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Tickets for the NatZ concert at Madison Square Garden had sold out in 84 seconds.
The singer opened with a medley from her most recent album, then the stage faded to black and the pulsating images on the giant screen were replaced with the still face of a young woman smiling. Twenty-thousand people buttoned up like someone hit mute.
NatZ, illuminated by a single pink beam that made her look delicate, vulnerable, gripped the microphone stand with both hands.
‘Emma Larch was my ride-or-die back in Milwaukee. We’d ditch school, spill our secrets, learnt guitar together at Mrs. D’s joint over in Bayside. We’d daydream about rockin’ out together right here at the Garden. We’d chat on the blower every Saturday – no matter where I was globetrotting. Our last convo was just two weeks back. Em was in good spirits, y’know? Dealing with life’s curveballs like the rest of us. But even from my crib in LA, I could sense that smile of hers. Just like in that pic up there.’
Her voice faltered.
‘Told her I’d shoot her some tix to be here tonight. But a few hours later, Em got snatched away from us. Thought she was just poppin’ a couple of chill bars – like I bet a few of you in the crowd have done. But those things were laced with a deadly hit of powdered Fentanyl. My homie got straight-up murdered by some scumbag drug dealer who didn’t know her name, never heard her jam or shred the guitar, never saw that grin.
‘Me and Em, we used to hit up this tiny spot by St. Johns in Milwaukee to busk. We’d set up shop at Cathedral Square...’
The crowd murmured in anticipation.
‘I’ll never forget the first time I dropped this track in front of people, right there in that park. Em was lurking backstage, tears flowin’ because she understood what it meant. To both of us. It was a real moment, and I’m ‘bout to bring out a special guest on stage in a sec. We’re not just performing this jam in memory of my bestie, but also to throw a message out to all those lowlifes who mess with the lives of beautiful, vulnerable souls like Emma Larch.
‘Yo, my peeps, let’s give it up loud and proud for the dude who’s gonna put an end to this madness. He’s ditchin’ the fancy suits and power tables with the big shots to be right here with us tonight. Give it up for the future President of the United States of America... Mr. Ped Garland.’
When a walk-on-water celebrity tells an arena full of fans to give someone a warm welcome, the response is a fait accompli. Ped had no idea how much of the cheering was genuine as the lights came up and he walked across the stage in a black t-shirt and Levi’s. But the surge in volume when he parked himself behind the baby grand said it all. And the standing ovation at the end, when NatZ beckoned him over and wrapped her arms around him for a full thirty seconds, beneath the giant image of Emma Larch, was platinum.
As NatZ withdrew from the embrace and positioned Ped for a joint selfie with the delirious crowd in the background, he reflected on how this moment of marketing magic had come about. How the singer was identified as a key influencer of a prime demographic, how the Ciph found out about her interview in Wisconsin after her friend’s death, how information about Ped was subtly planted with her influencers so the meeting outside the studio seemed coincidental.
The Ciph had already done the numbers. One hundred and fifty million followers, plus the anticipated shares, reshares and repeats on earned media, would give the post a larger audience than the hundreds of millions who watched Frazier beat Ali in the Fight of the Century at this very venue back in seventy-one.
While Ped’s opponent argued policy and administration positions with a dozen Republican dinosaurs who still thought a hit was a positive soundbite on Fox.
*****
Jay felt Bec’s grip tighten round his waist as they turned off the bypass and headed back towards the place where they were almost wiped out by the van three days ago.
Bec had recovered well physically. The graze on her arm was healing nicely, the swelling on her knee almost gone. The unexpected attack had shaken her emotionally, but also stiffened her resolve to get back on the horse.
The horse was a clapped-out Honda Scoopy with a sun-dead beginner surfboard strapped into hooks attached to the frame. Full-face helmets completed their disguises.
Jay scanned the roadsides for trouble as they passed a leather store and nail studio on Jalan Buni Sari. A blue Toyota taxi three spots back was a potential tail, so he shot up a lane beside a Mediterranean restaurant – against the flow of traffic – and doubled back. False alarm.
They sailed past the pile of rocks still blocking part of the road outside the building site. No van today, just barefoot laborers removing wooden reinforcing stakes between concrete floors. Bamboo – the workhorse of Asia.
The entrance to the Kuta branch of the Nyalahutan was tainted with the same giant gold letters, and the pretension didn’t stop there. It was as if the designers had taken the layout and features of intimate Balinese family compounds and supersized them. With fries. Even the staff looked like they’d come off a production line tooled for chiseled features and robotic smiles. Children with remote-controlled plastic cars need not apply.
The two men behind the desk in the lobby had the strong clear bone structure of royalty and their flawless English left no room for misinterpretation.
‘We have no-one by the name of Lompok or Gusti Suardika staying or living here. Sir.’
Jay and Bec were walking back to the scooter, contemplating their next move, when an Australian man with a brown towel over his shoulder caught up with them.
‘Excuse me mate. Overheard you asking about a bloke called Lompok. There was a bit of a palaver outside my room in the early hours of the morning. Went out to tell them to shut the hell up and walked into a posse of cops in the hall. They had an Indonesian bloke in handcuffs, and I heard them mention Lompok. More than once.’
‘You’re sure that’s what they called him?’
‘Definitely. Funny thing though, they were all smiles and laughs. Especially your Lompok bloke. It was like he was being picked up for a night on the town, rather than inside a police cell.’
*****
Montoya was enjoying his second cup of tinto coffee on the private beach below the house when he heard the winch mechanism engage, the gondola car begin its descent.
He looked at his watch. Right on time. He liked that.
He’d asked for a report on the American journalist and her New Zealand friend. Montoya drained the coffee as Arief, his head of security, stepped from the car and walked across the sand carrying an iPad.
The meddlers had been identified as Jay Duggan and Rebecca Corelli. As well as persisting in their questions about Lompok and NuNu, they were also showing an annoying interest in the death of Charlie Scott.
‘Who are they?’
‘Haven’t been able to find much on Duggan. He has no social media presence, so flies under most radars. The few hits we got online suggest he’s some sort of green activist.’
‘And his girlfriend, the American?’
‘Corelli’s far more interesting. Until recently she was a high-flying reporter for the New York Times. Bagged a few awards. But she’s a retard. There’s clips of her on YouTube throwing her toys at her father’s memorial service in North Carolina. And this,’ he said, handing over the iPad.
Montoya touched the play arrow. The video showed a woman screaming and lashing out at an airport security guard, kicking him in the balls, then being pulled away and carried off by a man in a Kingfisher singlet.
‘Some nutjob, eh? We’re pretty sure the guy with her is Duggan. The airport is Udaipur in India.’
Montoya replayed the clip, sucking in a breath of sympathy as Corelli’s foot connected with the guard’s groin.
He’d been wondering whether to let Carlos know about the mysterious pair. On this evidence the answer was no. They could do without the distraction.
