Emerald City (17 page)

“How often did Craig buy from you?” I said, trying to put the conversation back on track.

“I don't know. It's not like I keep exact records for the IRS,” he said with a smile. “Not something you do in my line of work.”

“But Craig hasn't bought from you lately?”

“I already said that.”

I reached for the door handle. “Thanks. I appreciate the information.”

“They were amateurs,” he said.

“Maybe that's a good thing,” I countered.

“Depends how you look at it.” He grinned once more. “It's not good for my profits.”

“Do you know anything about Craig's death?”

“Not a damn thing,” he told me.

I opened the car door. “Then I'll thank you again for your time.”

“Hey, it's nothing.”

I walked away and heard him rev the engine then take off. I took off the cap and shoved it into my pocket before heading back up First Avenue toward the bus stop. That was a bust: nothing he couldn't have told me on the phone and saved me a trip downtown.

It took fifteen minutes to reach The Rocket offices. The wind kicked up again, bringing more squalls of rain with it. People started to dash from cover to cover, sheltering under flapping awnings and in the doorways of buildings. I was already soaked; the water dripped off my hair and down my back, and my jeans stuck cold and wet to my legs.

I climbed the steps and shook myself off before opening the door. The office was busy, an old Black Sabbath track blasting from a boombox on one of the desks, people concentrating on their work.

“Hey,” I said.

Rob looked up from the piece of copy he was editing. “Hey, looks like you got soaked. You'd better close the door.”

I pushed it to, hearing the lock click, and sat down.

“What's this all about?” The secrecy worried me.

He reached down and brought out an LP with a red cover. “This.”

I took it from him and looked at it, then sucked in my breath. Craig Adler and Snakeblood, it read. The ARP Demos. The music the band had recorded to grab their major label record deal. “What the fuck is this?”

“It came in the mail this morning.” His expression was hard. “Turn it over.”

I did as he said. There was only the track listing, no label name, no address. Nothing. Except, in large letters, Everything Courtesy of Laura Benton.

I just looked at him, my mouth hanging open, unable to speak, looking at the words. They were there, they were real.

“I don't understand,” I said finally, my voice stumbling. I could hardly breathe. My throat was tight, my heart beat fast in my chest. This couldn't be happening. Slowly, I put the album back on the desk and forced myself to speak. “I had nothing to do with this. You've got to believe that.”

“I do,” Rob said. His expression was serious. “You've been royally fucked, and not in a good way.”

“It's him, isn't it? He's done it.” I glanced down at the cover again, as if the words might have changed, my name might have vanished and everything would be okay again.

“It is. We both know that you had nothing to do with this,” he said. “But that's not what other people are going to think.” He glanced at the album. “Your name's on there. They'll believe you were behind it.”

I felt bile rising as if I was going to throw up, and my mouth was dry. First the threats, now this. So there had been something else he could do. He'd beaten me. I'd worked so hard to prove myself, to show I could write as well
as a man, that I knew just as much about music. It had taken a long time for me to be accepted. With one stroke he'd taken away all my credibility. He'd made me into a thief who'd stolen the tapes for profit. No one would believe anything I wrote about Craig now. I looked at Rob.

“You're sure this is real?” I asked desperately.

“It is. I already talked to a few stores. They've bought copies, someone was around selling them. And I've played some of the tracks.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry. I talked to the publisher first thing.” He took out a cigarette and began to play with it. “I have to take you off the story. You understand?”

“But if you do that, he's won,” I said helplessly. “You know that.”

“I'll keep on with it myself. You think I'm going to let this lie?” He took out a book of matches and toyed with the smoke before pointing at the LP. “This is one more bit of proof. I'm not going to give up.”

He said nothing for a few moments before adding quietly, “There's one more thing. We're going to hold off printing any of your other work for a while, until this all passes.”

“What?” I hadn't expected this.

“It's only going to be for about three months.” He tried to smile but it was a poor attempt. “Laura, I'm not cutting you loose. You're too good for that. It's just a short break.”

“But...” I began, then stopped. Nothing I said was going to change things. It had already been decided. Rob hadn't been quite right; I'd been royally fucked two ways.

“I mean it,” he assured me. “I'll carry on with this. Shit, I hate to ask, but can you give me your notes?”

