur gets out and jogs around to attend to the passenger door.
 
He’s younger and bigger than most of the chauffeurs I’ve seen around town, making me think he doubles as a body guard.

As soon as the car door is open, a person falls out of the backseat and onto the sidewalk, his sunglasses flying off his head and skittering across the concrete towards me.

As I bend to retrieve them, another person comes out of the car, laughing in a raw, high-pitched cackle as she slides out and lands on top of the man on the sidewalk.
 
Her skirt rides up around her waist to reveal a black thong.
 
Both of them are either drunk or high, laughing, snorting, and flailing around limply.

I shake my head sadly, waiting for the chauffeur to pick up the girl and set her on her feet before walking over calmly with the glasses in hand.

“Thank you, ma’am,” says the chauffeur, taking them from me with a humiliated expression.

Hmmm. Curious.
 
He seems to care about his passenger.
 
I look down at the man still on the ground.
 
He’s staring up at me from the sidewalk, squinting his eyes to see around the sun.

“Who’re you?” he asks.

I can smell the stale booze and cigarette smoke coming off him from three feet away, and I work very hard not to let it upset me.
 
What a waste.
My heartstrings twang with distant but still shockingly painful memories.
 
So much youth, so much talent … gone in the blink of an eye.

I hitch my bag up higher on my shoulder and give him a tight smile, letting my past slip away into the darkest parts of my mind.
 
“I’m the person watching you make a complete ass of yourself in broad daylight.”

I walk away, a bitter smile forming as I realize how likely it is now that I’ll be getting a call from Mel Warner.
 
Scott will be bummed to miss out on his favorite restaurant, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
 
I predict that my date tonight will have a righteous comb-over and a pinky ring.

“Do you know who I am?!” The man on the ground yells out after me, his words slurred and rough like he’s been smoking and drinking for twenty-four hours straight.

I say nothing.
 
I just keep walking.

“I’m Tarin Kilgour!
 
You hear me?!
 
I’m Tarin Fucking Kilgour!”

“Yes,” I say softly to myself, pressing the unlock button on my keychain, “I know who you are.”

Chapter Three

THE SIGNED CONTRACT ARRIVES IN my office three hours later, along with a letter from Mel Warner’s attorney advising me that funds have been placed in his trust account for my fee.
 
I walk through the door with my hand held up. Scott is waiting there to give me the high five he always throws up when we close a deal.

“He’s on for eight o’clock,” Scott says, frowning.
 
“That rotten bastard.
 
I was so ready to inhale that filet mignon with the béarnaise sauce.”

“Have you noticed your taste has gone from Mad Dog 20-20 to Champagne in less than six months?” I drop my purse down on the small table near the entrance.
 
The place is homey - nothing like the swanky offices I visit to see prospective clients - but we like it that way.
 
None of my business contacts ever come here, so there’s no one to impress but us working stiffs.

Scott is my only employee.
 
He’s pretty much responsible for making sure my entire life is organized.
 
He’s the little brother of the man who stole my heart, and now, after ten years of being up my butt every day, he’s finally found his place in my life: Right hand man.
 
Neither of us could be happier with the arrangement.
 
It’s a little weird because I used to babysit him when we were younger, but it works.
 
No one would guess that he’s only eighteen.

“I don’t know about the Mad Dog, but I
do
notice that my paychecks have gone up and I enjoy spending them.”
 
He examines his fingernails critically.
 
“Do you think I should get a manicure?
 
I hear straight guys do that out here.”

“If you get a manicure, I’m calling your father and telling on you.”

He scowls at me and drops down into a chair with rollers on the legs, slouching until he hangs over one of the arms. He ticks off one finger at a time.
 
“Mean. Ugly.
 
Uncalled for…”

I laugh.
 
“I’m kidding.
 
I kid, I kid.
 
But seriously.
 
Don’t go all metro sexual on me or I’ll have to fire you.
 
I hate that shit.
 
Gay is okay.
 
Faux gay is not.”

He sits back up and gasps like a woman, fluttering his hand to his chest and affecting a strong southern accent.
 
I think he’s trying to channel a woman from
Gone With the Wind
.
 
“How dare you threaten me with job loss!
 
Who do you think you are?
 
My master?
 
I’m not your slave, you know.
 
I’m a
free
man.
 
Free!
Do you hear me?”
 
His voice goes back to normal.
 
“Fire me?
 
As if.
 
You wouldn’t know how to wipe your own ass without me around.”

“Thanks for the visual.”
 
I grab him by the hand and pull him and his chair around to my side of the desk before sitting down.
 
“Who I think I am is your worst nightmare if you piss me off.
 
Take a look at this.”
 
I quickly type out a search on Google and come up with a set of images.

He leans over and stares at the gallery for a few seconds.
 
“Whooaaa.
 
Ho, ho, ho, Santa’s slutty mistress has come to town.
 
Hello, plastic hooters and bee stung lips.”
 
He wiggles his eyebrows.
 
“Me likes.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do. Put your hormones away, though, before I’m forced to b-slap you.”
 
I enlarge the picture a little, trying to see if she looks sober. “Scott, meet Jelly Summers, Tarin’s latest party girl.
 
God, is that even a real name?”
 
I shudder at the girl’s stupidity.
 
“Does she stay or go?”

He puts his finger to his lips in concentration.
 
“Hmmm.
 
Scroll down.
 
Let’s see how
much
she likes to party.
 
Maybe she’s his soulmate-of-the-month.
 
If she is, we’re better off keeping her.”

There isn’t a whole lot to look at, most of the pictures showing her carefully posed in front of cameras that are catching her looking her best.
 
But near the end of the collection of images is a mug shot.

“Badda bing, badda violà,” I say softly as I click on it.
 
Scott and I read the article silently and learn that this delightful young lady was arrested a few months ago for driving under the influence and possession of cocaine.
 
Judging by the shape she was in today, I guess she hasn’t done much to straighten her life out.

“She’s out,” I say, clicking off the search.
 
“Do you have that list I sent you?”

“Do you even need to ask?” he quips, handing me a stack of paper about a half-inch high.
 
“Profiles on all of them, including police records.”

“Anyone clean?” I flick through the head-shots of the known friends and hangers-on who spend a lot of time with the lead singer of the band
By Degrees
: Tarin Kilgour - the man I need to bring down to Earth so he can get on with his life as a living person and not end it prematurely as a drugged-out corpse.

His bandmates, managers, and crew people are on top of the pile.
 
Occasional girlfriends, ex lovers, and leeches come last.
 
I need to find a core group of people I can count on to get Tarin’s ass in gear.
 
Thirty days is not a lot of time to wrestle a tornado to the ground.

“The driver, Ricky Williams, looks good. Two of the bodyguards who’ve been with him the longest do too, Leonard Skites and Zach Boston. The manager’s been with them from the start, so I have to believe he’s good. I didn’t find anything saying otherwise.
 
Bassist, rhythm guitarist, and drummer are probably fine, and there’s not much we can do about them if they’re not.” Scott yanks those pages out and puts them on my computer keyboard.
 
“Most of the road crew that’s left is okay.
 
I don’t think they spend a lot of time with him outside of setting up and breaking down the equipment.”
 
Scott pulls a few sheets from the back.
 
“These are the real problem children.
 
I’d dump these suckers in a hot second if I were you.”

I look carefully at the profiles Scott has pulled together on these unlucky souls.
 
“Who’s this?” I ask, holding up a sheet that has a picture of a good-looking guy with wavy brown hair and dark circles under his eyes.

“New best friend. Brett Campbell
 
A total scab.
 
I think he’s the drug connection.”

“Okay.
 
What about this one?” I ask, pointing to a guy with a buzz cut and a tight t-shirt.
 
He looks fit.
 
Wowza.

“Another user.
 
I’m not sure what his gig is. His name is Clay Matthews. I think he started out as a back-up dancer for someone and then just became a part of the scene.
 
I think some chick gave him a truck for his birthday last year. Remember her? Country singer? Blond hair? I can’t remember her name.
 
Tanya? Tabitha? Twinga? Twila? Tabouleh?”

Without taking my eyes off the paper, I brush my hand down his face to make him stop. “Shut up, your voice is hurting my brain.”

“So
she
gave him the truck and
he
gave her a case of crabs.”

I look at him, trying to figure out if he’s serious.

“Jay kay. But that would make an awesome country song, right?”

“Jay kay?”

“Jay kay …
J
ust
k
idding.
 
Come on, don’t make me grow up too fast.
 
This job will be totally lame if I have to act all businessy all the time.”

I snort once before going back to the profiles.
 
“That’ll be the day.”

Scott stands up and starts playing air guitar, singing with serious country passion.
 
“I bought my man a car … he gave my heart a scar … we did it in the cab … and now I got the crabs … oh, loooove, you done me wroooong!
 
Oh, loooooove … you done me wrong, and noooow there’s no more schloooong…”

“You had me right up until schlong,” I say as he rips out another few invisible silent chords with a pinwheeling arm.
 
Except for the ridiculous lyrics, he actually did come up with a catchy tune.
 
He’s got serious talent.
 
He knows it and I know it, but we also both know that he’ll never do anything with it.
 
His brother made sure of that.

He drops his air guitar and sits back down.
 
“Yeah, well, I was hurtin’ for a rhyme. Sometimes as an artist you just have to go where your heart takes ya.
 
Screw common sense.”

I push his chair away to make it roll across the floor so I can go back to my papers.
 
He scoots two inches at a time over to his desk, using his swaying, jerking body to ambulate the chair.
 
I shake my head at his goofiness.
 
He’s good at keeping life real, and that’s what we’re in the business of doing so I don’t complain.
 
When things get out of hand, we’re there to get it real again.
 
We’ve both lived through enough misery in our own lives to know that being able to laugh at ourselves is the best way to stay sane.
 
Being too ‘businessy’, as Scott calls it, usually forces a disconnect with our clients, so we keep it cool, fresh, and current when we’re in the trenches.
 
Otherwise, we’re just our goofy selves. The only time I really step into my serious shoes is when I’m getting new clients or meeting with lawyers.
 
Most of the lawyers I’ve known have zero sense of humor - at least the brand of humor that Scott and I enjoy.