“Yeah, sure,” I agreed. I stood, feeling blank and empty, close to the shakes. “For what it's worth, the dealer I just talked to didn't sell Craig any heroin.”

“Then the question is still where did it come from and how did it get in his arm?”

“No,” I corrected him. “The question is who brought the smack and put it in his arm.” I pointed at the album. “At a guess it was to get hold of the demo tapes for that.”

“I was thinking that.”

“Discover who put it out and you'll have a murderer.”

He scribbled something on a piece of paper and gave it to me. “That's my home number. If you get any more calls, anything, let me know.”

Back home in the apartment I settled on the couch and let the tears come until I couldn't cry any more. I couldn't blame Rob; he was only doing what he had to do, protecting the integrity of the paper. But... it had taken two years of submitting pieces before anyone would take me seriously. I still had my first printed review framed on the wall. After that I'd pushed hard for more work, building a file of clips, sending them off, trying to convince magazines to take a chance on me. Some did, others still refused.

I knew bands toned things down around me. There was less boasting and drinking, the language was cleaned up a little, no offers of a beer or a joint, as if I was a schoolteacher. I'd come away with the story, but never the full story.

Now even that was destroyed. No one would accept my work after this.
I might as well just apply for a job at Safeway. I kept expecting the phone to ring and hear a gloating voice. He'd outflanked me and beaten me.

I gathered together my notes. Before I passed them on to Rob I'd make copies. I could still make a few calls on my own. I looked up the number for Greg West at ARP. As I reached for the phone, it rang.

“You fucking bitch.” Warren's Texas accent was more pronounced. In the background I could hear the boom of the stereo playing at Heaven and Hell. “Where did you steal the tapes?”

“I didn't,” I said quietly. “None of this had anything to do with me. I didn't even know there were any tapes.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It's true. I've been screwed over the same as you to keep me off the story.”

“I don't believe you. Fuck you.” He slammed down the phone.

There were going to be more calls like this, more hatred. No one was going to believe anything I said. I called the Los Angeles number.

“Greg West,” he answered when I was put through. I took a deep breath.

“It's Laura Benton.” The silence at the other end told me he'd heard about the album. “My name's on there but it's nothing to do with me.”

“You know who that music belongs to?” he asked coldly.

“The band, I'd guess.” His question brought me up short. I'd never thought about it.

“To us. We paid for the studio time, everything. That means you stole the tapes from us.”

“Look, I know my name's on the cover but it had nothing to do with me.”

“You're right. Your name's there, and that's who we'll go after. We'll be contacting the police and you'll be hearing from our lawyers.”

Christ. I didn't need this on top of everything else.

“I'm sorry you were ripped off. But it wasn't me. Find out who released them and take them to court, but I swear it wasn't me.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Then that's tough shit.” I took a breath, angry as fuck. “You send your lawyers after me, fine. But they're not going to find anything to connect me with that album, because there isn't anything.”

“There's your name on the cover.”

“And it doesn't occur to you that maybe someone was shafting me to stop me finding out who killed your musician? You know what? I've been threatened about this story. I've had phone calls, I've had a bullet in the mail and now I've been taken out of the game completely. If you don't believe me, talk to Rob at The Rocket. He knows what's going on.”

He hung up on me.

I sat for a while. I was cried out; now I was mad and it was time to fight back. I wasn't going to be fucked over like this. I was going to find whoever had shafted me. And he'd left me an opening with that record.

I called Tom Hardy. If anyone knew where records could be pressed in Seattle, he would. With luck he wouldn't have heard I was off the story yet.

“You've seen it?” I asked when he answered.

“Why'd you do it, Laura?” he asked sadly.

“For Christ's sake, Tom, I didn't!” I shouted, then took a breath to calm myself. “Listen, you know I was looking into Craig's death. Why would I do
something like this? I didn't even know any demo tapes existed!”

“Laura...”

“Look, Craig didn't OD.” I interrupted. “Someone killed him. I don't know who or how, but they wanted those tapes. All I know is that it wasn't me.”

“That's a big accusation,” he said after a short silence.

“And it's true. It has to be. It's the only explanation.”

“I believe you. I couldn't imagine you'd do something like that.”

“Thank you.” I sounded stupidly grateful. “Where could whoever's behind this have had it pressed?”

“There are quite a few places,” he replied. “You want me to put together a list for you?”

“Can you? That would be great.”

“I'll get my brother on it and bring it to Steve's gig tomorrow, okay?”

“Thank you,” I repeated.

“I hope you find them.”

“Yeah, so do I.”

It was only after I hung up that it occurred to me – Tom knew where to have records pressed. He knew Craig. He'd probably know there would be demo tapes. For a moment the thought lingered in my head before I pushed it away. Tom was as honest as they came; I doubted there was a devious bone in his body. He even made sure the musicians were paid before he ever took a penny. Stupid, I told myself. You're panicking.

Steve came home and threw his wet jacket on the couch. “Hey,” he said, moving in for a hug. Then he saw my face, filled with anger and frustration.
“What is it? Has he done something else?”

“Oh yeah, big time,” I answered and told him exactly what.

“Christ.” The word came out quietly. He reached out and took my hand. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm still going after this bastard. I don't care if Rob's taken me off the story. If I can find out who's behind this, maybe people will believe I had nothing to do with this.”

“Has he called again?”

“Not yet. I know he will, though.” I was certain of it. This had filled my head all day; I felt as if I'd been running around helplessly in a maze. I needed to think about something else for a while. “How was work?”

“It was crazy today.”

“Why?” I wanted him to tell me something good, to make me smile again

“I haven't a clue, but everyone seems pissed off. Who knows, maybe it's a full moon tonight or something? Maybe they've all got PMS.” I sat on the couch arm and started to massage his shoulders. He let out a moan of pleasure, moving so I could dig my thumbs deeper. “Mmm, that feels good. You'd better not stop before morning.”

I managed a few more minutes before my hands began to ache, then started dinner, cooking pasta and heating up a jar of sauce. Nothing fancy, but at least it was quick.

He pushed the food around the plate, taking small bites. “I'm sorry, it's fine, but I'm not in the mood.”

The nerves were building to a head, I could see that. He was starting to get his game face on. He wouldn't enjoy himself until he'd played the last
note and left the stage. And if it didn't go well he'd sink into a depression that would last for days, maybe weeks. I'd seen it before; there was a fragility inside him, and when things hit hard I knew to treat him gently.

The two of us were locked into our own heads. I put down my fork; I wasn't hungry, either. “You want to go for a walk? The rain's stopped.”

“Yeah,” he agreed after a moment. “That might be good, clear out the cobwebs a bit.”

We put on jackets and headed out, holding hands, climbing up the hilly back streets to the top of Queen Anne. By the time we reached there I was breathing hard. Steve looked fresh and happy, pulling me along.

We made our way over to Highland Drive, where the large apartment buildings had all the grandeur of mansions. Across the street was the lookout point that took in Seattle Center and the downtown skyline. On clear days the huge, beautiful bulk of Mount Rainier dominated the horizon.

It was a place where people came to take pictures, to try and capture the spirit of the city. It was a cliché but I loved it anyway. In this light West Seattle on the other side of the bay was nothing more than a smudge in the distance. We sat on a bench, watching a few tourists come, use their cameras and drive away.

“Are you really going to go after him?” he asked.

“Fuck, yes. I'm going to find him and make him pay. I already had my first hate call. From Warren. He doesn't believe I had nothing to do with it.”

We stayed there a few minutes, quiet, watching evening drift in before idling home hand in hand. Back in the apartment Steve said, “I think I'm going to go play a bit, then go to bed. You mind?”

“No, of course not.” I watched him slouch into the bedroom and knew it wouldn't be long before he was asleep. He needed rest to be ready for the gig. I heard him strum a few chords and the tinny treble lines of a few short fills, followed by silence. It had taken less than five minutes. I'd need to move the Telecaster off the bed before I could crawl in but that was fine.

I tried to read but I couldn't focus. I turned on the television but every program seemed pointless. Finally I just sat there, angry, going out on the deck every few minutes to smoke. Whoever he was, he'd knocked me down in this round. But I'd be back. And I'd win.

I was in the kitchen when the phone rang, and snatched for the receiver. I knew it was him; no one else was likely to call after ten.

“I warned you.”